O LIBERTY! Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which Life is as nothing; hast thou then forgot Thy native home? Must the feet of slaves Pollute this glorious scene? It cannot be. Even as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths Of these dark caves, and bid the wild flowers bloom In spots where man has never dared to tread; So thy sweet influence still is seen amid These beetling cliffs. Some hearts still beat for thee, And bow alone to Heaven; thy spirit lives, Ay,--and shall live, when even the very name Of tyrant is forgot. Lo! while I gaze Upon the mist that wreathes yon mountain's brow, The sunbeam touches it, and it becomes A crown of glory on his hoary head; O! is not this a presage of the dawn Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, then, bright And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus, I vow To live for Freedom, or with her to die! O! with what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my God And bless Him that it was so. It was free,-- From end to end, from cliff to lake 't was free,-- Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks, And plow our valleys, without asking leave; Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow, In very presence of the regal sun! How happy was I in it then! I loved Its very storms! Yes, I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from His cloud, and smiled To see Him shake His lightnings o'er my head, And think! had no master save His own! Ye know the jutting cliff; round which a track Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow To such another one, with scanty room For two abreast to pass? Overtaken there By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along, And while gust followed gust more furiously, As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink, And I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just Have wished me there,--the thought that mine was free, Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldom to that furious wind, Blow on! This is THE LAND of LIBERTY! J. S. Knowles. CXCIV. WILLIAM TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.