THE SHEPHERD POET OF THE ALPS.

God gave him reverence of laws,

Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause-
A spirit to his rocks akin,

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!

SINGING of the free blue sky,

And the wild-flower glens that lie

Far amidst the ancient hills,

Which the fountain-music fills;
Singing of the snow-peaks bright,
And the royal eagle's flight,
And the courage and the grace
Foster'd by the chamois-chase;
In his fetters, day by day,
So the Shepherd-poet lay,

COLERIDGE.

Wherefore, from a dungeon-cell

Did those notes of freedom swell,
Breathing sadness not their own,
Forth with every Alpine tone?
Wherefore!—can a tyrant's ear

Brook the mountain-winds to hear,
When each blast goes pealing by

With a song of liberty?

Darkly hung th' oppressor's hand
O'er the Shepherd-poet's land;
Sounding there the waters gush'd,
While the lip of man was hush'd;
There the falcon pierced the cloud,
While the fiery heart was bow'd:

But this might not long endure,

Where the mountain-homes were pure;

And a valiant voice arose,

Thrilling all the silent snows;

His-now singing far and lone,

Where the young breeze ne'er was known;

Singing of the glad blue sky,

Wildly-and how mournfully!

Are none but the Wind and the Lammer-Geyer
To be free where the hills into heaven aspire?
Is the soul of song from the deep glens past,
Now that their Poet is chain'd at last?-
Think of the mountains, and deem not so!
Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow!
Yes! though forbidden be every word
Wherewith that Spirit the Alps hath stirr'd,
Yet even as a buried stream through earth
Rolls on to another and brighter birth,

So shall the voice that hath seem'd to die,
Burst forth with the Anthem of Liberty!

And another power is moving
In a bosom fondly loving :-

Oh! a sister's heart is deep,

And her spirit strong to keep

Each light link of early hours,

All sweet scents of childhood's flowers!

Thus each lay by Erni sung,

Rocks and crystal caves among,
Or beneath the linden-leaves,
Or the cabin's vine-hung eaves,
Rapid though as bird-notes gushing,
Transient as a wan cheek's flushing,

Each in young Teresa's breast
Left its fiery words impress'd;
Treasured there lay every line,

As a rich book on a hidden shrine.
Fair was that lone girl, and meek,
With a pale transparent cheek,
And a deep-fringed violet eye
Seeking in sweet shade to lie,

Or, if raised to glance above,

Dim with its own dews of love;

And a pure, Madonna brow,

And a silvery voice, and low,

Like the echo of a flute,

Even the last, ere all be mute.

But a loftier soul was seen

In the orphan sister's mien,

From that hour when chains defiled

Him, the high Alps' noble child.

Tones in her quivering voice awoke,
As if a harp of battle spoke;

Light, that seem'd born of an eagle's nest,
Flash'd from her soft eyes, unrepress'd;

And her form, like a spreading water-flower,

When its frail cup swells with a sudden shower,
Seem'd all dilated with love and pride,

And grief for that brother, her young heart's guide.
Well might they love!-those two had grown
Orphans together and alone :

The silence of the Alpine sky

Had hush'd their hearts to piety;