 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
109
WILLIAM TELL ON THE MOUNTAINS.
“Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn but flying,
Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind.”
Childe Harold.
Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind.”
Childe Harold.
Once more I breathe the mountain air, once more
I tread my own free hills; e'en as the child
Clings to its mother's breast, so do I turn
To thee my glorious home. My lofty soul
Throws all its fetters off: in its proud flight,
'Tis like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing
Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon
With eye undazzled. O! ye mighty race,
That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guard
My own proud land, why did ye not hurl down
The thundering avalanche, when at your feet
The base usurper stood? A touch, a breath,
Nay, e'en the breath of prayer, ere now has brought
Destruction on the hunter's head, and yet
The tyrant passed in safety. God of Heaven!
Where slept thy thunderbolt?
I tread my own free hills; e'en as the child
Clings to its mother's breast, so do I turn
To thee my glorious home. My lofty soul
Throws all its fetters off: in its proud flight,
'Tis like the new-fledged eaglet, whose strong wing
Soars to the sun it long has gazed upon
With eye undazzled. O! ye mighty race,
That stand like frowning giants, fixed to guard
My own proud land, why did ye not hurl down
The thundering avalanche, when at your feet
The base usurper stood? A touch, a breath,
Nay, e'en the breath of prayer, ere now has brought
Destruction on the hunter's head, and yet
The tyrant passed in safety. God of Heaven!
Where slept thy thunderbolt?
O! Liberty,
Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which
Life is as nothing, hast thou then forgot
Thy native home; and must the feet of slaves
Pollute this glorious scene? It cannot be!
E'en as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths
Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom
In spots where man has never dared to tread,
So thy sweet influence still is seen amid
These beetling cliffs: some hearts yet beat for thee
And bow alone to Heaven: thy spirit lives,
Aye, and shall, when e'en the very name
Of tyrant is forgot. Lo! while I gaze
Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow,
The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes
A crown of glory on his hoary head.
O! is not this a presage of the dawn
Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, thou bright
And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus, I swear
To live for Freedom, or with her to die.
Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which
Life is as nothing, hast thou then forgot
Thy native home; and must the feet of slaves
Pollute this glorious scene? It cannot be!
E'en as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths
Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom
110
So thy sweet influence still is seen amid
These beetling cliffs: some hearts yet beat for thee
And bow alone to Heaven: thy spirit lives,
Aye, and shall, when e'en the very name
Of tyrant is forgot. Lo! while I gaze
Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow,
The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes
A crown of glory on his hoary head.
O! is not this a presage of the dawn
Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, thou bright
And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus, I swear
To live for Freedom, or with her to die.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |