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 wo

Which he abhorr'd to view below.

ས་

The other was as pure of mind,
But 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

Those relics of a home so dear.
He was a hunter of the hills,

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf;
To him this dungeon was a gulf,
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills.

VI. .

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,*

TAN

"The Chateau de Chillon is situated between Clarens and Villeneuve which last is at one extremity of the Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Melleirie and the range of Alps above Boveret and St. Gingo.

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 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 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, unshock'd,

Because I could have smiled to see

The death that would have set me free.

VII.

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,

Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent, below it, washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the depth of 800 feet; (French measure;) within it are a range of dungeons, in which the early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of state were confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam black with age, on which we were informed that the condemned were formerly executed. In the cells are seven pillars, or, rather, eight, one being hal merged in the wall; in some of these are rings for the fetters and the fettered; in the pavement the steps of Bonnivard have left their traces-he was confined here several years.

It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of his Heloise, in the rescue of one of her children by Julie from the water; the shock of which, and the illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of her death.

The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a great distance. The walls are white.

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 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 shallow grave
Even from the cold earth of our cave.
I begg❜d them, as a boon, to lay
His corse in dust wheron 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!

VIII.

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 board my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free: He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspiredHe, 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 swollen convulsive motion, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of sin delirious with its dread: But these were horrors-this was wo 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 a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's rayAn 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,

VOL. III-T

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 call'd! 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 stirr'd in this black spot,
I only lived-I 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 could not die,

I had no earthly hope-but faith,
And that forbade a selfish death.

IX.

What next befel me then and there

I know not well-I never knew