PRINCE HENRY

For the reason

That life, and all that speaks of life, is lovely,
And death, and all that speaks of death, is hateful.

ELSIE

The grave itself is but a covered bridge,

Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!

PRINCE HENRY (emerging from the bridge)

I breathe again more freely! Ah, how pleasant
To come once more into the light of day,
Out of that shadow of death! To hear again
The hoof-beats of our horses on firm ground,
And not upon those hollow planks, resounding
With a sepulchral echo, like the clods.
On coffins in a churchyard! Yonder lies
The Lake of the Four Forest-towns, apparelled
In light, and lingering, like a village maiden,
Hid in the bosom of her native mountains,
Then pouring all her life into another's,
Changing her name and being! Overhead,
Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air,
Rises Pilatus, with his windy pines.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The Alps

'TIS
IS morn: with gold the verdant mountain
glows;

More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose.
Far stretched beneath the many-tinted hills,
A mighty waste of mist the valley fills,
A solemn sea! whose billows wide around
Stand motionless, to awful silence bound;

Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear,

That like to leaning masts of stranded ships. appear.

Engelberg

William Wordsworth.

Engelberg, the Hill of Angels

FOR gentlest uses, ofttimes Nature takes

The work of Fancy from her willing hands; And such a beautiful creation makes As renders needless spells and magic wands, And for the boldest tale belief commands. When first mine eyes beheld that famous hill The sacred Engelberg, celestial bands, With intermingling motions soft and still, Hung round its top, on wings that changed their hues at will.

Clouds do not name those visitants; they were
The very angels whose authentic lays,

Sung from that heavenly ground in middle air, Made known the spot where piety should raise A holy structure to the Almighty's praise. Resplendent apparition! if in vain

My ears did listen, 'twas enough to gaze,
And watch the slow departure of the train,
Whose skirts the glowing mountain thirsted to
detain !

William Wordsworth.

Mount Pilate

(Lucerne, Pilatus)

HE riseth alone,

E riseth alone, alone and proud

From the shore of an emerald sea;

His crest hath a shroud of the crimson cloud,
For a king of the Alps is he;

Standing alone as a king should stand,

With his foot on the fields of his own broad land.

And never a storm from the stores of the north

Comes sweeping along the sky,

But it emptieth forth the first of its wrath

On the crags of that mountain high;

And the voice of those crags has a tale to tell That the heart of the hearer shall treasure well.

'A tale of a brow that was bound with gold,
And a heart that was bowed with sin;
Of a fierce deed told of the days of old
That might never sweet mercy win,

Of legions in steel that were waiting by

For the death of the God who could never die.

Of a dear kind face that its kindness kept
Dabbled with blood of its own;

Of a lady who leapt from the sleep she slept
To plead at a judgment throne;

Of a cross, and a cry, and a night at noon, And the sun and the earth at a sickly swoon.

From Wilhelm Tell

(Lake Lucerne)

ERSTER AUFZUG. ERSTE SCENE

Fischerknabe (singt im Kahn)

Melodie des Kuhreihens

Es lächelt der See, er ladet zum Bade,

Der Knabe schlief ein am grünen Gestade,
Da hört er ein Klingen,

Wie Flöten so süß,

Wie Stimmen der Engel

Im Paradies.

Und wie er erwachet in seliger Lust,

Da spülen die Wasser ihm um die Brust,
Und es ruft aus den Tiefen:

Lieb Knabe, bist mein!

Ich locke den Schläfer,

Ich zieh' ihn herein.

But climb the crags when the storm has rule,
And the spirit that rides the blast,

And hark to his howl as he sweeps the pool

Where the Roman groaned his last;

FISHER-BOY (singing in the boat)

THERE'S a smile on the lake,

voice from the deep;

there's a

The boy on the green shore sank gently to sleep; And, hark! a sweet melody

Steals o'er his rest,

Like the voices of angels

In groves of the blest;

And when, fresh and buoyant, from slumber he

wakes,

Lo! the wave on his bosom just murmurs and

breaks,

And the billow calls softly:

"Dear boy, thou art mine!

Round the peace-loving shepherd
My fond arms I twine."