The other was pure of mind, And form'd 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 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 These 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 fetter'd feet the worst of ills.
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 chang'd for water from the moat, Our bread was such as captives' 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, to him? These wasted not his heart or limb; My brother's soul was of that mould, 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 bonds in twain. He died, and they unlock'd his chain, And scoop'd for him a hollow 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 free-born 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 favourite 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 martyr'd 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 wither'd 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 swoll'n convulsive motion, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of sin, delirious with its dread : But these were 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
Was as the mockery of the tomb.
Whose tints.as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray; 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 listen'd-but I could not hear,- I called, for I was wild with fear; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished:
I call'd-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 stirred in this black spot, I only lived, I only drew The accurs'd breath of dungeon-dew; The last the sole-the dearest link 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 could not die,
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, absorbing space And fixedness, without a place;
There were no stars,-no 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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