# Records of Woman: with Other Poems/The Switzer's Wife

THE SWITZER'S WIFE.
Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of the field of Grutli, had been alarmed by the envy with which the Austrian Bailiff, Landenberg, had noticed the appearance of wealth and comfort which distinguished his dwelling. It was not, however, until roused by the entreaties of his wife, a woman who seems to have been of an heroic spirit, that he was induced to deliberate with his friends upon the measures by which Switzerland was finally delivered.
THE SWITZER'S WIFE.
Nor look nor tone revealeth aught Save woman's quietness of thought; And yet around her is a light Of inward majesty and might. M. J. J.
Wer solch ein herz an seinen Busen drückt, Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten. Willholm Tell.
It was the time when children bound to meet  Their father's homeward step from field or hill, And when the herd's returning bells are sweet  In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still, And the last note of that wild horn swells by, Which haunts the exile's heart with melody.
And lovely smil'd full many an Alpine home.  Touch'd with the crimson of the dying hour, Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam,  And pierced its lattice thro' the vine-hung bower; But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose, Then first look'd mournful in its green repose.
For Werner sat beneath the linden-tree,  That sent its lulling whispers through his door, Ev'n as man sits whose heart alone would be  With some deep care, and thus can find no more Th' accustom'd joy in all which evening brings, Gathering a household with her quiet wings.
His wife stood hush'd before him,—sad, yet mild  In her beseeching mien; he mark'd it not. The silvery laughter of his bright-hair'd child  Rang from the greensward round the shelter'd spot, But seem'd unheard; until at last the boy Rais'd from his heap'd up flowers a glance of joy,
And met his father's face: but then a change  Pass'd swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, And a quick sense of something dimly strange  Brought him from play to stand beside the knee So often climb'd, and lift his loving eyes That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise.
Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook;  But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid Her hand on his, and with a pleading look,  Thro' tears half quivering, o'er him bent, and said, "What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey, That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away?
"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend!  Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow, Missing the smile from thine? Oh! cheer thee! bend  To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now! Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share Of tried affection in thy secret care."
He looked up into that sweet earnest face,  But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band Was loosen'd from his soul; its inmost place  Not yet unveil'd by love's o'ermastering hand. "Speak low!" he cried, and pointed where on high The white Alps glitter'd thro' the solemn sky:
"We must speak low amidst our ancient hills  And their free torrents; for the days are come When tyranny lies couch'd by forest-rills,  And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home. Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear, Keep silence by the hearth! its foes are near.
"The envy of the oppressor's eye hath been  Upon my heritage. I sit to-night Under my household tree, if not serene,  Yet with the faces best-belov'd in sight: To-morrow eve may find me chain'd, and thee— How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see?"
The bright blood left that youthful mother's cheek;  Back on the linden-stem she lean'd her form, And her lip trembled, as it strove to speak,  Like a frail harp-string, shaken by the storm. 'Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass'd, And the free Alpine spirit woke at last.
And she, that ever thro' her home had mov'd  With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile Of woman, calmly loving and belov'd,  And timid in her happiness the while, Stood brightly forth, and stedfastly, that hour, Her clear glance kindling into sudden power.
Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light,  And took her fair child to her holy breast, And lifted her soft voice, that gather'd might  As it found language:—"Are we thus oppress'd? Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod, And man must arm, and woman call on God!
"I know what thou wouldst do,—and be it done!  Thy soul is darken'd with its fears for me. Trust me to Heaven, my husband! this, thy son,  The babe whom I have born thee, must be free! And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth May well give strength if aught be strong on earth.
"Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread  Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, My hunter of the hills! thy stately head,  And let thine eagle glance my joy restore! I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued,— Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.
"Go forth beside the waters, and along  The chamois-paths, and thro' the forests go; And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong  To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow. God shall be with thee, my belov'd!—Away! Bless but thy child, and leave me,—I can pray!"
He sprang up like a warrior-youth awaking  To clarion-sounds upon the ringing air; He caught her to his breast, while proud tears breaking  From his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided hair,— And "Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, "That man for thee should gird himself to die.
"My bride, my wife, the mother of my child!  Now shall thy name be armour to my heart; And this our land, by chains no more defiled,  Be taught of thee to choose the better part! I go thy spirit on my words shall dwell, Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps—Farewell!"
And thus they parted, by the quiet lake,  In the clear starlight: he, the strength to rouse Of the free hills; she, thoughtful for his sake,  To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs Singing its blue, half-curtain'd eyes to sleep, With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep.