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Updated: May 27, 2025
TELL. Ascending still you gain the Gotthardt's heights, On which the everlasting lakes repose, That from the streams of heaven itself are fed, There to the German soil you bid farewell; And thence, with rapid course, another stream Leads you to Italy, your promised land. But I hear voices! Hence! Where art thou, Tell? Our father comes, and in exulting bands All the confederates approach.
My bow And quiver lay astern beside the helm; And just as we had reached the corner, near The Little Axen , heaven ordained it so, That from the Gotthardt's gorge, a hurricane Swept down upon us with such headlong force, That every rower's heart within him sank, And all on board looked for a watery grave.
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