The Spell of Switzerland

by Nathan Haskell Dole

Of a fierce deed told of the days of old

That might never sweet mercy win,

Of legions in steel that were waiting by

For the death of the God that could never die.

“Of a dear kind face that its kindness kept

Dabbled with blood of its own;

Of a lady who leapt from the sleep she slept

To plead at a judgment-throne.

Of a cross and a cry and a night at noon

And the sun and the earth at a sickly swoon.