 | Julia Alpinula |  |
XXVII.
Princess of mountain, flood, and fell!Helvetia! to thy crown—farewell!
Weep! for thy patriots hopes are o'er;
Weep! for thy freedom is no more;
For those who live, and those who sleep
In death's cold chains of bondage, weep!
'Tis morn! (how can the morn look gay
On the lost field of yesterday?)
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Are rolled in beautiful vermilion,
Nor one faint shape of sadness wear,
For all the thousands bleeding there.
The ibex comes as it was wont
At sunrise to the crystal font,
But starts with trembling foot aside
In horror of the waters dyed.
No human voice or footstep fills
The echo of the lonely hills;
Nor in the valley's depths, below,
Is sound or sight of living foe;
But from deep woods the shepherd's eye
Sees the grey smoke curl loftily,
And there deserted hearths are mute
To all but the invader's foot:
Their household flames which used to shine
Brightly upon bright faces, now
But light the torch that fires the vine,
And the loved cottage-roof below.
With weeping, and the voice of wail,
The peasants leave their native vale,
And joining those who yet survive
The battle, but have ceased to strive,
And bearing forward those who lie
Weary and wounded down to die,
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And tell the fatal truth to all.
By every fierce emotion tossed,
Their brave hemmed in, abandoned, lost,
We may forgive if the sad City
Then sent to move a victor's pity,
On whom the passions of the camp
Have fixed Misrule's licentious stamp.
Whilst many a mother, many a son,
Widowed or orphaned, all undone,
Hot tears in gloomy anguish shed,
Whilst each one shook with grief or dread,
What pangs of terror and despair,
Had Dian's holy maid to bear?
| Julia Alpinula | |