Part 4 (1/2)

Nurslings of nature, I mark your bold bearing, Pride in each aspect and strength in each form, Hearts of warm impulse, and souls of high daring, Born in the battle and rear'd in the storm.

The red levin flash and the thunder's dread rattle, The rock-riven wave and the war trumpet's breath, The din of the tempest, the yell of the battle, Nerve your steeled bosoms to danger and death.

III.

High on the brow of the Alps' snowy towers The mountain Swiss measures his rock-breasted moors, O'er his lone cottage the avalanche lowers, Round its rude portal the spring-torrent pours.

Sweet is his sleep amid peril and danger, Warm is his greeting to kindred and friends, Open his hand to the poor and the stranger, Stern on his foeman his sabre descends.

IV.

Lo! where the tempest the dark waters sunder Slumbers the sailor boy, reckless and brave, Warm'd by the lighting and lulled by the thunder, Fann'd by the whirlwind and rock'd on the wave; Wildly the winter wind howls round his pillow, Cold on his bosom the spray showers fall; Creaks the strained mast at the rush of the billow, Peaceful he slumbers, regardless of all.

V.

Mark how the cheek of the warrior flushes, As the battle drum beats and the war torches glare; Like a blast of the north to the onset he rushes, And his wide-waving falchion gleams brightly in air.

Around him the death-shot of foemen are flying, At his feet friends and comrades are yielding their breath; He strikes to the groans of the wounded and dying, But the war cry he strikes with is, 'conquest or death!'

VI.

Then pour thy broad wave like a flood from the heavens, Each son that thou rearest, in the battle's wild shock, When the death-speaking note of the trumpet is given, Will charge like thy torrent or stand like thy rock.

Let his roof be the cloud and the rock be his pillow, Let him stride the rough mountain, or toss on the foam, He will strike fast and well on the field or the billow, In triumph and glory, for G.o.d and his home!

SONG.

Oh! go to sleep, my baby dear, And I will hold thee on my knee; Thy mother's in her winding sheet, And thou art all that's left to me.

My hairs are white with grief and age, I've borne the weight of every ill, And I would lay me with my child, But thou art left to love me still.

Should thy false father see thy face, The tears would fill his cruel e'e, But he has scorned thy mother's wo, And he shall never look on thee: But I will rear thee up alone, And with me thou shalt aye remain; For thou wilt have thy mother's smile, And I shall see my child again.

SONG.

Oh the tear is in my eye, and my heart it is breaking, Thou hast fled from me, Connor, and left me forsaken; Bright and warm was our morning, but soon has it faded, For I gave thee a true heart, and thou hast betrayed it.

Thy footsteps I followed in darkness and danger, From the home of my love to the land of the stranger; Thou wert mine through the tempest, the blight, and the burning; Could I think thou wouldst change when the morn was returning.

Yet peace to thy heart, though from mine it must sever, May she love thee as I loved, alone and for ever; I may weep for thy loss, but my faith is unshaken, And the heart thou hast widowed will bless thee in breaking.