Of torch-fires streaming out o'er crag and wood;
And wild-birds woke, as footsteps rustled o'er
The sear dead leaves; and by that moonlight flood,
They stood in arms—the wolf-spear and the bow
Had wag'd their war on things of mountain-race,
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad foe?
—Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase,
True hands in fight, were gather'd on that place
Of secret counsel. Not for fame or spoil
So met those men in Heaven’s majestic face;
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil,
O'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide
Of years have flow'd, and still, from sire to son,
Their name and records on the green earth died,
As cottage lamps expiring one by one,
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun
To hush all sound.—But silent on its height,
The snow-mass, full of death, while ages run
Their course, may slumber, bath'd in rosy light,
So were they rous'd!—th' invading step had pass'd
Their cabin-thresholds, and the lowly door
Which well had stood against the Tæhnwind's blast, (7)[2]
Could bar oppression from their homes no more.
—Why, what had she to do where all things wore
Wild grandeur's impress?—In the storm's free way,
How dar'd she lift her pageant crest before
Th' enduring and magnificent array
This might not long be borne!—the tameless hills
Have voices, from the cave and cataract swelling,
Fraught with His name, whose awful presence fills
Their deep lone places, and for ever telling
That he hath made man free!—and they, whose dwelling
Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear;
The weight of sufferance from their hearts repelling,
They rose—the forester, the mountaineer—
Sacred be Grütli's field!—their vigil keeping
Through many a blue and starry summer night,
There, while the sons of happier lands were sleeping,
Had those brave Switzers met; and in the sight
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might
