PERKINS LIBRARY 
 
 Duke University 
 
 Kare Dooka 
 
 Gift of 
 
 William F. Hughes 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 http://archive.org/details/prisonerofchillo55byro 
 
THE 
 
 $rfeoner of Cljtllon, 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY LORD BYRON. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET. 
 
 1816. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Sonnet on Chillon : . . 1 
 
 The Prisoner of Chillon 3 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Sonnet 23 
 
 Stanzas to ... 24 
 
 Darkness 27 
 
 Churchill's Grave 32 
 
 The Dream 35 
 
 The Incantation 46 
 
 Prometheus 50 
 
 Notes 55 
 
SONNET ON CHILLON. 
 
 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 — 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 
 b 2 
 
SONNET ON CHILLON. 
 
 Ch31on! thy prison is a holy place, 
 
 And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 
 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 
 Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
 
 By Bonnivard ! i — May none those marks efface ! 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
THE 
 
 PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 1= 
 
 My hair is grey, but not with years, 
 Nor grew it white 
 In a single night, 2 
 As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
 My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, 
 
 But rusted with a vile repose, 
 For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 
 
 And mine has been the fate of those 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 Are bann'd, and barrti — forbidden fare; 10 
 
 But this was for my father's faith 
 I suffered chains and courted death; 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 That father perish'd at the stake 
 For tenets he would not forsake ; 
 And for the same his lineal race 
 In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
 We were seven — who now are one, 
 
 Six in youth, and one in age, 
 Finish'd as they had begun, 
 
 Proud of Persecution's rage ; 20 
 
 One in fire, and two in field, 
 Their belief with blood have seaFd ; 
 Dying as their fadier died, 
 For the God their foes denied ; . 
 Three were in a dungeon cast, 
 Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
 
 II. 
 
 There are seven pillars of gothic mold, 
 
 In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
 
 There are seven columns, massy and grey, 
 
 Dim with a dull imprisoned ray, 30 
 
 A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
 
 And through the crevice and the cleft 
 
 Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 5 
 
 Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
 
 Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
 
 And in each pillar there is a ring, 
 
 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, 40 
 
 Till I have done with this new day, 
 
 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 droop'd and died, 
 
 And I lay living by his side. 
 
 III. 
 
 They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
 
 And we were three — yet, each alone, 
 
 We could not move a single pace, SO 
 
 We could not see each other's face, 
 
 But with that pale and livid light 
 
 That made us strangers in our sight ; 
 
THE PRISONER OF CH1LLON. 
 
 And thus together — yet apart, 
 
 Fettered in hand, but pined in heart ; 
 
 'Twas still some solace in the dearth 
 
 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, 60 
 
 Or song heroically bold ; 
 
 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 : 
 
 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 70 
 
 I ought to do — and did my best— 
 
 And each did well in his degree. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 7 
 
 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 distrest 
 
 To f3ee such bird in such a nest ; 
 
 For he was beautiful as day — 
 
 (When day was beautiful to me 80 
 
 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 90 
 
 Which he abhorr'd to view below. 
 
 V. 
 
 The other was as pure of mind, 
 But formed to combat with his kind ; 
 
THE PRISONER OF CH1LLON. 
 
 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; 100 
 
 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lake Leman lies by Chilton's walls : . 
 A thousand feet in depth below 
 Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
 Thus much the fathom-line was sent 110 
 
 From Chilton's snow-white battlement, 3 
 
 Which round about the wave enthralls : 
 A double dungeon wall and wave 
 Have made — and like a living grave. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 9 
 
 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 119 
 
 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, 130 
 
 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, 
 
10 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 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 140 
 
 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 unlocked his chain, 
 
 And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 150 
 
 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. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. J J 
 
 I might have spared my idle prayer — 
 
 They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there : 
 
 The flat and turfless earth above 160 
 
 The being we so much did love ; 
 
 His empty chain above it leant, 
 
 Such murder's fitting monument ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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 170 
 
 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 
 
12 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 In any shape, in any mood : — 
 
 I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 
 I've seen it on the breaking ocean ]80 
 
 Strive with a swoln 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 190 
 
 Was as a 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, 
 
Drawn by Rich? WcstaiL R.A.. 
 
 TMIE IPK<Hg©H3EIE @F (DfflHIILlLON. 
 
 I LISTENED FOR I -COULD NOT HEAR 
 
 I CALLED FOR I WA,S WILD WITH FF.Aft. 
 
 staii 8 !.in<- 208 
 
 PUBLISHEIl BY JOHN MlTRKAy, AI.BEMARLE STREET, DEC. 1.1819. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 13 
 
 For I was sunk in silence — lost 200 
 
 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 be thus admonished ; 
 
 I called, and thought I heard a sound— 
 
 I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210 
 
 And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 
 
 / only stirr'd in this black spot, 
 
 / only lived — / 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 : 220 
 
 I took that hand which lay so still, 
 
 Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 
 
14 THE PRISONER OF CHiLLON. 
 
 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. 230 
 
 IX. 
 
 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 5 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, 240 
 
 It was not even the dungeon-light, 
 
 So hateful to my heavy sight, 
 
. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. ]5 
 
 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 ; 
 
 A sea of stagnant idleness, 
 
 Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 250 
 
 X. 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain,— 
 
 It was the carol of a bird ; 
 It ceased, and then it came again, 
 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Ran over with the glad surprise, 
 And they that moment could not see 
 I was the mate of misery ; 
 But then by dull degrees came back 
 My senses to their wonted track, 260 
 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 
16 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 Creeping as it before had done, 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for me ! 270 
 
 I never saw its like before, 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
 It seem'd like- me to want a mate, 
 But was not half so desolate, 
 And it was come to love me when 
 None lived to love me so again, 
 And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 I know not if it late were free, 
 
 Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280 
 
 But knowing well captivity, 
 
 Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 A visitant from Paradise ; 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 17 
 
 For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
 
 Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
 
 I sometimes deemed that it might be 
 
 My brother's soul come down to me ; 
 
 But then at last away it flew, 
 
 And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 290 
 
 For he would never thus have flown, 
 
 And left me twice so doubly lone,— 
 
 Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 
 
 Lone — as a solitary cloud, 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day, 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
 A frown upon the atmosphere, 
 That hath no business to appear 
 
 When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 
 
 XL 
 
 A kind of change came in my fate, S00 
 
 My keepers grew compassionate, 
 
 I know not what had made them so, 
 
 They were inured to sights of woe, 
 
 But so it was : — my broken chain . 
 
 With links unfasten'd did remain, 
 
 c2 
 
lg THE PRISONER OF CHTLLON. 
 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 
 Along my cell from side to side, 
 
 And up and down, and then athwart, 
 
 And tread it over every part ; 
 
 And round the pillars one by one, 310 
 
 Returning where my walk begun, 
 
 Avoiding only, as I trod, 
 
 My brothers 1 graves without a sod ; 
 
 For if I thought with heedless tread 
 
 My step profaned their lowly bed, 
 
 My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
 
 And my cruslfd heart fell blind and sick. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I made a footing in the wall, 
 
 It was not therefrom to escape, 
 For I had buried one and all, 320 
 
 Who loved me in a human shape ; 
 And the whole earth would henceforth be 
 A wider prison unto me : 
 No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
 No partner in my misery ; 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 19 
 
 I thought of this, and I was glad, 
 
 For thought of them had made me mad ; 
 
 But I was curious to ascend 
 
 To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
 
 Once more, upon the mountains high, 330 
 
 The quiet of a loving eye. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I saw them — and they were the same, 
 
 They were not changed like me in frame ; 
 
 I saw their thousand years of snow 
 
 On high — their wide long lake below, 
 
 And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
 
 I heard the torrents leap and gush 
 
 O'er channelTd rock and broken bush ; 
 
 I saw the white-walTd distant town, 
 
 And whiter sails go skimming down ; 340 
 
 And then there was a little isle,* 
 
 Which in my very face did smile, 
 
 The only one in view ; 
 A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
 
£0 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 But in it there were three tall trees, 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
 And by it there were waters flowing, 
 And on it there were young flowers growing, 
 
 Of gentle breath and hue. 350 
 
 The fish swam by the castle wall, 
 And they seemed joyous each and all ; 
 The eagle rode the rising blast, 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he seemed to fly, 
 And then new tears came in my eye, 
 And I felt troubled — and would fain 
 1 had not left my recent chain ; 
 And when I did descend again, 
 The darkness of my dim abode 360 
 
 Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
 It was as is a new-dug grave, 
 Closing o'er one we sought to save, 
 And yet my glance, too much opprest, 
 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 21 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It might be months, or years, or days, 
 
 I kept no count — I took no note, 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise, 
 
 And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
 At last men came to set me free, 370 
 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, 
 It was at length the same to me, 
 Fettered or fetterless to be, 
 
 I learn'd to love despair. 
 And thus when they appear^ at last, 
 And all my bonds aside were cast, 
 These heavy walls to me had grown 
 A "hermitage — and all my own ! 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To tear me from a second home : 380 
 
 With spiders I had friendship made, 
 And watcbM them in their sullen trade, 
 Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
 And why should I feel less than they ? 
 We were all inmates of one place, 
 And I, the monarch of each race, 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
 
 In quiet we had learn'd to dwell— 
 
 My very chains and I grew friends, 
 
 So much a long communion tends 390 
 
 To make us what we are :— even I 
 
 Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. r 
 
SONNET. 
 
 Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — and de Stael— 
 5 Leman ! these names are worthy of thy shore, 
 Thy shore of names like these, wert thou no more, 
 
 Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 
 
 To them thy banks were lovely as to all, 
 
 But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
 Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
 
 Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 
 
 Where dwelt the wise and wondrous ; but by thee 
 
 How much more, Lake of Beauty ! do we feel, 
 In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, 
 
 The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 
 Which of the heirs of immortality 
 
 Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 
 
STANZAS TO 
 
 I. 
 
 Though the day of my destiny's over, 
 
 And the star of my fate hath declined, 
 Thy soft heart refused to discover 
 
 The faults which so many could find ; 
 Though £hy soul with my grief was acquainted, 
 
 It shrunk not to share it. with me, 
 And the love which my spirit hath painted 
 
 It never hath found but in thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 Then when nature around me is smiling 
 The last smile which answers to mine, 
 
 I do not believe it beguiling 
 Because it reminds me of thine ; 
 
STANZAS TO . 35 
 
 And when winds are at war with the ocean, 
 As the breasts I believed in with me, 
 
 If their billows excite an emotion 
 It is that they bear me from thee. 
 
 III. 
 
 Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 
 
 And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
 Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 
 
 To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
 There is many a pang to pursue me : 
 
 They may crush, but they shall not contemn— 
 They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 
 
 'Tis of thee that I think — not of themu 
 
 IV. 
 
 Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 
 Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 
 
 Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 
 Though slander'd, thou never could'st shake,— 
 
 Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 
 Though parted, it was not to fly, 
 
<»6 STANZAS TO . 
 
 Though watchful, "'twas not to defame me, 
 Nor, mute, that the world might belie. 
 
 V. 
 
 Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 
 
 Nor the war of the many with one — 
 If my soul was not fitted to prize it 
 
 'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
 And if dearly that error hath cost me, 
 
 And more than I once could foresee, 
 I have found that, whatever it lost me, 
 
 It could not deprive me of thee. 
 
 VI. 
 
 From the wreck of the past, which hath perish 1 d, 
 
 Thus much I at least may recall, 
 It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd 
 
 Deserved to be dearest of all : 
 In the desert a fountain is springing, 
 
 In the wide waste there still is a tree, 
 And a bird in the solitude singing, 
 
 Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 
 
DARKNESS. 
 
 I had a dream, which was not all a dream. 
 
 The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 
 
 Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
 
 Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
 
 Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 
 
 Morn came, and went — and came, and brought no day, 
 
 And men forgot their passions in the dread 
 
 Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
 
 Were chilTd into a selfish prayer for light : 
 
 And they did live by watchfires — and the thrones, 
 
 The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
 
 The habitations of all things which dwell, 
 
 Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 
 
28 DARKNESS. 
 
 And men were gathered round their blazing homes 
 
 To look once more into each other's face ; 
 
 Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
 
 Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch : 
 
 A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; 
 
 Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 
 
 They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 
 
 Extinguish , d with a crash — and all was black. 
 
 The brows of men by the despairing light 
 
 Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
 
 The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 
 
 And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 
 
 Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; 
 
 And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
 
 Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up 
 
 With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 
 
 The pall of a past world ; and then again 
 
 With curses cast them down upon the dust, 
 
 And gnash'd their teeth and howfd: the wild birds 
 
 shriek'd, 
 And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
 And .flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 
 
DARKNESS. 29 
 
 Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd 
 And twined themselves anions the multitude, 
 Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 
 And War, which for a moment was no more, 
 Did glu£ himself again ; — a meal was bought 
 With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
 Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
 All earth was but one thought — and that was death, 
 Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 
 Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
 Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
 The meagre by the meagre were devoured, 
 Even dogs assaiTd their masters, all save one, 
 And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
 The birds and beasts and famished men at bay, 
 Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
 Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
 But with a piteous and perpetual moan 
 And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
 Which answered not with a caress — he died. 
 The crowd was famisli'd by degrees ; but two 
 Of an enormous city did survive, 
 
30 DARKNESS. 
 
 And they were enemies ; they met beside 
 
 The dying embers of an altar-place 
 
 Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
 
 For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 
 
 And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 
 
 The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
 
 Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
 
 Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
 
 Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
 
 Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died — 
 
 Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
 
 Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
 
 Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, 
 
 The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
 
 Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 
 
 A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 
 
 The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, 
 
 And nothing stirred within their silent depths ; 
 
 Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
 
 And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropped 
 
 They slept on the abyss without a surge — 
 
 The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave, 
 
DARKNESS. 31 
 
 The moon their mistress had expired before ; 
 The winds were withered in the stagnant air, 
 And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had no need 
 Of aid from them — She was the universe. 
 
CHURCHILL'S GRAVE, 
 
 A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. 
 
 I stood beside the grave of him who blazed 
 The comet of a season, and I saw 
 The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 
 With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
 On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
 With name no clearer than the names unknown, 
 Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 
 The Gardener of that ground, why it might be 
 That for this plant strangers his memory tasked 
 Through the thick deaths of half a century ; 
 And thus he answered — " Well, I do not know 
 " Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; 
 
CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. « 
 
 " He died before my day of Sextonship, 
 " And I had. not the digging of this grave.'''' 
 And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 
 The veil of Immortality ? and crave 
 I know not what of honour and of light 
 Through unborn ages, to endure this blight ? 
 So soon and so successless ? As I said, 
 The Architect of all on which we tread, 
 For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
 To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
 Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought 
 Were it not that all life must end in one, 
 Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 
 As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 
 Thus spoke he, — " I believe the man of whom 
 " You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 
 w Was a most famous writer in his day, 
 " And therefore travellers step from out their way 
 " To pay him honour, — and myself whate'er 
 " Your honour pleases," — then most pleased I shook 
 From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
 Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere 
 Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 
 
 d 2 
 
34 CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. 
 
 So much but inconveniently ; — Ye smile, 
 I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while, 
 Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
 You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 
 With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, 
 On that Old Sexton's natural homily, 
 In which there was Obscurity and Fame, 
 The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 I. 
 
 Our life is twofold ; Sleep hath its own world, 
 
 A boundary between the things misnamed 
 
 Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 
 
 And a wide realm of wild reality, 
 
 And dreams in their developement have breath, 
 
 And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; 
 
 They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
 
 They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
 
 They do divide our being ; they become 
 
 A portion of ourselves as of our time, 10 
 
 And look like hesaJds of eternity ; 
 
 They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 
 
 Like sybils of the future ; they have power — 
 
 The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
 
g(3 THE DREAM. 
 
 They make us what we were not — what they will, 
 And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
 The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so ? 
 Is not the past all shadow ? What are they ? 
 Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make 
 Substance, and people planets of its own 20 
 
 With beings brighter than have been, and give 
 A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
 I would recall a vision which I dreanTd 
 Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
 A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
 And curdles a long life into one hour. 
 
 II. 
 
 I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
 
 Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
 
 Green and of mild declivity, the last 
 
 As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 30 
 
 Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
 
 But a most living landscape, and the wave 
 
 Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
 
 Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 
THE DREAM. 37 
 
 A rising from such rustic roofs; — the hill 
 
 Was crowed with a peculiar diadem 
 
 Of trees, in circular array, so fiVd, 
 
 Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
 
 These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
 
 Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 40 
 
 Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
 
 And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
 
 And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
 
 As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge 
 
 The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
 
 The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
 
 Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
 
 There was but one beloved face on earth, 
 
 And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
 
 Upon it till it could not pass away ; 50 
 
 He had no breath, no being, but in her's; 
 
 She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
 
 But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 
 
 For his eye followed her's, and saw with her's, 
 
 Which coloured all his objects : — he had ceased 
 
 To live within himself; she was his life, 
 
38 THE DREAM. 
 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
 
 Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
 
 A touch of her's, his blood would ebb and flow, 
 
 And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 60 
 
 Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
 
 But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
 
 Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
 
 Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas much, 
 
 For brotherless she was, save in the name 
 
 Her infant friendship had bestowed on him ; 
 
 Herself the solitary scion left 
 
 Of a time-honoured race. — It was a name 
 
 Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why ? 
 
 Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 70 
 
 Another ; even noxo she loved another, 
 
 And on the summit of that hill she stood 
 
 Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
 
 Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 
 
 III. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 There was an ancient mansion, and before 
 
THE DREAM. 39 
 
 Its walls there was a steed caparisoned : 
 
 Within an antique Oratory stood 
 
 The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 
 
 And pale, and pacing to and fro ; anon 80 
 
 He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
 
 Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
 
 His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
 
 With a convulsion — then arose again, 
 
 And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
 
 What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
 
 And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
 
 Into a kind of quiet ; as he paused, 
 
 The Lady of his love re-entered there, 
 
 She was serene and smiling then, and yet 90 
 
 She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 
 
 For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
 
 Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 
 
 That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
 
 He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 
 Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 
 
40 THE DREAA1. 
 
 He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps 
 Retired, but not as bidding hey adieu, 100 
 
 For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 
 From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
 And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 
 And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wolds 
 
 Of fiery climes he made himself a home, . 
 
 And his Soul drank their sunbeams ; he was girt 
 
 With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
 
 Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 110 
 
 And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
 
 There was a mass of many images 
 
 Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
 
 A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
 
 Reposing from the noon-tide sultriness, 
 
 Couched among fallen columns, in the shade 
 
 Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
 
 Of those who reav'd them ; by his sleeping side 
 
Drawn Vv Ihch*We3tan KA 
 
 jEiigrared 'by Cha' Bearti. 
 
 TIHIIS ffi)lEHAMo 
 
 i AND nST THE IAST HE LAY 
 
 KEPOSI1T& EKOM THE TSTOOTSTTIDE SULTRINESS, 
 COUCHED AMOW& FALLEN CaT.LnvTNS , _ - 
 
 TTOBMSHED BE" .yOHH" M CBKAJr: ALBEMAKHK STREET, DEC. 1.181G. 
 
m 
 
THE DREAM. 41 
 
 Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
 
 Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 120 
 
 Clad in a flowing garb did Avatch the while, 
 
 While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
 
 And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
 
 So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
 
 That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 
 
 V. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 The Lady of his love was wed with One 
 
 Who did not love her better ; — in her home, 
 
 A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 
 
 She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 180 
 
 Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold ! 
 
 Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
 
 And an unquiet drooping of the eye 
 
 As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 
 
 What could her grief be ? — she had all she loved, 
 
 And he who had so loved her, was not there 
 
 To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
 
42 THE DREAM. 
 
 Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
 What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not, 
 Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 141 
 
 Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
 Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. — 
 
 The Wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 
 
 Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 
 
 Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
 
 The Starlight of his Boyhood ; — as he stood 
 
 Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
 
 The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 150 
 
 That in the antique Oratory shook 
 
 His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
 
 As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
 
 The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 
 Was traced, — and then it faded as it came, 
 
 And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
 
 And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 
 
THE DREAM. 43 
 
 Not that which was, nor that which should have been — 
 
 But the old mansion, and the accustomfd hall, 160 
 
 And the remembered chambers, and the place, 
 
 The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 
 
 All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
 
 And her who was his destiny, came back 
 
 And thrust themselves between him and the light : 
 
 What business had they there at such a time ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 The lady of his love ; — Oh ! she was changed 
 
 As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
 
 Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes 170 
 
 They had not their own lustre, but the look 
 
 Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
 
 The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
 
 Were combinations of disjointed things; 
 
 And forms impalpable and unperceived 
 
 Of others 1 sight familiar were to her's. 
 
 And this the world calls phrenzy ; but the wise 
 
 Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
 
44 THE DREAM. 
 
 Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
 
 What is it but the telescope of truth ? 180 
 
 Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
 
 And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
 
 Making the cold reality too real ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. — 
 
 The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, 
 
 The beings which surrounded him were gone, 
 
 Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
 
 For blight and desolation, compass , d round 
 
 With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd 
 
 In all which was served up to him, until 190 
 
 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, 6 
 
 He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 
 
 But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 
 
 Through that which had been death to many men, 
 
 And made him friends of mountains : with the stars 
 
 And the quick Spirit of the Universe 
 
 He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 
 
 To him the magic of their mysteries ; 
 
THE D11EAM. 45 
 
 To him the book of Night was opened wide, 
 
 And voices from the deep abyss reveaFd 200 
 
 A marvel and a secret— Be it so. 
 
 IX. 
 
 My dream was past ; it had no further change. 
 
 It was of a strange order, that the doom 
 
 Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
 
 Almost like a reality — the one 
 
 To end in madness — both in misery. 
 
THE INCANTATION. 
 
 (The following Poem was a Chorus in an unfinished Witch Drama, 
 which was begun some years ago.) 
 
 I. 
 
 When the moon is on the wave, 
 
 And the glow-worm in the grass, 
 And the meteor on the grave, 
 
 And the wisp on tne morass ; 
 When the falling stars are shooting, 
 And the answered owls are hooting, 
 And the silent leaves are still 
 In the shadow of the hill, 
 Shall my soul be upon thine, 
 With a power and with a sign. 
 
THE INCANTATION. 47 
 
 II. 
 
 Though thy slumber may be deep, 
 
 Yet thy spirit shall not sleep, 
 
 There are shades which will not vanish, 
 
 There are thoughts thou canst not banish ; 
 
 By a power to thee unknown, 
 
 Thou canst never be alone ; 
 
 Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 
 
 Thou art gathered in a cloud ; 
 
 And for ever shalt thou dwell 
 
 In the spirit of this spell. 
 
 III. 
 
 Though thou seest me not pass by, 
 Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
 As a thing that, though unseen, 
 Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
 And when in that secret dread 
 Thou hast turn'd around thy head, 
 Thou shalt marvel I am not 
 As thy shadow on the spot, 
 And the power which thou dost feel 
 Shall be what thou must conceal. 
 
48 THE INCANTATION. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And a magic voice and verse 
 Hath baptized thee with a curse ; 
 And a spirit of the air 
 Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 
 In the wind there is a voice 
 Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 
 And to thee shall Night deny 
 AJ1 the quiet of her sky ; 
 And the day shall have a sun, 
 Which shall make thee wish it done. 
 
 V. 
 
 From thy false tears I did distil 
 An essence which hath strength to kill ; 
 From thy own heart I then did wring 
 The black blood in its blackest spring ; 
 From thy own smile I snatched the snake. 
 For there it coiTd as in a brake ; 
 From thy own Up I drew the charm 
 Which gave all these their chiefest harm ; 
 In proving every poison known, 
 I found the strongest was thine own. 
 
THE INCANTATION. 49 
 
 VI. 
 
 By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 
 
 By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, 
 
 By that most seeming virtuous eye, 
 
 By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 
 
 By the perfection of thine art 
 
 Which pass'd for human thine own heart ; 
 
 By thy delight in others' pain, 
 
 And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 
 
 I call upon thee ! and compel 
 
 Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 And on thy head I pour the vial 
 Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 
 Nor to slumber, nor to die, 
 Shall be in thy destiny ; 
 Though thy death shall still seem near 
 To thy wish, but as a fear ; 
 Lo ! the spell now works around thee, 
 And the clankless chain hath bound thee ; 
 O'er thy heart and brain together 
 Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 
 
 e2 
 
PROMETHEUS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 
 
 The sufferings of mortality, 
 
 Seen in their sad reality, 
 Were not as things that gods despise ; 
 What was thy pity's recompense ? 
 A silent suffering, and intense ; 
 The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
 All that the proud can feel of pain, 
 The agony they do not show, 
 The suffocating sense of woe, 
 
 Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
 And then is jealous lest the sky 
 Should have a listener, nor will sigh 
 
 Until its voice is echolcss. 
 
PROMETHEUS. 51 
 
 II. 
 
 Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
 Between the suffering and the will, 
 Which torture where they cannot kill ; 
 
 And the inexorable Heaven, 
 
 And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 
 
 The ruling principle of Hate, 
 
 Which for its pleasure doth create 
 
 The things it may annihilate, 
 
 Refused thee even the boon to die : 
 
 The wretched gift eternity 
 
 Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
 
 All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 
 
 Was but the menace which flung back 
 
 On him the torments of thy rack ; 
 
 The fate thou didst so well foresee 
 
 But would not to appease him tell; 
 
 And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 
 
 And in his Soul a vain repentance, 
 
 And evil dread so ill dissembled 
 
 That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 
 
52 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 
 
 To render with thy precepts less 
 
 The sum of human wretchedness, 
 
 And strengthen Man with his own mind ; 
 
 But baffled as thou wert from high, 
 
 Still in thy patient energy, 
 
 In the endurance, and repulse 
 
 Of tbine impenetrable Spirit, 
 
 Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, 
 
 A mighty lesson we inherit : 
 
 Thou art a symbol and a sign 
 
 To Mortals of their fate and force ; 
 
 Like thee, Man is in part divine, 
 
 A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
 
 And Man in portions can foresee 
 
 His own funereal destiny ; 
 
 His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
 
 And his sad unalhed existence : 
 
 To which his Spirit may oppose 
 
 Itself — an equal to all woes, 
 
PROMETHEUS. 53 
 
 And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
 Which even in torture can descry 
 Its own concentered recompense. 
 Triumphant where it dares defy, 
 And making Death a Victory. 
 
NOTES 
 
 PRISONER OF CHILLON, &c. 
 
 Note 1, page 2, line 5. 
 By Bonnivard ! — may none those marks efface. 
 
 Francois de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonnivard, origi- 
 naire de Seyssel & Seigneur de Lunes, naquit en I4g6 ; il 
 fit ses etudes a Turin: en 1510 Jean Aim6 de Bonnivard, son 
 oncle, lui resigna le Prieure de St. Victor, qui aboutissoit aux 
 murs de Geneve, & qui formait un benefice considerable. 
 
 Ce grand homme (Bonnivard merite ce titre par la force 
 de son ame, la droiture de son cceur, la noblesse de ses in- 
 tentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage de ses demar- 
 ches, l'etendue de ses connaissances & la vivacite de son 
 esprit), ce grand homme, qui excitera l'admiration de tous 
 ceux qu'une vertu heroique peut encore emouvoir, inspirera 
 encore la plus vive reconnaissance dans les cceurs des Gene- 
 vois qui aiment Geneve. Bonnivard en fut toujours undes 
 plus fermes appuis : pour assurer la liberte de notre Repub- 
 lique, il ne craignit pas de perdre souvent la sienne ; il 
 
56 NOTES TO 
 
 oublia son repos ; il meprisa ses richesses ; il ne negligca 
 rien pour afferuiir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora de 
 son choix : des ce moment il la client comme le plus zele de 
 ses eitoyens ; il la servit avec l'intrepidite d'un heros, et il 
 ecrivit son Histoire avec la naivete d'un philosophe & la 
 chaleur d'un patriote. 
 
 II dit dans le commencement de son histoire de Geneve, 
 que, des qu'il eut commend de lire V histoire des nations, il se 
 sentit entrain e par son gout pour les Repuhliques, dont il epousa 
 toujours les inter its : c'est ce gout pour la liberte qui lui fit 
 sans doute adopter Geneve pour sa patrie. 
 
 Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annonc,a hautement comme le 
 defenseur de Geneve contre le Due de Savoye et l'Eveque. 
 
 En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa patrie : Le 
 Due de Savoye etant entre dans Geneve avec cinq cent hom- 
 ines, Bonnivard craint le ressentiment du Due ; il voulut se 
 retirer a Fribourg pour en eviter les suites ; mais il fut trahi 
 par deux hommes qui l'accompagnoient, & conduit par ordre 
 du Prince a Grolee, oil il resta prisonnier pendant deux ans. 
 Bonnivard etoit malheureux dans ses voyages : comme ses 
 malheurs n'avoient point ralenti son zele pour Geneve, il 
 etoit toujours un ennemi redoutable pour ceux qui la me- 
 nagoient, & par consequent il devoit etre expose a leurs 
 coups. II fut rencontre en 1530 sur le Jura par des voleurs, 
 qui le depouillerent, & qui le mirent encore entre les mains 
 duDuc de Savoye : ce Prince le fit enfermer dans le Chateau 
 de Chillon, ou il resta sans etre interroge jusques en 1536; 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON, &c. 57 
 
 il fiit alors delivre par les Bernois, qui s'emparerent du Pays 
 de Vaud. 
 
 Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivite, eut le plaisir de 
 trouver Geneve libre & reformee ; la Republique s'empressa 
 de lui temoigner sa reconnoissance et de le dedommager des 
 maux qu'il avoit soufferts ; elle le recut Bourgeois de la ville 
 au mois de Juin 1536 ; elle lui donna la maison habitee 
 autrefois par le Vicaire-General, et elle lui assigna une 
 pension de 200 ecus d'or tant qu'il sejourneroit a Geneve. 
 II fut admis dans le Conseil des Deux-Cent en 153/. 
 
 Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile : apres avoir travaille 
 a rendre Geneve libre, il reussit a la rendre tolerante. Bon- 
 nivard engagea le Conseil a accorder aux Ecclesiastiques & 
 aux paysans un tems suffisant pour examiner les propositions 
 qu'on leur faisoit ; il reussit par sa douceur : on preche tou* 
 jours le Christianisme avec succes quand on le preche avec 
 charite. 
 
 Bonnivard fut savant ; ses manuscrits, qui sont dans la 
 Bibliotheque publique, prouvent qu'il avoit bien lu les 
 auteurs classiques latins, & qu'il avoit approfondi la theo- 
 logie & l'histoire. Ce grand homme aimoit les sciences, et 
 il croyoit qu'elles pouvoient faire la gloire de Geneve ; aussi 
 il ne negligea rien pour les fixer dans cette ville naissante ; 
 en 1551 il donna sa bibliotheque au public ; elle fut le com- 
 mencement de notre bibliotheque publique ; & ces livres sont 
 en partie les rares & belles editions du quinzieme siecle qu'on 
 voit dans notre collection. Enfin, pendant la meme annee* 
 
58 NOTES TO 
 
 ce bon patriote institua la Republique son heritiere, & con- 
 dition qu'elle employeroit ses biens a eniretenir le college 
 dont on projettoit la fondation. 
 
 II paroit queBonnivard mouruten 15J0 ; mais on ne peut 
 l'assurer, parcequ'il y a une lacune dans le Necrologe depuis 
 le mois de Juillet 1570 jusques en 1571. 
 
 Note 2, page 3, line 3. 
 In a single night. 
 Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is asserted of 
 Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI. though not in 
 quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the same 
 effect : to such, and not to fear, this change in her's was to 
 be attributed. 
 
 Note 3, page 8, line 18. 
 From Chilton's snow-white battlement. 
 
 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. 
 
 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) 5 within it are a range of dungeons, 
 in which the early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of 
 state, were eonfined. Across one of the vaults is a beam 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON, &c. 59 
 
 black with age, on which we were informed that the con- 
 demned were formerly executed. In the cells are seven 
 pillars, or, rather, eight, one being half merged in the 
 wall; in some of these are rings for the fetters and the fet- 
 tered : 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 pro- 
 duced 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. 
 
 Note 4, page IQ, line 16. 
 And then there tvas a little isle. 
 Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, not 
 far from Chillon, is a very small island ; the only one I could 
 perceive, in my voyage round and over the lake, within its 
 circumference. It contains a few trees, (I think not above 
 three,) and from its singleness and diminutive size has a 
 peculiar effect upon the view. 
 
 When the foregoing poem was composed I was not suffi- 
 ciently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should have 
 endeavoured to dignify the subject by an attempt to celebrate 
 his courage and his virtues. Some account of his life will 
 be found in a note appended to the " Sonnet on Chillon," 
 with which I have been furnished by the kindness of a citi- 
 
60 , NOTES. 
 
 zen of that Republic which is still proud of the memory of a 
 man worthy of the best age of ancient freedom. 
 
 Note 5, page 23, line 2. 
 Leman ! these names are worthy of thy shore. 
 Geneva, Ferney, Coppet, Lausanne. 
 
 Note Q, page 44, line 13. 
 Like to the Pontic monarch of old- days. 
 Mithridates of Pontus. 
 

m . - 1