Who through long years a Freeman's work had done,
And reap'd his harvest, and his vintage press'd,
Fearless of wrong!—And now, at set of sun,
He bow'd not to his years; for on the breast
And for such holy rest strong hands must toil,
Strong hearts endure!—By that pale Elder's side,
Stood one that seem'd a monarch of the soil,
Serene and stately in his manhood's pride,
Werner, the brave and true *[1]!—If men have died,
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep,
He was a mate for such!—The voice that cried
Within his breast "Arise!" came still and deep,
It was a home to die for!–As it rose
Through its vine-foliage sending forth a sound
Of merry childhood, o'er the green repose
And laughing sunshine of the pastures round!
And he whose life to that sweet spot was bound,
Rais'd unto heaven a glad, yet thoughtful eye,
And set his free step firmer on the ground,
When o'er his soul its melodies went by,
As through some Alpine Pass a breeze of Italy (8)[2].
But who was he, that on his hunting-spear
Lean’d with a prouder and more fiery bearing?
His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear,
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing
That which they may not tame—a soul, declaring
War against earth's oppressors!—Midst that throng,
Of other mould he seem'd, and loftier daring;
One whose blood swept high impulses along,
A memory on the mountains!—One, to stand
When the hills echoed with the deepening swell
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land,
And in some rock defile, or savage dell,
Array his peasant children, to repel
The invader—sending arrows for his chains!
Aye, one to fold around him, as he fell,
Her banner with a smile, for through his veins
There was, at times, a wildness in the light
Of his quick-flashing eye; a something born
