Hark, 'tis the sound that charms

    The war-steed's wakening ears!—

  Oh! many a mother folds her arms

Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;

  And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears,

  Is proud to feel his young pulse bound

  With valor's fever at the sound.

  See, from his native hills afar

  The rude Helvetian flies to war;

  Careless for what, for whom he fights,

  For slave or despot, wrongs or rights:

    A conqueror oft—a hero never—

  Yet lavish of his life-blood still,

  As if 'twere like his mountain rill,

    And gushed forever!

    Yes, Music, here, even here,

  Amid this thoughtless, vague career,

Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.—

  There's a wild air which oft, among the rocks

Of his own loved land, at evening hour,

  Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks,

Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind

  With tenderest thoughts; to bring around his knees

The rosy children whom he left behind,

    And fill each little angel eye

    With speaking tears, that ask him why

  He wandered from his hut for scenes like these.

Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar;

  Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears;

And the stern eyes that looked for blood before

  Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.