"At the feast and in the song,
Thou shalt be remember'd long!
By the green isles of the flood,
Thou hast left thy track in blood!
On the earth and on the sea,
There are those will speak of thee!
'Tis enough, the war-gods call,-
There is mead in Odin's Hall!

66

Regner! tell thy fair-hair'd bride
She must slumber at thy side!
Tell the brother of thy breast
Even for him thy grave hath rest!
Tell the raven steed which bore thee
When the wild wolf fled before thee,
He too with his lord must fall,-
There is room in Odin's Hall!

"Lo! the mighty sun looks forth-
Arm! thou leader of the north!
Lo! the mists of twilight fly,--
We must vanish, thou must die!
By the sword and by the spear,
By the hand that knows not fear,
Sea-king! nobly shalt thou fall!-
There is joy in Odin's Hall!"

There was arming heard on land and wave,
When afar the sunlight spread,

And the phantom forms of the tide-worn cave
With the mists of morning fled,
But at eve, the kingly hand
Of the battle-axe and brand
Lay cold on a pile of dead!

THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS.

A SWISS TRADITION.

The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are thought to sleep in a cavern near the Lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen call them the Three Tells; and say that they lie there in their antique garb, in quiet slumber; and when Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will awaken and regain the liberties of the land. See Quarterly Review, No. 44.

The Grütli, where the confederates held their nightly meetings, is a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne, or Lake of the Forest-cantons, here called the Forest-sea.

OH! enter not yon shadowy cave,
Seek not the bright spars there,

Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave
With freshness fill the air:

For there the Patriot Three,

In the garb of old array'd,

By their native Forest-sea,

On a rocky couch are laid.

The Patriot Three that met of yore
Beneath the midnight sky,

And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore

In the name of liberty!

Now silently they sleep

Amidst the hills they freed;

But their rest is only deep

Till their country's hour of need.

They start not at the hunter's call,

Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry,

Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall,
Nor the Lauwine thundering by!

And the Alpine herdsman's lay,

To a Switzer's heart so dear!
On the wild wind floats away,
No more for them to hear.

But when the battle-horn is blown
Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply,
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone
Through their eagles' lonely sky;

When the spear-heads light the lakes,
When trumpets loose the snows,
When the rushing war-steed shakes
The glacier's mute repose;

When Uri's beechen woods wave red
In the burning hamlet's light;
Then from the cavern of the dead
Shall the sleepers wake in might!
With a leap, like Tell's proud leap
When away the helm he flung,
And boldly up the steep

From the flashing billow sprung!'

They shall wake beside their Forest-sea,
In the ancient garb they wore

1 The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gess

ler is marked by a chapel, and called the Tellensprung.

When they link'd the hands that made us free,
On the Grütli's moonlight shore;

And their voices shall be heard,
And be answer'd with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirr'd,
And the signal-fires blaze out.

And the land shall see such deeds again
As those of that proud day,
When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain,
Through the serried spears made way;
And when the rocks came down
On the dark Morgarten dell,
And the crowned casques,' o'erthrown,
Before our fathers fell!

For the Kühreihen's notes must never sound
In a land that wears the chain,
And the vines on freedom's holy ground
Untrampled must remain!

And the yellow harvests wave

For no stranger's hand to reap,
While within their silent cave

The men of Grütli sleep!

1 Crowned Helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned in Simond's Switzerland.

2 The Kühreihen · the celebrated Ranz des Vaches.

SWISS SONG,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE.

The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate the anniversaries of their ancient battles with much solemnity; assembling in the open air on the fields where their ancestors fought, to hear thanksgivings offered up by the priests, and the names of all who shared in the glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession to chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes, where masses are sung for the souls of the departed. See PLANTA's History of the Helvetic Con

federacy.

Look on the white Alps round!

If yet they gird a land

Where Freedom's voice and step are found,
Forget ye not the band,-

The faithful band, our sires, who fell
Here in the narrow battle dell!

If yet, the wilds among,

Our silent hearts may burn,

When the deep mountain-horn hath rung, And home our steps may turn,— › Home!-home!-if still that name be dear,

Praise to the men who perish'd here!

Look on the white Alps round!

Up to their shining snows

That day the stormy rolling sound,

The sound of battle, rose !

Their caves prolong'd the trumpet's blast,
Their dark pines trembled as it pass'd!