Advance – Come Forth From Thy Tyrolean Ground
ADVANCE-come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,
Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed;
Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named!
Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound
And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound;
Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn
Have roused her from her sleep: and forest-lawn,
Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps resound
And babble of her pastime!-On, dread Power!
With such invisible motion speed thy flight,
Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height,
Through the green vales and through the herdsman's bower-
That all the Alps may gladden in thy might,
Here, there, and in all places at one hour.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Related quotes
Echo
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
Everywhere I go
There's something I really need
Everyone I know
Is someone I want to be
Even though
I don't really know me
I better pick it up
Before I let it slip away
I better stick it out
Before I take another day
Into mouth
Everything I say fades out
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
Can I open up your eyes?
Only when the clouds break?
Can I feel the light?
Even though the world shakes
Every night,
You're my quiet satellite
Can I hold you close?
Do her out of focus
And everything I know
I don't even know this
It all falls through
I'm here and I hear you
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
Cause I need to, just to reach you
Do you hear me?
Coming clearly?
Am I hollow?
Just an echo
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
Echo, echo...
We come, we go-woah
No I don't want to be just another
Echo, echo...
song performed by by Vertical Horizon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cavern Of The Three Tells
Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave,
Seek not the bright spars 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 array'd,
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 the 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 Lauwine 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 eagles' 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 link'd the hands that made us free,
On the Grütli's moonlight shore:
And their voices shall be heard,
And be answer'd with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirr'd,
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* , o'erthrown,
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 harvests wave
For no stranger's hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
The men of Grütli sleep!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Song For The Wandering Jew
Though the torrents from their fountains
Roar down many a craggy steep,
Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places calm and deep.
Clouds that love through air to hasten,
Ere the storm its fury stills,
Helmet-like themselves will fasten
On the heads of towering hills.
What, if through the frozen centre
Of the Alps the Chamois bound,
Yet he has a home to enter
In some nook of chosen ground:
And the Sea-horse, though the ocean
Yield him no domestic cave,
Slumbers without sense of motion,
Couched upon the rocking wave.
If on windy days the Raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less she loves her haven
In the bosom of the cliff.
The fleet Ostrich, till day closes,
Vagrant over desert sands,
Brooding on her eggs reposes
When chill night that care demands.
Day and night my toils redouble,
Never nearer to the goal;
Night and day, I feel the trouble
Of the Wanderer in my soul.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Our Lives Are Swiss
Our lives are Swiss --
So still -- so Cool --
Till some odd afternoon
The Alps neglect their Curtains
And we look farther on!
Italy stands the other side!
While like a guard between --
The solemn Alps --
The siren Alps
Forever intervene!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Swiss Song, On The Anniversary Of An Ancient Battle
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 hath 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 their 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 bath'd its flowery sod,
That chainless hearts might worship God!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Maybe Baby
I heard stories about you
Id like to think that they were true
I did not know youd be like that
With those surprises under hat
Be my (echo), be my (echo), be my maybe baby
Be my (echo), be my (echo), be my maybe baby
Be my (echo), be my (echo), be my maybe baby
When you dance between the stars
In the night late sweet and dark
Turn them over one by one
You dont need to jump the gun
Be my (echo), be my (echo), be my maybe baby
Be my (echo), be my (echo), be my maybe baby
Be my (echo), be my (echo), be my maybe baby
When the night is feeling flush
And when the night is all a hush
Electric look eclectic blue
Keep one dream that wont come true
Be my (echo), be my (echo), be my maybe baby
Be my (echo), be my (echo), be my maybe baby
Be my (echo), be my (echo), be my ma-aybe baby
Be my (echo), be my (echo), be my ma-aybe baby
Maybe baby
Maybe baby
Be my, be my, be my, be my maybe baby
Maybe baby
Maybe baby
Youre the one (? )
Maybe baby
Maybe baby
Maybe baby
Be my, be my, be my, be my maybe baby
(unintelligible) maybe baby
I heard stories about you
Id like to think that they were true
Be my maybe (? )
Be my, be my, be my, be my
(fade)
song performed by by Cars
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Story of Phœbus and Daphne, Applied
Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain;
Like Phœbus sung the no less amorous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy;
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phœbus' self might use;
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads;
Invok'd to testify the lover's care,
Or form some image of his cruel fair:
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; and now approaching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain;
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arm with bays.
poem by Edmund Waller
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An imitation
As once I dreamed, methought I strayed
Within a snow-clad mountain's shade;
From whose far height the silence bore
One charméd word, "Excelsior!"
And, as upon my soul it fell,
It bound me with a fearful spell;
It shut the sweet vale from my sight,
And called me up that dazzling height.
I could not choose but heed its tone,
And climb that dreary path alone;
And now around me hung the gloom,
Where the storm-spirit makes his home.
Upon my head the tempests beat;
Dark caverns opened at my feet;
The thunders rolled, the lightnings flashed
And fierce the swollen torrents dashed.
'Twas gained, that mountain's stormy pass;
But, chilled beside a mer de glace,
My heavy heart in vain would soar, --
The heart hears not "Excelsior!"
The heart's home is the vale below,
Where kind words greet, where fond eyes glow;
It withers 'neath those frozen skies,
Where the aspiring thought would rise.
Above me the eternal snows
In the cold sunlight's glare arose,
And a dread Presence seemed to brood
O'er the appalling solitude.
But now, on that unquiet dream,
Did one of stateliest aspect beam;
Whose brow thought's kingly impress bore,
Whose soul thrilled to "Excelsior!"
Though but one moment o'er my way
Did the bright form beside me stay;
In that pale brow and speaking eye,
Methought I saw my Destiny!
And as, far up the heaven-crowned height,
Thou seem'dst to vanish from my sight;
Thine image yet beside me stood,
And filled the voiceless solitude.
No longer drear that mountain waste.
For o'er its snows thy steps had passed;
No longer dread, in upper air,
That mountain's crest, for thou wert there!
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Worm
Dawn: – I sperm
on grass, ground.
Stem to stern
bound I’m found.
Vile erme worm
underground,
silent squirm
‘neath firm mound.
Slimy derm
rings me round,
while I turn
earth, - no sound.
But I churn
while men fiddle, -
‘tis the kern
of my riddle...
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Sky Song
The flower of the Alps told the seashell: "You're shining"
The seashell told the sea: "You echo"
The sea told the boat: "You're shuddering"
The boat told the fire: "You're glowing brightly"
The fire told me: "I glow less brightly than her eyes"
The boat told me: "I shudder less than your heart does when she appears"
The sea told me: "I echo less than her name does in your love-making"
The seashell told me: "I shine less brightly than the phosphorus of desire in your hollow dream"
The flower of the Alps told me: "She's beautiful"
I said: "She's beautiful, so beautiful, she moves me."
poem by Robert Desnos
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What Makes the Clouds Echo Roar
What makes the clouds echo roar?
As thunder, makes it's pitch
dark and dreary, becomes the sky
What makes the clouds echo roar?
As the sky opens up, and it begins to pour,
no where to run, no where to hide, as I,
head for cover, and still wonder,
what makes the clouds echo roar?
I look around, and see a door
swiftly as a rabbit, I reach there,
I'm really drenched, and still I ask,
What makes the clouds echo roar?
I shake off the water, on to the floor
the rain has stopped now, as I ask once again,
what makes the clouds echo roar?
do you know what? It dosn't really matter anymore.
Gentle Soul
lying gently in the phantom of opera,
hammock the gentle sleep of forever
goodbye.... glad remembering
tears depart form the agonizing eye
view the sky of towering halos of
joy; angelic white robes bringing voice
of alluring sweet sleep.....embrace
hello dear soul, the silent of the lamb
says no more and the distance flight
sober the sky for the mild surrender,
hold the breathless echo of the soul
saying....the last return
cooled and happy viewed the sparkling
mid-night sky, rejuvenate the graving
stone crystal white of wonder.....silent
lost the pilgrim
harmony of the orchestra puzzle my
way, nay! hold me to stay... for the
echo swift me home, I will be home...
dear.....
'a poem dedicated to Michael Burdell'
poem by Antonio Liao
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Echo Song
I
Who can say where Echo dwells?
In some mountain-cave, methinks,
Where the white owl sits and blinks;
Or in deep sequestered dells,
Where foxglove hangs its bells,
Echo dwells.
Echo!
Echo!
II
Phantom of the crystal Air,
Daughter of sweet Mystery!
Here is one has need of thee;
Lead him to thy secret lair,
Myrtle brings he for thy hair--
Hear his prayer,
Echo!
Echo!
III
Echo lift thy drowsy head,
And repeat each charmëd word
Thou must needs have overheard
Yestere'en ere, rosy-red,
Daphne down the valley fled--
Words unsaid,
Echo!
Echo!
IV
Breathe the vows she since denies!
She hath broken every vow;
What she would she would not now--
Thou didst hear her perjuries.
Whisper, whilst I shut my eyes,
Those sweet lies,
Echo!
Echo!
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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Mound
The old man knows very well
Going down by the snowbank, theres a mound
A mound that an old man knows good
Look who raises his shoe all over this mound
Right over the world thats another rewind
And its time, time, time for the last rewind
For a broken old man and a world unkind
He buried all his memories of home
In an icy clump that lies beneath the ground
No one knows how far he traveled
Oh! I heard he walked miles from the little mound
Can he find some shelter?
He doesnt know to behold what the cold frost can do
And at last till he realized hed circled back around
Round a back circle, round a back realized
Ice is all he was made of
The bitter blue, and frozen through
He went over to the mound
Reclining down his final thoughts
Were drifting to the time this life had shined
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On Being Given A Piece Of Edelweiss Before Visiting Switzerland
THINE everlasting mountains and their snows
And awful silence, floweret, know I not;
I have not wandered to thy native spot
Among the crags, but oft as I repose,
Musing by winter fire at daylight's close,
5
In fancy have I viewed those depths of sky
And infinite clouded crags, while fronting high,
Peak upon peak, the eternal Alps uprose.
Mysterious power, God-planted in the soul,
That thus transcends all space and the confined
10
Limits of sense, Imagination hail!
Pledge art thou of that life when death shall roll
Back our flesh prison-bars, and the freed mind
Shall grasp the giant truths behind the veil.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Arethusa
I.
Arethusa arose
From her couch of snows
In the Acroceraunian mountains,--
From cloud and from crag,
With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright fountains.
She leapt down the rocks,
With her rainbow locks
Streaming among the streams;--
Her steps paved with green
The downward ravine
Which slopes to the western gleams;
And gliding and springing
She went, ever singing,
In murmurs as soft as sleep;
The Earth seemed to love her,
And Heaven smiled above her,
As she lingered towards the deep.
II.
Then Alpheus bold,
On his glacier cold,
With his trident the mountains strook;
And opened a chasm
In the rocks—with the spasm
All Erymanthus shook.
And the black south wind
It unsealed behind
The urns of the silent snow,
And earthquake and thunder
Did rend in sunder
The bars of the springs below.
And the beard and the hair
Of the River-god were
Seen through the torrent’s sweep,
As he followed the light
Of the fleet nymph’s flight
To the brink of the Dorian deep.
III.
'Oh, save me! Oh, guide me!
And bid the deep hide me,
For he grasps me now by the hair!'
The loud Ocean heard,
To its blue depth stirred,
And divided at her prayer;
And under the water
The Earth’s white daughter
Fled like a sunny beam;
Behind her descended
Her billows, unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream:—
Like a gloomy stain
On the emerald main
Alpheus rushed behind,--
As an eagle pursuing
A dove to its ruin
Down the streams of the cloudy wind.
IV.
Under the bowers
Where the Ocean Powers
Sit on their pearled thrones;
Through the coral woods
Of the weltering floods,
Over heaps of unvalued stones;
Through the dim beams
Which amid the streams
Weave a network of coloured light;
And under the caves,
Where the shadowy waves
Are as green as the forest’s night:--
Outspeeding the shark,
And the sword-fish dark,
Under the Ocean’s foam,
And up through the rifts
Of the mountain clifts
They passed to their Dorian home.
V.
And now from their fountains
In Enna’s mountains,
Down one vale where the morning basks,
Like friends once parted
Grown single-hearted,
They ply their watery tasks.
At sunrise they leap
From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill;
At noontide they flow
Through the woods below
And the meadows of asphodel;
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;--
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky
When they love but live no more.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Sunrise on the Hills
I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
Was glorious with the sun's returning march,
And woods were brightened, and soft gales
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.
The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,
They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,
And, in their fading glory, shone
Like hosts in battle overthrown.
As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance.
Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance,
And rocking on the cliff was left
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft.
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow
Was darkened by the forest's shade,
Or glistened in the white cascade;
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.
I heard the distant waters dash,
I saw the current whirl and flash,
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach,
The woods were bending with a silent reach.
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,
The music of the village bell
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills;
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,
Was ringing to the merry shout,
That faint and far the glen sent out,
Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke,
Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.
If thou art worn and hard beset
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and hills! No tears
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Sweet Echo Dell
"Three there were that left my cot;
Two are here, and one is not;
Why does Willie linger? Say, can you tell?"
"He was weary by the way;
When we came he could but stay
In the shady grove at Sweet Echo Dell."
Echo Dell! (Echo Dell!) Echo Dell! (Echo Dell!)
It was there we softly said "Farewell!" ("Farewell!")
And the towering granite crest
Nobly guards his place rest,
Near the lovely lake of Sweet Echo Dell.
"Is he laden well with gold?
Does he bring me wealth untold?
Why then does he linger? Say can you tell?"
"All his treasures are above;
All he sent you was his love,
With a whispered prayer from Sweet Echo Dell."
Coming homeward, does he sing
Like a lark upon the wing?
Why then does he linger? Say, can you tell?"
Naught is heard but rippling waves,
Warbling birds, and shouting braves;
Silent is his voice in Sweet Echo Dell."
"Is he coming by-and-by?
May I bless him ere I die?
Why then does he linger? Say, can you tell?"
"Mirrored in that mountain lake,
Heaven is near, and he will wake
Never elsewhere than in Sweet Echo Dell."
"Would you crush my only joy?
Surely I shall meet my boy;
When then does he linger? Say, can you tell?"
"Never will his weary feet
Travel more, yet may soon meet
When your soul floats over Sweet Echo Dell."
poem by Henry Clay Work
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Earlier Poems : Sunrise On The Hills
I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
Was glorious with the sun's returning march,
And woods were brightened, and soft gales
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.
The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,
They gathered midway round the wooded height,
And, in their fading glory, shone
Like hosts in battle overthrown.
As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance.
Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance,
And rocking on the cliff was left
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft.
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow
Was darkened by the forest's shade,
Or glistened in the white cascade;
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.
I heard the distant waters dash,
I saw the current whirl and flash,
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach,
The woods were bending with a silent reach.
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,
The music of the village bell
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills;
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,
Was ringing to the merry shout,
That faint and far the glen sent out,
Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke,
Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.
If thou art worn and hard beset
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and hills! No tears
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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I Hear The Echo by Dr. Bhupen Hazarika (Translated from Assamese)
I hear the echo
I hear the echo
I hear the echo
I hear the echo
Of the screaming night
Carried over from the other side
Of the mountain bodering my village
I hear the echo
I train my ears but can't hear a thing
I open my eyes wide but can't see a thing
I close my eyes and think, but do not understand
I don't know how to climb a thousand mountains
I hear the echo of the screaming night
I hear the echo
May be its the tragic story of a young girl
May be its grandma's bedtime fairy tale
May be its the longing of a farmer's nursery
The tragic story of the young girl has come to an end
The bed time fairy tale of grandma has come to an end
The longings of the farmer's nursery has come to an end
The familiar song still escapes me
I hear the echo of the new cry
I hear the echo
My dark hair get tinted with morning's red hues
The panicky mist before the eyes vanishes to the blue
A thousand cries come out of a people awakened
A thousand mountains crumble in the impact of its sound
I hear an approaching storm in the sea of humanity
I hear the echo of the new cry
I hear the echo...
- Dr. Bhupen Hazarika (1953)
© Syed Ahmed Shah(Translator) , Bokultol, Guwahati.
poem by Syed Ahmed Shah
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