And the vines on freedom's holy ground
Untrampled must remain !

And the yellow harvest wave
For no stranger's hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
The men of Grütli sleep!

SWISS SONG,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE.

The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate the anniversaries of ancient battles with much solemnity; assembling in the open air on the fields where their ancestors fought, to hear thanksgivings offered up by the priests, and the names of all who shared in the glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession to chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes, where masses are sung for the souls of the departed.

See Planta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy.

Look on the white Alps round!

If yet they gird a land

Where freedom's voice and step are found,
Forget ye not the band,

The faithful band, our sires, who fell
Here, in the narrow battle-dell!

If yet, the wilds among,

Our silent hearts may burn,
When the deep mountain-horn had rung,
And home our steps may turn,
-Home!-home !-if still that name be dear,
Praise to the men who perish'd here!

Look on the white Alps round!

Up to the shining snows

That day the stormy rolling sound,

The sound of battle rose !

Their caves prolong'd the trumpet's blast, Their dark pines trembled as it pass'd!

They saw the princely crest,
They saw the knightly spear,
The banner and the mail-clad breast
Borne down, and trampled here!

They saw-and glorying there they stand,
Eternal records to the land!

Praise to the mountain-born,
The brethren of the glen!
By them no steel-array was worn,
They stood as peasant-men!

They left the vineyard and the field
To break an empire's lance and shield!

Look on the white Alps round!
If yet, along their steeps,

Our children's fearless feet may bound,
Free as the chamois leaps:

Teach them in song to bless the band
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand!

If, by the wood-fire's blaze,
When winter-stars gleam cold,
The glorious tales of elder days
May proudly yet be told,
Forget not then the shepherd-race,
Who made the hearth a holy place!

Look on the white Alps round!

If yet the sabbath bell

Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound,

Think on the battle-dell!

For blood first bathed its flowery sod, That chainless hearts might worship God!

THE MESSENGER-BIRD.

Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it brings them news from the other world. See Picart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs.

THOU art come from the spirits' land, thou bird!
Thou art come from the spirits' land!

Through the dark pine-grove let thy voice be heard,

And tell of the shadowy band!

We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore,

And we know that the friends we have lost are

there,

They are there-and they weep no more!