_Port Folio_, IV-383, Dec. 1, 1804, Phila.
THE CELEBRATED SWISS AIR, RANZ DES VACHES.
"This air, so dear to the Swiss," says Rousseau, "was forbidden by the French government to be played among the Swiss soldiers, employed in the service of France, under pain of death; because it excited such a fond remembrance of the scenes they had witnessed in their own native country, and such a strong desire of seeing them again, that it caused them to shed tears, to desert, or, if they despaired of this, to commit suicide."
Quand reverrai-je, en un jour, Tous les objets de mon amour? Nos claires ruisseaux, Nos couteaux [_sic_], Nos hameaux, Nos montagnes, Et l'ornament de nos campagnes, La si gentille Isabeau? A l'ombre d'un ormeau, Quand danserai-je au son du chalumeau?
Quand reverrai-je, en un jour, Tous les objects de mon amour? Mon père, Ma mère, Mon frère Ma soeur, Mes agneaux Mes troupeaux, Ma bergère? Quand reverrai-je, en un jour, Tous les objet de mon amour?
When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my affection?--our clear streams, our cottages [_sic_], our hamlets, our mountains, and the ornament of our fields, the gentle Isabelle?--Under the shade of a spreading elm, when shall I dance again to the sound of the tabor?
When shall I behold again, in one day, all pleasing objects of my love?--my father, mother, brothers, sisters, my lambs, my flocks, and my faithful shepherdess?--When shall I behold again, in one day, all the pleasing objects of my affection?
_Boston Weekly Mag._, III-60, Feb. 2, 1805, Boston.
For the Port Folio. THE SCANDINAVIAN HERO.
From midst the dusty fields of war To realms beyond the northern star, To loud Valhalla's echoing halls, I bear the hero ere he falls; The valiant dwell in those abodes, And sit amid carousing gods; Not goblets rich, nor flasks of gold, But skulls of mantling mead they hold; The coward while he gasps for breath, Sinks darkling to Hela beneath.
O be it mine, from conflict borne, To reach the realms of endless morn; At Odin's board my lips I'll lave In the foam'd bev'rage of the brave.
Who breaks the dusty fields of war, Death travels by his clattering car; Perch'd on the whirlwind's thund'ring tower, On comes the sable tempest's power; Ye warriors rise, ye chiefs give room, A godlike guest in youthful bloom, Harold from fields of battle see, Begin th' immortal revelry.