ADVERTISEMENT. It was in the year 1308, that the Swiss rose against the tyranny of the Bailiffs appointed over them by Albert of Austria. The field called the Grütli, at the foot of the Seelisberg, and near the boundaries of Uri and Unterwalden, was fixed upon by three spirited yeomen, Walter Fürst, (the father-in-law of William Tell,) Werner Stauffacher, and Erni (or Arnold) Melchthal, as their place of meeting to deliberate on the accomplishment of their projects. "Hither came Fürst and Melchthal, along secret paths over the heights, and Stauffacher in his boat across the Lake of the Four Cantons. On the night preceding the 11th of November, 1307, they met here, each with ten associates, men of approved worth; and while at this solemn hour they were wrapt in the contemplation that on their success depended the fate of their whole posterity, Werner, Walter, and Arnold held up their hands to heaven, and in the name of the Almighty, who has created man to an inalienable degree of freedom, swore jointly and strenuously to defend that freedom. The thirty associates heard the oath with awe; and with uplifted hands attested the same God, and all his saints, that they were firmly bent on offering up their lives for the defence of their injured liberty. They then calmly agreed on their future proceedings, and for the present, each returned to his hamlet.” — Planta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy. On the first day of the year 1308, they succeeded in throwing off the Austrian yoke, and "it is well attested," says the same author, "that not one drop of blood was shed on this memorable occasion, nor had one proprietor to lament the loss of a claim, a privilege, or an inch of land. The Swiss met on the succeeding sabbath, and once more confirmed by oath their ancient, and (as they fondly named it) their perpetual league." (116) THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. I. 'Twas night upon the Alps.-The Senn's (1) wild horn, Like a wind's voice, had pour'd its last long tone, Whose pealing echoes through the larch-woods borne, To the low cabins of the glens made known That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had gone, By cliff and pine-bridge, to their place of rest; The chamois slumber'd, for the chase was done; His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press'd, And the rock-eagle couch'd, high on his cloudy nest. II. Did the land sleep?—the woodman's axe had ceased Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane; The grapes were gather'd in; the vintage feast Was closed upon the hills, the reaper's strain Hush'd by the streams; the year was in its wane, The night in its mid-watch; it was a time E'en mark'd and hallow'd unto slumber's reign. But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime, And o'er his white Alps moved the spirit of the clime. III. For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread, IV. Yet thus it was amidst the fleet streams gushing Up where the sun's red fire-glance earliest fell, V. But in a land of happy shepherd homes, On its green hills in quiet joy reclining With their bright hearth-fires 'midst the twilight glooms, From bowery lattice through the fir-woods shining; A land of legends and wild songs, entwining Their memory with all memories loved and blestIn such a land there dwells a power, combining The strength of many a calm, but fearless breast; -And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its rest! VI. A sound went up-the wave's dark sleep was On Uri's lake was heard a midnight oar Of man's brief course a troubled moment's token Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore; And then their gloom a flashing image wore Of torch-fires streaming out o'er crag and wood, And the wild falcon's wing was heard to soar In startled haste-and by that moonlight flood, A band of patriot-men on Grütli's verdure stood. VII. They stood in arms-the wolf-spear and the bow Had waged their war on things of mountain race; Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad foe? -Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase, True hearts in fight, were gather'd on that place Of secret council,-Not for fame or spoil So met those men in Heaven's majestic face; To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil, The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil. VIII. O'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun |