They came to meet that mail-clad host
      From glen and wood and ripening field;
    A brave, stout arm, each man could boast—­
      A soul, unused to yield! 
    They met:  a shout, prolonged and loud,
    Went hovering upward with the cloud
      That closed around them dun;
    Blade upon blade unceasing clashed,
    Spears in the onset shivering crashed,
    And the red glare of cannon flashed
      Athwart the smoky sun!

    The mountain warriors wavered back,
      Borne down by myriads of the foe,
    Like pines before the torrent’s track
      When spring has warmed the snow. 
    Shall Faith and Freedom vainly call,
    And Gmunden’s warrior-herdsmen fall
      On the red field in vain? 
    No! from the throng that back retired,
    A student boy sprang forth inspired,
    And while his words their bosoms fired,
      Led on the charge again!

    “And thus your free arms would ye give
      So tamely to a tyrant’s band,
    And with the hearts of vassals live
      In this, your chainless land? 
    The emerald lake is spread below,
    And tower above, the hills of snow—­
      Here, field and forest lie;
    This land, so glorious and so free—­
    Say, shall it crushed and trodden be? 
    Say, would ye rather bend the knee
      Than for its freedom die?

    “Look! yonder stand in mid-day’s glare
      The everlasting Alps of snow,
    And from their peaks a purer air
      Breathes o’er the vales below! 
    The Traun his brow is bent in pride—­
    He brooks no craven on his side—­
      Would ye be fettered then? 
    There lifts the Sonnenstein his head,
    There chafes the Traun his rocky bed
    And Aurach’s lovely vale is spread—­
      Look on them and be men!

    “Let, like a trumpet’s sound of fire,
      These stir your souls to manhood’s part—­
    The glory of the Alps inspire
      Each yet unconquered heart! 
    For, through their unpolluted air
    Soars fresher up the grateful prayer
      From freemen, unto God;—­
    A blessing on those mountains old! 
    On to the combat, brethren bold! 
    Strike, that ye free the valleys hold,
      Where free your fathers trod!”

    And like a mighty storm that tears
      The icy avalanche from its bed,
    They rushed against th’ opposing spears—­
      The student at their head! 
    The bands of Austria fought in vain;
    A bloodier harvest heaped the plain
      At every charge they made;
    Each herdsman was a hero then—­
    The mountain hunters stood like men,
    And echoed from the farthest glen
      The clash of blade on blade!