Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, Tell, of the iron heart! they could not tame! For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaimThe everlasting creed of liberty.That creed is written on the untrampled snow, Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold,And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow.Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around, Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught, And to thy brief captivity was broughtA vision of thy Switzerland unbound. The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee For the great work to set thy country free.
THE HUNTER'S SERENADE.°
Thy bower is finished, fairest! Fit bower for hunter's bride--Where old woods overshadow The green savanna's side.I've wandered long, and wandered far, And never have I met,In all this lovely western land, A spot so lovely yet.But I shall think it fairer, When thou art come to bless,With thy sweet smile and silver voice, Its silent loveliness.
For thee the wild grape glistens, On sunny knoll and tree,The slim papaya ripens Its yellow fruit for thee.For thee the duck, on glassy stream, The prairie-fowl shall die,My rifle for thy feast shall bring The wild swan from the sky.The forest's leaping panther, Fierce, beautiful, and fleet,Shall yield his spotted hide to be A carpet for thy feet.
I know, for thou hast told me, Thy maiden love of flowers;Ah, those that deck thy gardens Are pale compared with ours.When our wide woods and mighty lawns Bloom to the April skies,The earth has no more gorgeous sight To show to human eyes.In meadows red with blossoms, All summer long, the beeMurmurs, and loads his yellow thighs, For thee, my love, and me.
Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens Of ages long ago--Our old oaks stream with mosses, And sprout with mistletoe;And mighty vines, like serpents, climb The giant sycamore;And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries, Cumber the forest floor;And in the great savanna, The solitary mound,Built by the elder world, o'erlooks The loneliness around.
Come, thou hast not forgotten Thy pledge and promise quite,With many blushes murmured, Beneath the evening light.Come, the young violets crowd my door, Thy earliest look to win,And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.All day the red-bird warbles, Upon the mulberry near,And the night-sparrow trills her song, All night, with none to hear.