(When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles, being free)- A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone, Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun: And thus he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay,
With tears for nought but others' ills, And then they flowed like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe Which he abhorr'd to view below.
The other was as pure of mind, But formed to combat with his kind; Strong in his frame, and of a mood Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, And perish'd in the foremost rank With joy :-but not in chains to pine: His spirit withered with their clank, I saw it silently decline-
And so perchance in sooth did mine; But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills,
Had followed there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf, And fettered feet the worst of ills.
Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls
A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow;
Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement, [2] Which round about the wave enthralls: A double dungeon wall and wave Have made and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vaults lie wherein we lay, We heard it ripple night and day; Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; And I have felt the winter's spray
Wash through the bars when winds were high
And wanton in the happy sky;
And then the very rock hath rock'd,
And I have felt it shake, unshocked,
Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free.
I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined, He loath'd and put away his food; It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare, And for the like had little care: The milk drawn from the mountain goat Was changed for water from the moat, Our bread was such as captive's tears Have moisten'd many a thousand years, Since man first pent his fellow men Like brutes within an iron den : But what were these to us or him? These wasted not his heart or limb; My brother's soul was of that mold Which in a palace had grown cold, Had his free breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain's side;
But why delay the truth?-he died. I saw, and could not hold his head, Nor reach his dying hand-nor dead, Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend and gnash my bond in twain. He died-and they unlocked his chain, And scoop'd for him a shallow grave Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine-it was a foolish thought, But then within my brain it wrought, That even in death his freeborn breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer- They coldly laugh'd—and laid him there : The flat and turfless earth above The being we so much did love; His empty chain above it leant, Such murder's fitting monument;
But he, the favorite and the flower, Most cherish'd since his natal hour, His mother's image in fair face, The infant love of all his race. His martyred father's dearest thought, My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free; He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspired-
He, too, was struck, and day by day Was withered on the stalk away. Oh God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood:- I've seen it rushing forth in blood, I've seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of sin delirious with its dread: . But these are horrors-this was woe Unmix'd with such-but sure and slow : He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak, So tearless, yet so tender-kind,
And grieved for those he left behind;
With all the while a cheek whose bloom
Whose tints as gently sunk away
Was as a mockery of the tomb,
As a departing rainbow's
An eye of most transparent light,
That almost made the dungeon bright, And not a word of murmur-not
A groan o'er his untimely lot, A little talk of better days A little hope my own to raise, For I was sunk in silence-lost In this last loss, of all the most; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness,
More slowly drawn, grew less and less: I listened, but I could not hear-
I called for I was wild with fear! I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not he thus admonished; I called, and thought I heard a sound- I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rush'd to him :-I found him not, I only stirr'd in this black spot, I only lived-1 only drew
The accursed breath of dungeon-dew;
The last-the sole-the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race, Was broken in this fatal place. One on the earth, and one beneath- My brothers-both had ceased to breathe: I took that hand which lay so still, Alas! my own was full as chill; I had not strength to stir, or strive, But felt that I was still alive- A frantic feeling, when we know That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why
I had no earthly hope-but faith, And that forbade a selfish death.
What next befell me then and there I know not well-I never knew- First came the loss of light, and air, And then of darkness too :
I had no thought, no feeling-none- Among the stones I stood a stone, And was, scarce conscious what I wist, As shrubless crags within the mist; For all was blank, and bleak, and grey, It was not night-it was not day, It was not even the dungeon-light, So hateful to my heavy sight, But vacancy absording space;
And fixedness-without a place;
There were no stars-on earth-no time- No check-no change-no good-no crime-
But silence, and a stirless breath;
Which neither was of life nor death;
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