Now art thou all my fancy dream'd of thee! My trust has not been given to thee in vain.
Away, ye idle phantoms of my folly; In mine own home I'll find my happiness. Here, where the gladsome boy to manhood grew, Where ev'ry brook, and tree, and mountain peak, Teems with remembrances of happy hours, In mine own native land thou wilt be mine. Ah, I have ever loved it well, I feel How poor without it were all earthly joys.
Where should we look for happiness on earth, If not in this dear land of innocence-- Here, where old truth hath its familiar home? Where fraud and guile are strangers, envy ne'er Shall dim the sparkling fountain of our bliss, And ever bright the hours shall o'er us glide. There do I see thee, in true manly worth, The foremost of the free and of thy peers, Revered with homage pure and unconstrain'd, Wielding a power that kings might envy thee.
And thee I see, thy sex's crowning gem, With thy sweet woman's grace and wakeful love, Building a heaven for me within my home, And, as the spring-time scatters forth her flowers, Adorning with thy charms my path of life, And spreading joy and sunshine all around.
And this it was, dear friend, that caused my grief, To see thee blast this life's supremest bliss With thine own hand. Ah! what had been my fate, Had I been forced to follow some proud lord, Some ruthless despot, to his gloomy keep! Here are no keeps, here are no bastion'd walls To part me from a people I can bless.
Yet, how to free myself; to loose the coils Which I have madly twined around my head?
Tear them asunder with a man's resolve. Whate'er ensue, firm by thy people stand! It is thy post by birth.
[_Hunting horns are heard in the distance_.]
But hark! The chase! Farewell--'tis needful we should part--away! Fight for thy land; thou fightest for thy love. One foe fills all our souls with dread; the blow That makes one free, emancipates us all.
_A meadow near Altdorf. Trees in the foreground. At the back of the stage a cap upon a pole. The prospect is bounded by the Bannberg, which is surmounted by a snow-capped mountain._
We keep our watch in vain. Zounds! not a soul Will pass and do obeisance to the cap. But yesterday the place swarm'd like a fair; Now the old green looks like a desert, quite, Since yonder scarecrow hung upon the pole.