O, ENTER not yon shadowy cave,

  Seek not the bright stars there,

Though the whispering pines that o’er it wave

  With freshness fill the air;

      For there the Patriot Three,

        In the garb of old arrayed,

      By their native forest-sea

        On a rocky couch are laid.

 

The Patriot Three that met of yore

  Beneath the midnight sky,

And leagued their hearts on Grütli shore,

  In the name of liberty!

      Now silently they sleep

        Amidst the hills they freed;

      But their rest is only deep,

        Till their country’s hour of need.

 

They start not at the hunter’s call,

  Nor the Lammer-geyer’s cry,

Nor the rush of a sudden torrent’s fall,

  Nor the Lanwine thundering by!

      And the Alpine herdsman’s lay,

        To a Switzer’s heart so dear!

      On the wild wind floats away,

        No more for them to hear.

 

But when the battle-horn is blown

  Till the Schreckhorn’s peaks reply,

When the Jungfrau’s cliffs send back the tone

  Through their eagle’s lonely sky;

      When spear-heads light the lakes,

        When trumpets loose the snows,

      When the rushing war-steed shakes

        The glacier’s mute repose;

 

When Uri’s beechen woods wave red

  In the burning hamlet’s light;

Then from the cavern of the dead

  Shall the sleepers wake in might!

      With a leap, like Tell’s proud leap,

        When away the helm he flung,

      And boldly up the steep

        From the flashing billow sprung!

 

They shall wake beside their forest-sea,

  In the ancient garb they wore

When they linked the hands that made us free,

  On the Grütli’s moonlight shore:

      And their voices shall be heard,

        And be answered with a shout,

      Till the echoing Alps are stirred,

        And the signal-fires blaze out.

 

And the land shall see such deeds again

  As those of that proud day,

When Winkelried, on Sempach’s plain,

  Through the serried spears made way;

      And when the rocks came down

        On the dark Morgarten dell,

      And the crowned casques, overthrown,

        Before our fathers fell!

 

For the Kühreihen’s notes must never sound

  In a land that wears the chain,

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!