ETERNAL spirit of the chainless mind! | |
| Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art, | |
| For there thy habitation is the heart— | |
| The heart which love of thee alone can bind; | |
| And when thy sons to fetters are consigned— | 5 |
| To fetters, and the damp vault’s dayless gloom— | |
| Their country conquers with their martyrdom, | |
| And Freedom’s fame finds wings on every wind. | |
| Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, | |
| And thy sad floor an altar—for ’t was trod | 10 |
| Until his very steps have left a trace, | |
| Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, | |
| By Bonnivard!—May none those marks efface! | |
| For they appeal from tyranny to God. | |
| |
I. My hair is gray, but not with years, | 15 |
| Nor grew it white | |
| In a single night, | |
| As men’s have grown from sudden fears; | |
| My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, | |
| But rusted with a vile repose; | 20 |
| For they have been a dungeon’s spoil, | |
| And mine has been the fate of those | |
| To whom the goodly earth and air | |
| Are banned and barred—forbidden fare. | |
| But this was for my father’s faith | 25 |
| I suffered chains and courted death. | |
| That father perished at the stake | |
| For tenets he would not forsake; | |
| And for the same his lineal race | |
| In darkness found a dwelling-place. | 30 |
| We were seven, who now are one— | |
| Six in youth, and one in age, | |
| Finished as they had begun, | |
| Proud of persecutions rage; | |
| One in fire, and two in field, | 35 |
| Their belief with blood have sealed— | |
| Dying as their father died, | |
| For the God their foes denied; | |
| Three were in a dungeon cast, | |
| Of whom this wreck is left the last. | 40 |
| |
II. 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 imprisoned ray— | |
| A sunbeam which hath lost its way, | 45 |
| And through the crevice and the cleft | |
| Of the thick wall is fallen and left— | |
| Creeping o’er the floor so damp, | |
| Like a marsh’s meteor lamp; | |
| And in each pillar there is a ring, | 50 |
| And in each ring there is a chain; | |
| That iron is a cankering thing, | |
| For in these limbs its teeth remain, | |
| With marks that will not wear away | |
| Till I have done with this new day, | 55 |
| Which now is painful to these eyes, | |
| Which have not seen the sun so rise | |
| For years—I cannot count them o’er; | |
| I lost their long and heavy score | |
| When my last brother drooped and died, | 60 |
| And I lay living by his side. | |
| |
III. They chained us each to a column stone; | |
| And we were three—yet, each alone. | |
| We could not move a single pace; | |
| We could not see each other’s face, | 65 |
| But with that pale and livid light | |
| That made us strangers in our sight; | |
| And thus together, yet apart— | |
| Fettered in hand, but joined in heart; | |
| ’T was still some solace, in the dearth | 70 |
| Of the pure elements of earth, | |
| To hearken to each other’s speech, | |
| And each turn comforter to each— | |
| With some new hope, or legend old, | |
| Or song heroically bold; | 75 |
| But even these at length grew cold. | |
| Our voices took a dreary tone, | |
| An echo of the dungeon-stone, | |
| A grating sound—not full and free, | |
| As they of yore were wont to be; | 80 |
| It might be fancy—but to me | |
| They never sounded like our own. | |
| |
IV. I was the eldest of the three; | |
| And to uphold and cheer the rest | |
| I ought to do, and did, my best— | 85 |
| And 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; | 90 |
| And truly might it be distrest | |
| 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), | 95 |
| 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, | 100 |
| And in his natural spirit gay, | |
| With tears for naught but other’s ills; | |
| And then they flowed like mountain rills, | |
| Unless he could assuage the wo | |
| Which he abhorred to view below. | 105 |
| |
V. 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 perished in the foremost rank | 110 |
| 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 | 115 |
| 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. | 120 |
| |
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 spent | |
| From Chillon’s snow-white battlement, | 125 |
| Which round about the wave enthrals; | |
| 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; | 130 |
| We heard it ripple night and day; | |
| Sounding o’er our heads it knocked. | |
| And I have felt the winter’s spray | |
| Wash through the bars when winds were high, | |
| And wanton in the happy sky; | 135 |
| And then the very rock hath rocked, | |
| And I have felt it shake, unshocked; | |
| Because I could have smiled to see | |
| The death that would have set me free. | |
| |
VII. I said my nearer brother pined; | 140 |
| I said his mighty heart declined. | |
| He loathed and put away his food; | |
| It was not that ’t was coarse and rude, | |
| For we were used to hunter’s fare, | |
| And for the like had little care. | 145 |
| The milk drawn from the mountain goat | |
| Was changed for water from the moat; | |
| Our bread was such as captives’ tears | |
| Have moistened many a thousand years, | |
| Since man first pent his fellow-men, | 150 |
| Like brutes, within an iron den. | |
| But what were these to us or him? | |
| These wasted not his heart or limb; | |
| My brothers soul was of that mould | |
| Which in a palace had grown cold, | 155 |
| 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, | 160 |
| Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, | |
| To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. | |
| He died—and they unlocked his chain, | |
| And scooped for him a shallow grave | |
| Even from the cold earth of our cave. | 165 |
| I begged 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 | 170 |
| In such a dungeon could not rest. | |
| I might have spared my idle prayer— | |
| They coldly laughed, and laid him there, | |
| The flat and turfless earth above | |
| The being we so much did love; | 175 |
| His empty chain above it leant— | |
| Such murder’s fitting monument! | |
| |
VIII. But he, the favorite and the flower, | |
| Most cherished since his natal hour, | |
| His mother’s image in fair face, | 180 |
| 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— | 185 |
| 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. | |
| O God! it is a fearful thing | 190 |
| 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; | 195 |
| I’ve seen the sick and ghastly bed | |
| Of sin, delirious with its dread; | |
| But these were horrors—this was wo | |
| Unmixed with such—but sure and slow. | |
| He faded, and so calm and meek, | 200 |
| 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, | 205 |
| 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 | 210 |
| 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. | 215 |
| 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; | 220 |
| I knew ’t was hopeless, but my dread | |
| Would not be thus admonished; | |
| I called, and thought I heard a sound— | |
| I burst my chain with one strong bound, | |
| And rushed to him: I found him not. | 225 |
| I only stirred 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, | 230 |
| 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— | 235 |
| 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. | 240 |
| I know not why | |
| I could not die, | |
| I had no earthly hope—but faith, | |
| And that forbade a selfish death. | |
| |
