Of mortal parents is the Hero born
By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led?
Or is it Tell’s great Spirit, from the dead
Returned to animate an age forlorn?
He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn
When dreary darkness is discomfited,
Yet mark his modest state! upon his head,
That simple crest, a heron’s plume, is worn.
O Liberty! they stagger at the shock
From van to rear, and with one mind would flee,
But half their host is buried: rock on rock
Descends: beneath this godlike Warrior, see!
Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock
The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty.
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