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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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