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But the dreams of rest were still on earth,
And the silent stars on high, And there waved not the smoke of one cabin-hearth 'Midst the quiet of the sky;
And along the twilight bay
In their sleep the hamlets lay,
The Sea-king look'd o'er the brooding wave:
He turn'd to the dusky shore, And there seem'd through the arch of a tide-worn cave, A gleam, as of snow, to pour ;
And forth, in watery light,
Moved phantoms, dimly white,
Slowly they moved to the billow side;
And the forms, as they grew more clear, Seem'd each on a tall pale steed to ride, And a shadowy crest to rear,
And to beckon with faint hand
From the dark and rocky strand,
Then a stillness on his spirit fell,
Before th' unearthly train,
The choosers of the slain !
And a sudden rising breeze
Bore across the moaning seas
“ There are songs in Odin's Hall,
66 At the feast and in the song,
Regner ! tell thy fair-hair’d bride
“Lo! the mighty sun looks forth-
There was arming heard on land and wave,
When afar the sunlight spread, And the phantom forms of the tide-worn cave With the mists of morning fled.
But at eve, the kingly hand
Of the battle-axe and brand, Lay cold on a pile of dead !
THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS.
The three founders of the Helvetic confederacy are thought to sleep in a cavern near the Lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen call them the Three Tells; and say that they lie there in their antique garb, in quiet slumber ; and when Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will awaken and regain the liberties of the land.
See Quarterly Review, No. 44. The Grütli, where the confederates held their nightly meetings, is a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne, or Lake of the Forest-cantons, bere called the Forest-sea.
Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave,
Seek not the bright spars there,
For there the Patriot Three,
In the garb of old array'd,
On a rocky couch are laid.
The Patriot Three that met of
yore Beneath the midnight sky, And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore, In the name of liberty !
Now silently they sleep
Amidst the hills they freed;
Till their country's hour of need.
They start not at the hunter's call,
Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry,
And the Alpine herdsman's lay,
To a Switzer's heart so dear!
No more for them to hear.
But when the battle-horn is blown
Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply, When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone
Through their eagles' lonely sky ;