And now the work of life and death Hung on the passing of a breath; The fire of conflict burned within, The battle trembled to begin: Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, Point for attack was nowhere found; Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, The unbroken line of lances blazed: That line 'twere suicide to meet, And perish at their tyrants' feet,-- How could they rest within their graves, And leave their homes the homes of slaves? Would they not feel their children tread With clanging chains above their head?
It must not be: this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power; All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she cannot yield,-- She must not fall; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. Few were the numbers she could boast; But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on _one_ indeed; Behold him,--Arnold Winkelried! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked he stood amid the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face, And by the motion of his form Anticipate the bursting storm, And by the uplifting of his brow Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But ' twas no sooner thought than done, The field was in a moment won:--
"Make way for Liberty!" he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp; Ten spears he swept within his grasp.
"Make way for Liberty!" he cried; Their keen points met from side to side; He bowed amongst them like a tree, And thus made way for Liberty.
Swift to the breach his comrades fly; "Make way for Liberty!" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart; While, instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all: An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow.
Thus Switzerland again was free; Thus Death made way for Liberty!
O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man! Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid; "O Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save!-- Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live--with her to die!" He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death,--the watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm!-- In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew:-- O, bloodiest picture in the book of Time! Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked--as Kosciusko fell!