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arnold de winkelried.
Smiting down the bold invaders, till the ground for many a rood,
Round about that town beleaguered, was afloat with Austrian blood.
Then arose their shouts of triumph up amid the shadowy even,—
Loud rejoicings, fierce exultings, storming at the gates of heaven,—
Till a thousand mountain echoes rendered back the mighty cries,
With the sound of earth's contention making tumult in the skies.
Round about that town beleaguered, was afloat with Austrian blood.
Then arose their shouts of triumph up amid the shadowy even,—
Loud rejoicings, fierce exultings, storming at the gates of heaven,—
Till a thousand mountain echoes rendered back the mighty cries,
With the sound of earth's contention making tumult in the skies.
But amid the rush of battle, or the victor's proud array,
Came the saviour of Helvetia? came the hero of the day?
Prone along the wet turf lay he, with the lances he had grasped,
All his valor's deadly trophies still against his brave heart clasped!
Feeling not the tempest-surging, hearing not the roar of strife,—
With the red rents in his bosom, and his young eye closed on life.
Came the saviour of Helvetia? came the hero of the day?
Prone along the wet turf lay he, with the lances he had grasped,
All his valor's deadly trophies still against his brave heart clasped!
Feeling not the tempest-surging, hearing not the roar of strife,—
With the red rents in his bosom, and his young eye closed on life.
