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Translated by J. O. Sargent
WELCOME, ye hearts of Tyrol, which beat so honestly, | |
| Welcome, ye glaciers of Tyrol, which bear the heavens on high, | |
| Ye dwellings of Fidelity, ye verdant, fragrant vales, | |
| Welcome, ye streams and pastures, freedom and mountain gales! | |
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| Who is the daring archer that in hunter’s costume stands, | 5 |
| In his hat the beard of the chamois and the cross-bow in his hands; | |
| Whose eye with a youthful ardor, like the eye of a monarch, glances; | |
| Whose heart with a quiet rapture in the sport of the hunter dances? | |
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| The hunter is Max of Hapsburg, on a lusty chamois chase, | |
| Where scarcely the chamois ventures, he sweeps on the frightful race; | 10 |
| He swings himself upwards, ascending, in his course like an arrow swift, | |
| How vigorously he clambers over crag and over clift! | |
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| Here over heaps of rubble, over deep abysses there, | |
| Now on the ground close creeping, now flying through the air, | |
| And now, hold on! No further! Now is he fast confined, | 15 |
| Chasm before, and chasms beside him, and a break-neck wall behind! | |
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| As he soars to the sun, the eagle holds there his earliest rest, | |
| The strength of his wing is broken, and fallen his haughty crest, | |
| If any one thence to the valley a road of stone would lay, | |
| He must quarry all Tyrol and Styria for the pavement of the way. | 20 |
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| Max had heard from his nurse in childhood all about St. Martin’s Wall, | |
| Till at the thought a dimness on his vision seemed to fall; | |
| He can see full well already if she painted the scenes with truth, | |
| That he should e’er paint them to others there ’s little hope now, forsooth! | |
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| His throne the rocky rampart, see the princely scion stand, | 25 |
| His sceptre, the wall-lichen, he grasps with wavering hand; | |
| Above him spreads a vista, so boundlessly displayed, | |
| That before the dizzy prospect his senses faint and fade. | |
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| The vale of the inn before him an emerald carpet spreads, | |
| Streamlet and street drawn through it like a tissue’s woven threads; | 30 |
| Far off colossal mountains to hillocks shrunk lie round, | |
| Each one to Max appearing like an ominous churchyard mound. | |
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| With a blast of mighty clangor through his horn for help he calls; | |
| On the air like a peal of thunder, but on air alone it falls; | |
| A little devil titters from a cleft in the nearest rock,— | 35 |
| It falls far short of the valley, his stout horn’s fullest shock. | |
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| He blows again in his bugle, so loud that it almost breaks, | |
| Ho, ho, what means this clamor! the shriek no succor wakes; | |
| Were it not for the love of his people, offer what bid he may, | |
| Max will remain here sitting till the final judgment day. | 40 |
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| What the ear had not discovered the vision had descried, | |
| From below they saw him swaying on the pathless mountain’s side; | |
| There ’s a sound to heaven ascending of orisons and bells, | |
| While from church to church in pilgrimage the tide of manhood swells. | |
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| At the mountain’s foot a multitude in various garb appears, | 45 |
| A priest in their midst to heaven the sacrament uprears; | |
| Where the crowds in mingled colors in the distant valley shone, | |
| Max saw the glance and glitter of the golden pyx alone. * * * * * | |
| In earnest supplication he sinks upon his knee, | |
| Raises his eyes, invoking Heaven’s succor fervently; | 50 |
| A hand is laid on his shoulder, he starts with a thrill of fear, | |
| “Come home, thou art in safety!” rings cheerily in his ear. | |
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| And he sees a brawny mountaineer before him laughing stand, | |
| Who grasps him, and points onward with a gesture of command; | |
| With rope and steel and ladder soon a venturous path is ready, | 55 |
| If Max’s footsteps stagger, his guardian’s hand is steady. | |
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| He mounts Max on his shoulders where the dizzy chasms frown, | |
| On a fairer throne and firmer Max never sat him down; | |
| To the valley thus descending, his course all Tyrol cheers, | |
| Though he rides in a strange fashion, at Max no scoffer jeers. | 60 |
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| There is an old tradition, of many ages since, | |
| That a messenger from Heaven wrought the rescue of the prince; | |
| Yes, indeed, it was an angel, a spirit from above, | |
| The love of faithful Tyrol, a loyal People’s love. | |
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| From the precipice down-looking on the vale, a crucifix | 65 |
| Marks the spot whence Austria’s scion saw the shining of the pyx; | |
| Still lives the ancient legend, and in song will never cease | |
| To stir a quicker heart-beat in every Tyrolese! | |
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