Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
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THE SWISS MOTHER TO HER SON. |
 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
THE SWISS MOTHER TO HER SON.
“Fleet is thy foot, my only son;
Thou art a mountain child;
Thy mother's breasts have suckled thee
'Mid rocks and deserts wild—
Where shouting winds the echoes deep
In dells and caves awoke—
Where every sound to Heaven that rose
Of Freedom spoke!
Thou art a mountain child;
Thy mother's breasts have suckled thee
'Mid rocks and deserts wild—
Where shouting winds the echoes deep
In dells and caves awoke—
Where every sound to Heaven that rose
Of Freedom spoke!
“Look up, my son! yon cloud-crown'd rock
Is mantled o'er with snow;
And from its breast the avalanche
Careering down doth go!
Look down! a thousand pleasant vales
Are sleeping 'neath thine eye,
And happy homes where Alpine streams
Are rushing by!
Is mantled o'er with snow;
And from its breast the avalanche
Careering down doth go!
Look down! a thousand pleasant vales
Are sleeping 'neath thine eye,
And happy homes where Alpine streams
Are rushing by!
“Look round, my son! your mother's cot
Is peeping from the trees;—
Your sister, in its rose-wreath'd porch,
Is kneeling on her knees!—
Look on our lightning-riven peaks—
Our mountain-pastures lone!—
My only son! what land of earth
Is like thine own?
Is peeping from the trees;—
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Is kneeling on her knees!—
Look on our lightning-riven peaks—
Our mountain-pastures lone!—
My only son! what land of earth
Is like thine own?
“My noble boy, for such a land
Who would not dare and die?—
My son!—I see thy swelling breast—
I see thy flashing eye!—
Thy drink has been the mountain-stream,
Thou chamois-hunter free!
Thou'rt worthy, like thy sire, to die
For Liberty!
Who would not dare and die?—
My son!—I see thy swelling breast—
I see thy flashing eye!—
Thy drink has been the mountain-stream,
Thou chamois-hunter free!
Thou'rt worthy, like thy sire, to die
For Liberty!
“My son! a field is lost and won—
A field for Freedom fought;—
The herdsmen of our thousand hills
A mighty work have wrought:
But mail-clad are the Tyrants yet,
And mighty is the foe!
Arouse thee, then, brave youth, and cry
‘For Uri, ho!’
A field for Freedom fought;—
The herdsmen of our thousand hills
A mighty work have wrought:
But mail-clad are the Tyrants yet,
And mighty is the foe!
Arouse thee, then, brave youth, and cry
‘For Uri, ho!’
“My son! thy father lifeless lies;
But yet no tear I shed!
When we are free, thy mother, boy,
Will mourn the glorious dead!
And thou!—go take thy father's sword—
To battle, with the free!
And fall or conquer, like thy sire,
For Home and me!”
But yet no tear I shed!
When we are free, thy mother, boy,
Will mourn the glorious dead!
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To battle, with the free!
And fall or conquer, like thy sire,
For Home and me!”
“He hath buckled on his father's sword—
My own, my noble boy—
He hath turn'd him to the Switzer camp
With all a freeman's joy.
O! hearts like his and hands like his
Will free our mountains gray!—
My daughter, with thy mother kneel,
For him to pray!”
My own, my noble boy—
He hath turn'd him to the Switzer camp
With all a freeman's joy.
O! hearts like his and hands like his
Will free our mountains gray!—
My daughter, with thy mother kneel,
For him to pray!”
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |