Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected spears,

Whose polished points before them shine,
From flank to flank, one brilliant line,

Bright as the breakers' splendors run
Along the billows to the sun.

Opposed to these, a hovering band
Contended for their native land:

Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke
From manly necks the ignoble yoke,
And forged their fetters into swords,
On equal terms to fight their lords,
And what insurgent rage had gained
In many a mortal fray maintained;
Marshaled once more at Freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall,
Where he who conquered, he who fell,
Was deemed a dead or living Tell!
Such virtue had that patriot breathed,
So to the soil his soul bequeathed,
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew
Heroes in his own likeness grew,
And warriors sprang from every sod
Which his awakening footstep trod.

And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burnt within,
The battle trembled to begin;

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere found,
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;

That line 't were suicide to meet,

And perish at their tyrants' feet,

How could they rest within their graves, And leave their homes the homes of slaves? Would they not feel their children tread With clanging chains above their head?

It must not be: this day, this hour,
Annihilates the oppressor's power;
All Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly, she cannot yield,-
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the number she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he
On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on one indeed;
Behold him,-Arnold Winkelried!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.

Unmarked he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,

Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face,
And by the motion of his form
Anticipate the bursting storm,
And by the uplifting of his brow

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But 't was no sooner thought than done, The field was in a moment won:

"Make way for Liberty!" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.

"Make way for Liberty!" he cried;
Their keen points met from side to side;
He bowed amongst them like a tree,
And thus made way for Liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly;
"Make way for Liberty!" they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart;
While, instantaneous as his fall,

Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all;
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free; Thus death made way for Liberty!

THE OLD CONTINENTALS

By GUY HUMPHREYS MCMASTER

N their ragged regimentals
Stood the old continentals,
Yielding not,

When the grenadiers were lunging,
And like hail fell the plunging

Cannon-shot;

When the files

Of the isles,

From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn,

And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn!

Then with eyes to the front all,
And with guns horizontal,

Stood our sires;

And the balls whistled deadly,
And in streams flashing redly
Blazed the fires;

As the roar

On the shore,

Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green

sodded acres

Of the plain;

And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain!

Now like smiths at their forges
Worked the red Saint George's

Cannoneers;

And the "villainous saltpetre"

Rung a fierce, discordant metre

Round their ears;

As the swift

Storm-drift,

With hot sweeping anger, came the horseguards

clangor

On our flanks.

Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fash

ioned fire

Through the ranks!

Then the old-fashioned colonel
Galloped through the white infernal
Powder-cloud;

And his broad sword was swinging
And his brazen throat was ringing
Trumpet loud.

Then the blue
Bullets flew,

And the trooper jackets redden at the touch of

the leaden

Rifle-breath;

And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder, Hurling death!

"A

THE PICKET-GUARD

By MRS. ETHEL LYNN BEERS

LL quiet along the Potomac," they say, "Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'Tis nothing: a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost-only one of the men, • Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle.'

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming.