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