OUR men fought well at Morat! They fought like lions, boy, | |
| Like lions, that within their lair the hunter dares annoy. | |
| Ah! now I’m old, but I was then a boy as you are now, | |
| And this old tree was nothing but a bit of broken bough. | |
| ’Tis sixty good long years ago—how fast the years go by, | 5 |
| Since we crushed, that deadly day of June, the hosts of Burgundy; | |
| The morning threatened thick with cloud, a weird and solemn gloom | |
| Hung o’er the town—the empty streets were silent as a tomb, | |
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| Save here and there were little groups with sad and anxious brow, | |
| Old men, and boys, and women, were gathered talking low, | 10 |
| Recounting news of Burgundy in words of doubt and fear, | |
| Or tales of our own mountain strength their trembling hearts to cheer. | |
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| Some wrung their hands the while they spoke—in many a maiden’s eye | |
| The slow tears brimmed, the pale mouth twitched in secret agony, | |
| And old men sadly shook their heads, while at their mother’s side | 15 |
| Children were pulling at their gowns, and asking why they cried? | |
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| Sad o’er us hung the sullen sky,—our hearts were dark with gloom, | |
| When suddenly the cannon’s peal, with heavy muffled boom, | |
| Rolled dully smiting on the heart, that for a moment stilled, | |
| Stopped in the breast, then wildly like a hurried drum-beat thrilled. | 20 |
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| ’Twas then, ere rang their battle-cry, our brothers in the field | |
| Bared their stern brows, and on the earth to ask God’s blessing kneeled; | |
| And Hans Von Hallwyll lifted, while all were silent there, | |
| Mid the thunder voice of cannon, the still, small voice of prayer. | |
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| The heavens hung low and gloomy above them lowly bowed, | 25 |
| But as they prayed the sudden sun broke through the shattered cloud | |
| And flashed across their bended ranks, and Hallwyll from his knee, | |
| Sprang shouting—“Up! behold, God lights the way to victory!” | |
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| Ah, why was I not with them? why was I doomed to stay, | |
| An idle boy to range along the ramparts all that day? | 30 |
| The cannon thrilled my startled blood—the Landshorn shrilly cried, | |
| “Flee from old men and women! strike for freedom at our side!” | |
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| Alas, I could not flee from them! half mad in heart and brain, | |
| I watched with them the smoke-cloud cling along the distant plain; | |
| We strained our eyes in vain,—we seemed to hear with nervous ears, | 35 |
| The battle-cry of Burgundy—the Eidgenossen’s cheers. | |
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| We fought with them in spirit in the tumult of the fight, | |
| We swung our swords with Hallwyll for Liberty and Right, | |
| With Waldman’s band of rugged Swiss adown the hill we clove | |
| Through the shining helms of Burgundy, as through some tall pine grove. | 40 |
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| Our avalanches thunder—we crushed them to the earth, | |
| We swept them from the hill-side with a wild exultant mirth— | |
| We slid upon their horsemen, and hurled them to the lake | |
| In terror and confusion—as the land slidden when they break. | |
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| Adown our mountain gorges,—in a heap of steel and blood, | 45 |
| And shattered cuirasses and helms, they rolled into the flood; | |
| Their hands that gleamed with diamonds in vain they lifted high, | |
| As the red wave bubbled over them, and drowned their fearful cry. | |
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| We rushed with old Von Hertenstein, his white hair streaming free, | |
| Where Hallwyll battled with the pride of knightly Burgundy; | 50 |
| With the mountain force of stout Lucerne we sheared them from the plain, | |
| And mowed their glittering sheaves of spears, like fields of autumn grain! | |
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| What served their orders then to them, their proud and knightly blood? | |
| It stained the grass and lay in pools amid the trampled mud; | |
| Their jewelled chains we scattered—and on gleaming breast and brain. | 55 |
| Our great swords rattling in their ears played Liberty’s refrain. | |
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| Leap! baffled Duke of Burgundy,—leap on thy swiftest steed! | |
| The Bear of Berne is after thee—spur at thine utmost need! | |
| Plunge in that reeking, quivering flank, thy golden spur, and flee | |
| Till his nostrils gush with blood and steam—Lucerne is hunting thee. | 60 |
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| Leave, leave upon the hillside your twenty thousand slain, | |
| Leave in the lake your heaps of dead, its waves with gore to stain. | |
| Speed! speed! and when night darkens down,—blown, beaten, blasted stand, | |
| With only thirty ghastly horsemen left of all your band. | |
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| Such hope as this was thrilling us the while we leaned and gazed, | 65 |
| With clenching hands, and young fierce eyes, and cheeks that hotly blazed; | |
| But oft the fear of dread defeat, and conquest pouring down | |
| Above our murdered, shattered ranks to deluge all the town | |
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| With rapine and with ravage, knocked against our hearts with dread; | |
| We heard the crackling rafters crash above our fated head, | 70 |
| We saw the red flames lick the air and glare against the sky, | |
| And ’mid the screams of women rang the clash of soldiery. | |
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| At last the distant thunder ceased—and as we strained our eyes | |
| We saw above the road’s far ridge a little dust-cloud rise; | |
| And on it came, and on, and on, upon the dry white road, | 75 |
| Until a dark and moving spot like a running figure showed. | |
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| News from the field! what news, what news?—alas, our brothers fly! | |
| No, no, he waves a branch of lime—that tells of Victory. | |
| He staggers, wounded, on, he reels, he faints beside the gate; | |
| Speak! speak!—he cannot speak—and yet ’tis agony to wait. | 80 |
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| We gather round, as through the street with reeling, staggering pace, | |
| He falls along—and panting, points toward the market-place. | |
| There, while the blood starts from his mouth, he waves the branch on high, | |
| And with a last faint shout expires, exclaiming “Victory.” | |
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| That branch of lime we planted in the spot whereon he fell, | 85 |
| And there it took its root, and throve, and spread its branches well, | |
| And you shall sit beneath its shade, as now we sit, when I | |
| Am dust—and say, “My Grandsire brought that branch of Victory.” | |
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