ouched features kindling glow,
Lead me, he cries, yet lead me to the foe!
Stern manhood o'er his boy low murmuring bends,
Then, as his deadly weapon he extends,
Proudly exclaims, Freedom or death, my son!
And thou, O God of justice, lead us on!
Hark! with one shout they rush into the fight,
The pale foe shrinks before their gathering might! 150
Fragments of rocks in wild despair they wield,
And helms and shivered swords bestrew the field.
The frantic mother, hushing every grief,
Joins the dread scene, and to some plumed chief
All pale with rage, with desperation wild,
Cries, as she smites his heart: Hadst thou a child!
Unequal strife! the scene of death is o'er; 157
Mother and child lie side by side in gore!
When evening comes, through the lone cottage pane,
No light looks cheerful in the darkening plain,
No soothing sounds stray the dim hills along,
No home-returning goat-herd trills the song;
At intervals, wild accents of despair,
Or shouts are heard, or dismal nightfires glare;
But all is dark and silent near yon heap
Where the fallen heroes of the hamlet sleep;
Save that, at times, a hollow groan is heard,
Or melancholy cry of the night-bird;
Save where some dog, amid the scene of death,
Moans as he watches yet his master's breath; 170
Whilst with despair and love that seems to speak,
He licks the blood that stagnates on his cheek.
The morn looks through the hurrying clouds, the air
Sighs as it lifts, at times, the dead man's hair;
Upon those slaughtered heaps the cold stars shine,
And Freedom sighs: The triumph, Gaul, is thine!
Now dawns the morn o'er vales with blood defiled,
Where late affection's sweetest pictures smiled.
O'er the still lake how sadly peals the bell
That sounds of every earthly hope the knell! 180
Pale on the crimsoned snow, without a home,
The sad survivors of that death-storm roam;
Their infants, outcast on the desert plain,
Demand their mothers and their sires in vain;
And when the red sun leaves the darkening sky,
Amid those gory tracks sit down and sigh.
Shores of Lucerne! where many a winding bay
Shone beauteous to the morn's returning ray;
Where rosy tints upon the blue lake shone,
And touched the rock with colours not their own; 190