At Sempach

Fields, where the tillage is not wholly man’s— Wherein the sturdy mower whets her scythe And the plough-maiden drives her languid team O’er purple slopes, with many a fair-hair’d gang Of girls that ply the mattock and the hoe, Or blithely move beneath such wondrous loads As unaccustom’d manhood may not bear; Such fields, such valleys, the stupendous Alps, Strong virgins of the desert, well may guard, And freedom bless with rare tranquillity. For these are women of heroic type, The mothers of unconquerable men: They are no timid darlings, who delight To ape the unmeaning fashions of the rich, Or, rich themselves, to frolic life away; But in serene equality of strength, And unobtrusive and laborious love That helps abroad and cherishes at home, They dwell beside their husbands and their sires, And please, because they know not they are fair: Soil’d on the surface, haply (if the touch Of honest earth, and such delicious hues As sunshine gives, and health, be stains indeed), But in themselves, as pure as the blue heart Of those deep glaciers, broadening from on high, That glide and glide, until they melt below In streams that charm with music all the dale.