Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 28 1830.pdf/7

 He thought of the Alps and their breezy air, And felt that his country no chains might bear; He thought of the hunter's haughty life, And knew there must yet be noble strife; But, oh! when he thought of that orphan maid, His high heart melted—he wept and pray'd! For he saw her not as she moved e'en then, A wakener of heroes in every glen, With a glance inspired which no grief could tame, Bearing on Hope like a torch's flame, While the strengthening voice of mighty wrongs Gave echoes back to her thrilling songs; But his dreams were fill'd by a haunting tone, Sad as a sleeping infant's moan; And his soul was pierc'd by a mournful eye, Which look'd on it—oh! how beseechingly! And there floated past him a fragile form, With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm; Till wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove In vain with its burden of helpless love! —Thus woke the dreamer one weary night— There flash'd through his dungeon a swift strong light; He sprang up—he climb'd to the grating-bars, —It was not the rising of moon or stars, But a signal flame from a peak of snow, Rock'd through the dark skies, to and fro! There shot forth another—another still— A hundred answers of hill to hill! Tossing like pines in the tempest's way, Joyously, wildly, the bright spires play, And each is hail'd with a pealing shout, For the high Alps waving their banners out! Erni, young Erni! the land hath risen! —Alas! to be lone in thy narrow prison!