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Ellie went home sad and slow.
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not; but I know
COME, let us sing unto the Lord ; let us make a
joyful noise to the Rock of our salvation. Let us come before His presence with thanksgiving, and make a joyful noise unto Him with psalms.
For the Lord is a great God, and a great King above all gods.
In His hand are the deep places of the earth ; the strength of the hills is His also.
The sea is His, and He made it, and His hands formed the dry land. O
come, let us worship and bow down ; let us kneel before the Lord our maker.
For He is our God; and we are the people of His pasture, and the sheep of His hand. To-day if ye will hear His voice,
Harden not your heart, as in the provocation, and as in the day of temptation in the wilderness :
When your fathers tempted me, proved me, and saw
Forty years long was I grieved with this generation, and said, It is a people that do err in their heart, and they have not known my ways :
Unto whom I sware in my wrath, that they should not enter into my rest.
BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.
[" In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Leopold of Austria, with a formidable army. It is well attested that this prince repeatedly declared he would trample the audacious rustics under his feet;' and that he had procured a large stock of cordage, for the purpose of binding their chiefs, and putting them to death. But the Swiss were prepared to meet the attack, and the Duke retreated, sullen and dismayed.")
THE wine-month* shone in its golden prime,
But a deeper sound, through the Switzer's clime,
A sound through vaulted cave,
A sound through echoing glen,
-'Twas the tread of steel-girt men.
And a trumpet, pealing wild and far,
Midst the ancient rocks was blown,
And through the forest-glooms
Flash'd helmets to the day;
Like the larch-boughs in their play.
In Hasli'st wilds there was gleaming steel
As the host of the Austrian pass'd ;
Made mirth of his clarion's blast.
* Wine-month, the German name for October.
Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne.
Up midst the Righi snows
The stormy march was heard, With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose,
And the leader's gathering-word. But a band, the noblest band of all,
Through the rude Morgarten strait, With blazon'd streamers and lances tall, Moved onwards in princely state.
They came with heavy chains
For the race despised so long-
The herdsman's arm is strong !
When they enter'd the rock-defile,
But on the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood, There was stillness as of night,
When storms at distance brood. There was stillness as of deep, dead night,
And a pause—but not of fear, While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might Of the hostile shield and spear.
On wound those columns bright
Between the lake and wood,
Where the mountain-people stood.
All helm'd and mail-array'd, And their steps had sounds like a thunder shower
In the rustling forest-shade.
There were prince and crested knight,
Hemm'd in by cliff and flood, When a shout arose from the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood. And the mighty rocks came bounding down
Their startled foes among, With a joyous whirl from the summit thrownOh! the herdman's arm is strong!
They came like av’lanche hurl'd
From Alp to Alp in play,
And the pines are borne away.
And the Switzers rush'd from high,
Like hunters of the deer,
They storm'd the narrow dell; And first in the shock, with Uri's spear,
Was the arm of William Tell.
And a cry of wild dismay;
And the Empire's banner then
From its place of waving free,
The men of the Forest-Sea.
The cuirass and the shield,
From the reapers of the field !
The field—but not of sheaves
Proud crests and pennons lay,
In the autumn tempest's way.
When the Austrian turn'd to fly,
And the leader of the war
At eve unhelm'd was seen,
And a pale and troubled mien.
Went back from the battle-toil, To their cabin homes midst the deep-green hills, All burden'd with royal spoil.
There were songs and festal fires
On the soaring Alps that night, When children sprang to greet their sires From the wild Morgarten fight.
HO, BOAT AHOY!
SOME years agone, one summer's mor,
We rowed among the lilies golden On mountain lake, whose banks are hid
And guarded by the hemlocks olden. We dipped our oars in lazy tides,
We sang and rowed thro' sun and shadow, We mocked the willful echo-sprite
Who lurked, we knew, in copse or meadow.