The Switzer’s Wife

“Nor look nor tone revealeth aughtSave woman’s quietness of thought;And yet around her is a lightOf inward majesty and might.” M. J. J.

“Wer solch ein herz an sienen Busen drucktDer kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten.”

It was the time when children bound to meetTheir father’s homeward step from field or hill,And when the herd’s returning bells are sweetIn the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still,And the last note of that wild horn swells byWhich haunts the exile’s heart with melody.

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home,Touch’d with the crimson of the dying hour,Which lit its low roof by the torrent’s foam,And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung bower;But one, the loveliest o’er the land that rose,Then first look’d mournful in its green repose.

For Werner sat beneath the linden treeThat sent its lulling whispers through his door,Even as man sits, whose heart alone would beWith some deep care, and thus can find no moreTh’ accustom’d joy in all which evening brings,Gathering a household with her quiet wings.

His wife stood hush’d before him--sad, yet mildIn her beseeching mien!--he mark’d it not.The silvery laughter of his bright-hair’d childRang from the greensward round the shelter’d spot,But seem’d unheard; until at last the boyRaised from his heap’d up flowers a glance of joy,

And met his father’s face. But then a changePass’d swiftly o’er the brow of infant glee,And a quick sense of something dimly strangeBrought him from play to stand beside the kneeSo often climb’d, and lift his loving eyesThat shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise.

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook;But tenderly his babe’s fair mother laidHer hand on his, and with a pleading look,Through tears half-quivering, o’er him bent and said,“What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey--That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away?

“It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend!Mark’st thou the wonder on thy boy’s fair brow,Missing the smile from thine? Oh, cheer thee! bendTo his soft arms: unseal thy thoughts e’en now!Thou dost not kindly to withhold the shareOf tried affection in thy secret care.”

He look’d up into that sweet earnest face,But sternly, mournfully: not yet the bandWas loosen’d from his soul; its inmost placeNot yet unveil’d by love’s o’ermastering hand.“Speak low!” he cried, and pointed where on highThe white Alps glitter’d through the solemn sky:

“We must speak low amidst our ancient hillsAnd their free torrents; for the days are comeWhen tyranny lies couch’d by forest rills,And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home.Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear--Keep silence by the hearth! its foes are near.

“The envy of th’ oppressor’s eye hath beenUpon my heritage. I sit to-nightUnder my household tree, if not serene,Yet with the faces best beloved in sight:To-morrow eve may find me chain’d, and thee--How can I bear the boy’s young smiles to see?”

The bright blood left that youthful mother’s cheek;Back on the linden stem she lean’d her form;And her lip trembled as it strove to speak,Like a frail harp-string shaken by the storm.’Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass’d,And the free Alpine spirit woke at last.

And she, that ever through her home had movedWith the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smileOf woman, calmly loving and beloved,And timid in her happiness the while,Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour--Her clear glance kindling into sudden power.

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light,And took her fair child to her holy breast,And lifted her soft voice, that gather’d mightAs it found language:--“Are we thus oppress’d?Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod,And man must arm, and woman call on God!

“I know what thou wouldst do;--and be it done!Thy soul is darken’d with its fears for me.Trust me to heaven, my husband! This, thy son,The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free!And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearthMay well give strength--if aught be strong on earth.

“Thou hast been brooding o’er the silent dreadOf my desponding tears; now lift once more,My hunter of the hills! thy stately head,And let thine eagle glance my joy restore!I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued--Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.

“Go forth beside the waters, and alongThe chamois paths, and through the forests go;And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrongTo the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow.God shall be with thee, my beloved! Away!Bless but thy child, and leave me--I can pray!”

He sprang up, like a warrior youth awakingTo clarion sounds upon the ringing air;He caught her to his heart, while proud tears breakingFrom his dark eyes fell o’er her braided hair;And “Worthy art thou,” was his joyous cry,“That man for thee should gird himself to die!

“My bride, my wife, the mother of my child!Now shall thy name be armour to my heart:And this our land, by chains no more defiled,Be taught of thee to choose the better part!I go--thy spirit on my words shall dwell;Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps. Farewell!”

And thus they parted, by the quiet lake,In the clear starlight: he the strength to rouseOf the free hills; she, thoughtful for his sake,To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs,Singing its blue half-curtain’d eyes to sleepWith a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep.