Was loosen’d from his soul; its inmost place
Not yet unveil’d by love’s o’ermastering hand.
“Speak low!” he cried, and pointed where on high
The white Alps glitter’d through the solemn sky:
“We must speak low amidst our ancient hills
And their free torrents; for the days are come
When tyranny lies couch’d by forest rills,
And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home.
Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear—
Keep silence by the hearth! its foes are near.