ARNOLD WINKELRIED'S MONUMENT.

Photogravure from a photograph.

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him!

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his 'narrow bed

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE.

"M

ARNOLD WINKELRIED

AKE way for liberty!" he cried;
Made way for liberty, and died!

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,

A living wall, a human wood!

A wall, where every conscious stone
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown;
A rampart all assaults to bear,

Till time to dust their frame should wear;

A wood like that enchanted grove

In which with fiends Rinaldo strove,
Where every silent tree possessed
A spirit prisoned in its breast,
Which the first stroke of coming strife
Would startle into hideous life: