While the red waves rush down the foaming river;
So freedom’s faith in his bosom lay,
Trembling, yet not to be borne away!
He thought of the Alps and their breezy air,
And felt that his country no chains might bear;
He thought of the hunter’s haughty life,
And knew there must yet be noble strife.
But, oh! when he thought of that orphan maid,
His high heart melted—he wept and pray’d!
For he saw her not as she moved e’en then,