WHENCE art thou, flower? from holy ground, Where freedom's foot hath been! Yet bugle-blast or trumpet sound Ne'er shook that solemn scene. Flower of a noble field! thy birth Was not where spears have crossed, And shivered helms have strewn the earth, Midst banners won and lost. But where the sunny hues and showers Unto thy cup were given, There met high hearts at midnight hours, Pure hands were raised to heaven. And vows were pledged that man should roam Through every Alpine dell, Free as the wind, the torrent's foam, The shaft of William Tell. And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer, Hallowed the pastoral sod, And souls grew strong for battle there, Nerved with the peace of God. Before the Alps and stars they knelt, That calm devoted band, And rose, and made their spirits felt Through all the mountain land. Then welcome Grutli's free-born flower! Even in thy pale decay There dwells a breath, a tone, a power, Which all high thoughts obey. |