And hiving wisdom with each studious year, In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; The lord of irony,-that master-spell. And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Which answers to all doubts so elo- Yet, peace be with their ashes,—for by If merited, the penalty is paid; demn; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all, or hope and dread allay'd By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd; And when it shall revive, as is our trust, "T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. But let me quit man's works, again to read His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend This page, which from my reveries I feed, Until it seems prolonging without end. The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er May be permitted, as my steps I bend To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. Thus far have I proceeded in a theme Renew'd with no kind auspices: to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be, and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, What a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal, Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, Is a stern task of soul :-No matter,-it is taught. And for these words, thus woven into song, it may be that they are a harmless wile, The coloring of the scenes which fleet along, Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, or that of others, for a while. Fame is the thirst of youth, but I am not So young as to regard men's frown or smile, As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot : I stood and stand alone,-remember'd or forgot. I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flatter'd its rauk breath, nor bow'd To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud In worship of an echo; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. I have not loved the world, nor the world me, But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be To whom the goodly earth and air Proud of Persecution's rage; There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, There are seven columns, massy and gray, Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, And in each ring there is a chain; For in these limbs its teeth remain, They chain'd us each to a column stone A grating sound, not full and free, As they of yore were wont to be; It might be fancy, but to me They never sounded like our own. I was the eldest of the three, And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do--and did my bestAnd each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him, with eyes as blue as heaven For him my soul was sorely moved; And truly might it be distress'd To see such bird in such a nest; For he was beautiful as day (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 flow'd like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe Which he abhorr'd to view below. The other was as pure of mind, And perish'd in the foremost rank With joy :-but not in chains to pine: His spirit wither'd 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 follow'd there the deer and wolf; To him his dungeon was a gulf, And fetter'd 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, Which round about the wave inthrals: A double dungeon wall and wave Have made and like a living grave Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies 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 though 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, unshock'd Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free. I said my nearer brother pined, But he, the favorite and the flower, |