TYROLESE SONNETS

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 modeststate! 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.