Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 16 1826.pdf/4

 Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share Of tried affection in thy secret care."

He look’d up into that sweet earnest face, But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band Was loosen'd from his soul; its inmost place Not yet unveil'd by Love's o'ermastering hand. "Speak low!" he cried, and pointed where on high The white Alps glitter'd through the solemn sky:

"We must speak low amidst our ancient hills    And their free torrents; for the days are come When Tyranny lies couch'd by forest-rills,     And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home. Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear, Keep silence by the hearth!—its foes are near.

"The envy of th' oppressor's eye hath been    Upon my heritage: I sit to-night Under my household-tree—if not serene,     Yet with the faces best-belov'd in sight; To-morrow eve may find me chain'd, and thee— —How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see?"

The bright blood left that youthful mother's cheek— Back on the linden-stem she lean'd her form, And her lip trembled, as it strove to speak, Like a wild harp-string shaken by the storm. —'Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass'd, And the free Alpine spirit woke at last.

And she, that ever through her home had moved With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile Of woman, calmly loving and beloved, And timid in her happiness the while, Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour, Her clear glance kindling into sudden power.

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, And took her fair child to her holy breast, And lifted her soft voice, that gather'd might As it found language:—"Are we thus oppress'd? Then must we rise upon our mountain sod, And man must arm, and woman call on God!

"I know what thou wouldst do;—and be it done!    Thy soul is darken'd with its fears for me— Trust me to Heaven, my husband!—this, thy son,     The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free! And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth May well give strength—if aught be strong on earth.

"Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread    Of my desponding tears;—now lift once more, My Hunter of the Hills, thy stately head,     And let thine eagle-glance my joy restore! I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued:— Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood!

"Go forth beside the waters, and along    The chamois-paths, and through the forests go! And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong     To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow. God shall be with thee, my beloved—away! Bless out thy child, and leave me—I can pray."