Page:Records of Woman.pdf/48

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He looked 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 thro' 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 the 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?"