We told thirty when we started From port so taut and fine, But thus our crew were parted, And now we number nine. THE SWISS MERCENARIES. _("Lorsque le regiment des hallebardiers.")_ [Bk. XXXI.] When the regiment of Halberdiers Is proudly marching by, The eagle of the mountain screams From out his stormy sky; Who speaketh to the precipice, And to the chasm sheer; Who hovers o'er the thrones of kings, And bids the caitiffs fear. King of the peak and glacier, King of the cold, white scalps-- He lifts his head, at that close tread, The eagle of the Alps. O shame! those men that march below-- O ignominy dire! Are the sons of my free mountains Sold for imperial hire. Ah! the vilest in the dungeon! Ah! the slave upon the seas-- Is great, is pure, is glorious, Is grand compared with these, Who, born amid my holy rocks, In solemn places high, Where the tall pines bend like rushes When the storm goes sweeping by; Yet give the strength of foot they learned By perilous path and flood, And from their blue-eyed mothers won, The old, mysterious blood; The daring that the good south wind Into their nostrils blew, And the proud swelling of the heart With each pure breath they drew; The graces of the mountain glens, With flowers in summer gay; And all the glories of the hills To earn a lackey's pay. Their country free and joyous-- She of the rugged sides-- She of the rough peaks arrogant Whereon the tempest rides: Mother of the unconquered thought And of the savage form, Who brings out of her sturdy heart The hero and the storm: Who giveth freedom unto man, And life unto the beast; Who hears her silver torrents ring Like joy-bells at a feast; Who hath her caves for palaces, And where her châlets stand-- The proud, old archer of Altorf, With his good bow in his hand. Is she to suckle jailers? Shall shame and glory rest, Amid her lakes and glaciers, Like twins upon her breast? Shall the two-headed eagle, Marked with her double blow, Drink of her milk through all those hearts Whose blood he bids to flow? Say, was it pomp ye needed, And all the proud array Of courtly joust and high parade Upon a gala day? Look up; have not my valleys Their torrents white with foam-- Their lines of silver bullion On the blue hillocks of home? Doth not sweet May embroider My rocks with pearls and flowers? Her fingers trace a richer lace Than yours in all my bowers.