James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
June 22The Battle of Morat
By William Wetmore Story (18191895)
O
Like lions, that within their lair the hunter dares annoy.
Ah! now I’m old, but I was then a boy as you are now,
And this old tree was nothing but a bit of broken bough.
’Tis sixty good long years ago—how fast the years go by,
Since we crushed, that deadly day of June, the hosts of Burgundy;
The morning threatened thick with cloud, a weird and solemn gloom
Hung o’er the town—the empty streets were silent as a tomb,
Old men, and boys, and women, were gathered talking low,
Recounting news of Burgundy in words of doubt and fear,
Or tales of our own mountain strength their trembling hearts to cheer.
The slow tears brimmed, the pale mouth twitched in secret agony,
And old men sadly shook their heads, while at their mother’s side
Children were pulling at their gowns, and asking why they cried?
When suddenly the cannon’s peal, with heavy muffled boom,
Rolled dully smiting on the heart, that for a moment stilled,
Stopped in the breast, then wildly like a hurried drum-beat thrilled.
Bared their stern brows, and on the earth to ask God’s blessing kneeled;
And Hans Von Hallwyll lifted, while all were silent there,
Mid the thunder voice of cannon, the still, small voice of prayer.
But as they prayed the sudden sun broke through the shattered cloud
And flashed across their bended ranks, and Hallwyll from his knee,
Sprang shouting—“Up! behold, God lights the way to victory!”
An idle boy to range along the ramparts all that day?
The cannon thrilled my startled blood—the Landshorn shrilly cried,
“Flee from old men and women! strike for freedom at our side!”
I watched with them the smoke-cloud cling along the distant plain;
We strained our eyes in vain,—we seemed to hear with nervous ears,
The battle-cry of Burgundy—the Eidgenossen’s cheers.
We swung our swords with Hallwyll for Liberty and Right,
With Waldman’s band of rugged Swiss adown the hill we clove
Through the shining helms of Burgundy, as through some tall pine grove.
We swept them from the hill-side with a wild exultant mirth—
We slid upon their horsemen, and hurled them to the lake
In terror and confusion—as the land slidden when they break.
And shattered cuirasses and helms, they rolled into the flood;
Their hands that gleamed with diamonds in vain they lifted high,
As the red wave bubbled over them, and drowned their fearful cry.
Where Hallwyll battled with the pride of knightly Burgundy;
With the mountain force of stout Lucerne we sheared them from the plain,
And mowed their glittering sheaves of spears, like fields of autumn grain!
It stained the grass and lay in pools amid the trampled mud;
Their jewelled chains we scattered—and on gleaming breast and brain.
Our great swords rattling in their ears played Liberty’s refrain.
The Bear of Berne is after thee—spur at thine utmost need!
Plunge in that reeking, quivering flank, thy golden spur, and flee
Till his nostrils gush with blood and steam—Lucerne is hunting thee.
Leave in the lake your heaps of dead, its waves with gore to stain.
Speed! speed! and when night darkens down,—blown, beaten, blasted stand,
With only thirty ghastly horsemen left of all your band.
With clenching hands, and young fierce eyes, and cheeks that hotly blazed;
But oft the fear of dread defeat, and conquest pouring down
Above our murdered, shattered ranks to deluge all the town
We heard the crackling rafters crash above our fated head,
We saw the red flames lick the air and glare against the sky,
And ’mid the screams of women rang the clash of soldiery.
We saw above the road’s far ridge a little dust-cloud rise;
And on it came, and on, and on, upon the dry white road,
Until a dark and moving spot like a running figure showed.
No, no, he waves a branch of lime—that tells of Victory.
He staggers, wounded, on, he reels, he faints beside the gate;
Speak! speak!—he cannot speak—and yet ’tis agony to wait.
He falls along—and panting, points toward the market-place.
There, while the blood starts from his mouth, he waves the branch on high,
And with a last faint shout expires, exclaiming “Victory.”
And there it took its root, and throve, and spread its branches well,
And you shall sit beneath its shade, as now we sit, when I
Am dust—and say, “My Grandsire brought that branch of Victory.”