THE TRIAL OF BEATRICE.FROM "THE CENCI," ACT V.Scene II.—A Hall of Justice.Camillo,Judges,etc., are discovered seated;Marziois led in.First Judge.—Accused, do you persist in your denial?I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty?I demand who were the participatorsIn your offence? Speak truth and the whole truth.Marzio.—My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing;Olimpio sold the robe to me from whichYou would infer my guilt.Second Judge.—Away with him!First Judge.—Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack's kissSpeak false? Is it so soft a questioner,That you would bandy lovers' talk with itTill it wind out your life and soul? Away!Marzio.—Spare me! O, spare! I will confess.First Judge.—Then speak.Marzio.—I strangled him in his sleep.First Judge.—Who urged you to it?Marzio.—His own son, Giacomo, and the young prelateOrsino sent me to Petrella; thereThe ladies Beatrice and LucretiaTempted me with a thousand crowns, and IAnd my companion forthwith murdered him.Now let me die.First Judge.—This sounds as bad as truth.Guards, there,Lead forth the prisoner!EnterLucretia,Beatrice,Giacomo,guarded.Look upon this man;When did you see him last?Beatrice.—We never saw him.Marzio.—You know me too well, Lady Beatrice.Beatrice.—I know thee! How? where? when?Marzio.—You know 't was IWhom you did urge with menaces and bribesTo kill your father. When the thing was doneYou clothed me in a robe of woven goldAnd bade me thrive: how I have thriven, you see.You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia,You know that what I speak is true.(Beatriceadvances towards him; he covers his face,and shrinks back.)O, dartThe terrible resentment of those eyesOn the dead earth! Turn them away from me!They wound: 't was torture forced the truth. My Lords,Having said this let me be led to death.Beatrice.—Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stayawhile.Camillo.—Guards, lead him not away.Beatrice.—Cardinal Camillo,You have a good repute for gentlenessAnd wisdom: can it be that you sit hereTo countenance a wicked farce like this?When some obscure and trembling slave is draggedFrom sufferings which might shake the sternest heartAnd bade to answer, not as he believes,But as those may suspect or do desireWhose questions thence suggest their own reply:And that in peril of such hideous tormentsAs merciful God spares even the damned. Speak nowThe thing you surely know, which is that you,If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel,And you were told: "Confess that you did poisonYour little nephew; that fair blue-eyed childWho was the lodestar of your life:"—and tho'All see, since his most swift and piteous death,That day and night, and heaven and earth, and timeAnd all the things hoped for or done thereinAre changed to you, thro' your exceeding grief,Yet you would say, "I confess anything:"And beg from your tormentors, like that slave,The refuge of dishonorable death.I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assertMy innocence.Camillo(much moved).—What shall we think, my Lords?Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozenWhich is their fountain. I would pledge my soulThat she is guiltless.Judge.—Yet she must be tortured.Camillo.—I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew(If he now lived he would be just her age;His hair, too, was her color, and his eyesLike hers in shape, but blue and not so deep)As that most perfect image of God's loveThat ever came sorrowing upon the earth.She is as pure as speechless infancy!Judge.—Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord,If you forbid the rack. His HolinessEnjoined us to pursue this monstrous crimeBy the severest forms of law; nay evenTo stretch a point against the criminals.The prisoners stand accused of parricideUpon such evidence as justifiesTorture.Beatrice.—What evidence? This man's?Judge.—Even so.Beatrice(toMarzio).—Come near.And who art thou thus chosen forthOut of the multitude of living menTo kill the innocent?Marzio.—I am Marzio,Thy father's vassal.Beatrice.—Fix thine eyes on mine;Answer to what I ask.(Turning to theJudges.)I prithee markHis countenance: unlike bold calumnyWhich sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks,He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bendsHis gaze on the blind earth.(ToMarzio.) What! wilt thou sayThat I did murder my own father?Marzio.—Oh!Spare me! My brain swims round ... I cannot speak ...It was that horrid torture forced the truth.Take me away! Let her not look on me!I am a guilty miserable wretch;I have said all I know; now, let me die!Beatrice.—My Lords, if by my nature I had beenSo stern, as to have planned the crime alleged,Which your suspicions dictate to this slave,And the rack makes him utter, do you thinkI should have left this two-edged instrumentOf my misdeed; this man, this bloody knifeWith my own name engraven on the heft,Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes,For my own death? That with such horrible needFor deepest silence, I should have neglectedSo trivial a precaution, as the makingHis tomb the keeper of a secret writtenOn a thief's memory? What is his poor life?What are a thousand lives? A parricideHad trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives!(Turning toMarzio.) And thou ...Marzio.—Oh, spare me! Speak to me no more!That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones,Wound worse than torture.(To theJudges.) I have told it all;For pity's sake lead me away to death.Camillo.—Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice;He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leafFrom the keen breath of the serenest north.Beatrice.—O thou who tremblest on the giddy vergeOf life and death, pause ere thou answerest me;So mayst thou answer God with less dismay:What evil have we done thee? I, alas!Have lived but on this earth a few sad yearsAnd so my lot was ordered, that a fatherFirst turned the moments of awakening lifeTo drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope; and thenStabbed with one blow my everlasting soul;And my untainted fame; and even that peaceWhich sleeps within the core of the heart's heart;But the wound was not mortal; so my hateBecame the only worship I could liftTo our great Father, who in pity and love,Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off;And thus his wrong becomes my accusation;And art thou the accuser? If thou hopestMercy in heaven, show justice upon earth:Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.If thou hast done murders, made thy life's pathOver the trampled laws of God and man,Rush not before thy Judge, and say: "My maker,I have done this and more; for there was oneWho was most pure and innocent on earth;And because she endured what never anyGuilty or innocent endured before:Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought;Because thy hand at length did rescue her;I with my words killed her and all her kin."Think, I adjure you, what it is to slayThe reverence living in the minds of menTowards our ancient house, and stainless fame!Think what it is to strangle infant pity,Cradled in the belief of guileless looks,Till it become a crime to suffer. ThinkWhat 't is to blot with infamy and bloodAll that which shows like innocence, and is,Hear me, great God! I swear, most innocent,So that the world lose all discriminationBetween the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt,And that which now compels thee to replyTo what I ask: Am I, or am I notA parricide?Marzio.—Thou art not!Judge.—What is this?Marzio.—I here declare those whom I did accuseAre innocent. 'T is I alone am guilty.Judge.—Drag him away to torments; let them beSubtle and long drawn out, to tear the foldsOf the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him notTill he confess.Marzio.—Torture me as ye will:A keener pain has wrung a higher truthFrom my last breath. She is most innocent!Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me;I will not give you that fine piece of natureTo rend and ruin.(ExitMarzio,guarded.)Camillo.—What say ye now, my Lords?Judge.—Let tortures strain the truth till it be whiteAs snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind.Camillo.—Yet stained with blood.Judge(toBeatrice). —Know you this paper, Lady?Beatrice.—Entrap me not with questions. Who stands hereAs my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he,Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, judge,What, all in one? Here is Orsino's name;Where is Orsino? Let his eye meet mine.What means this scrawl? Alas! ye know not what,And therefore on the chance that it may beSome evil, will ye kill us?(Enter an Officer.)Officer.—Marzio's dead.Judge.—What did he say?Officer.—Nothing. As soon as weHad bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us,As one who baffles a deep adversary;And holding his breath, died.Judge.—There remains nothingBut to apply the question to those prisoners,Who yet remain stubborn.Camillo.—I overruleFurther proceedings, and in the behalfOf these most innocent and noble personsWill use my interest with the Holy Father.Judge.—Let the Pope's pleasure then be done.MeanwhileConduct these culprits each to separate cells;And be the engines ready: for this nightIf the Pope's resolution be as grave,Pious, and just as once, I'll wring the truthOut of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan.(Exeunt.)PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
THE TRIAL OF BEATRICE.FROM "THE CENCI," ACT V.
Scene II.—A Hall of Justice.Camillo,Judges,etc., are discovered seated;Marziois led in.
First Judge.—Accused, do you persist in your denial?I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty?I demand who were the participatorsIn your offence? Speak truth and the whole truth.
Marzio.—My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing;Olimpio sold the robe to me from whichYou would infer my guilt.
Second Judge.—Away with him!
First Judge.—Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack's kissSpeak false? Is it so soft a questioner,That you would bandy lovers' talk with itTill it wind out your life and soul? Away!
Marzio.—Spare me! O, spare! I will confess.
First Judge.—Then speak.
Marzio.—I strangled him in his sleep.
First Judge.—Who urged you to it?
Marzio.—His own son, Giacomo, and the young prelateOrsino sent me to Petrella; thereThe ladies Beatrice and LucretiaTempted me with a thousand crowns, and IAnd my companion forthwith murdered him.Now let me die.
First Judge.—This sounds as bad as truth.Guards, there,Lead forth the prisoner!
EnterLucretia,Beatrice,Giacomo,guarded.
Look upon this man;When did you see him last?
Beatrice.—We never saw him.
Marzio.—You know me too well, Lady Beatrice.
Beatrice.—I know thee! How? where? when?
Marzio.—You know 't was IWhom you did urge with menaces and bribesTo kill your father. When the thing was doneYou clothed me in a robe of woven goldAnd bade me thrive: how I have thriven, you see.You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia,You know that what I speak is true.(Beatriceadvances towards him; he covers his face,and shrinks back.)O, dartThe terrible resentment of those eyesOn the dead earth! Turn them away from me!They wound: 't was torture forced the truth. My Lords,Having said this let me be led to death.
Beatrice.—Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stayawhile.
Camillo.—Guards, lead him not away.
Beatrice.—Cardinal Camillo,You have a good repute for gentlenessAnd wisdom: can it be that you sit hereTo countenance a wicked farce like this?When some obscure and trembling slave is draggedFrom sufferings which might shake the sternest heartAnd bade to answer, not as he believes,But as those may suspect or do desireWhose questions thence suggest their own reply:And that in peril of such hideous tormentsAs merciful God spares even the damned. Speak nowThe thing you surely know, which is that you,If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel,And you were told: "Confess that you did poisonYour little nephew; that fair blue-eyed childWho was the lodestar of your life:"—and tho'All see, since his most swift and piteous death,That day and night, and heaven and earth, and timeAnd all the things hoped for or done thereinAre changed to you, thro' your exceeding grief,Yet you would say, "I confess anything:"And beg from your tormentors, like that slave,The refuge of dishonorable death.I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assertMy innocence.
Camillo(much moved).—What shall we think, my Lords?Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozenWhich is their fountain. I would pledge my soulThat she is guiltless.
Judge.—Yet she must be tortured.
Camillo.—I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew(If he now lived he would be just her age;His hair, too, was her color, and his eyesLike hers in shape, but blue and not so deep)As that most perfect image of God's loveThat ever came sorrowing upon the earth.She is as pure as speechless infancy!
Judge.—Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord,If you forbid the rack. His HolinessEnjoined us to pursue this monstrous crimeBy the severest forms of law; nay evenTo stretch a point against the criminals.The prisoners stand accused of parricideUpon such evidence as justifiesTorture.
Beatrice.—What evidence? This man's?
Judge.—Even so.
Beatrice(toMarzio).—Come near.And who art thou thus chosen forthOut of the multitude of living menTo kill the innocent?
Marzio.—I am Marzio,Thy father's vassal.
Beatrice.—Fix thine eyes on mine;Answer to what I ask.(Turning to theJudges.)I prithee markHis countenance: unlike bold calumnyWhich sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks,He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bendsHis gaze on the blind earth.(ToMarzio.) What! wilt thou sayThat I did murder my own father?
Marzio.—Oh!Spare me! My brain swims round ... I cannot speak ...It was that horrid torture forced the truth.Take me away! Let her not look on me!I am a guilty miserable wretch;I have said all I know; now, let me die!
Beatrice.—My Lords, if by my nature I had beenSo stern, as to have planned the crime alleged,Which your suspicions dictate to this slave,And the rack makes him utter, do you thinkI should have left this two-edged instrumentOf my misdeed; this man, this bloody knifeWith my own name engraven on the heft,Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes,For my own death? That with such horrible needFor deepest silence, I should have neglectedSo trivial a precaution, as the makingHis tomb the keeper of a secret writtenOn a thief's memory? What is his poor life?What are a thousand lives? A parricideHad trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives!(Turning toMarzio.) And thou ...
Marzio.—Oh, spare me! Speak to me no more!That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones,Wound worse than torture.
(To theJudges.) I have told it all;For pity's sake lead me away to death.
Camillo.—Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice;He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leafFrom the keen breath of the serenest north.
Beatrice.—O thou who tremblest on the giddy vergeOf life and death, pause ere thou answerest me;So mayst thou answer God with less dismay:What evil have we done thee? I, alas!Have lived but on this earth a few sad yearsAnd so my lot was ordered, that a fatherFirst turned the moments of awakening lifeTo drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope; and thenStabbed with one blow my everlasting soul;And my untainted fame; and even that peaceWhich sleeps within the core of the heart's heart;But the wound was not mortal; so my hateBecame the only worship I could liftTo our great Father, who in pity and love,Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off;And thus his wrong becomes my accusation;And art thou the accuser? If thou hopestMercy in heaven, show justice upon earth:Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.If thou hast done murders, made thy life's pathOver the trampled laws of God and man,Rush not before thy Judge, and say: "My maker,I have done this and more; for there was oneWho was most pure and innocent on earth;And because she endured what never anyGuilty or innocent endured before:Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought;Because thy hand at length did rescue her;I with my words killed her and all her kin."Think, I adjure you, what it is to slayThe reverence living in the minds of menTowards our ancient house, and stainless fame!Think what it is to strangle infant pity,Cradled in the belief of guileless looks,Till it become a crime to suffer. ThinkWhat 't is to blot with infamy and bloodAll that which shows like innocence, and is,Hear me, great God! I swear, most innocent,So that the world lose all discriminationBetween the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt,And that which now compels thee to replyTo what I ask: Am I, or am I notA parricide?
Marzio.—Thou art not!
Judge.—What is this?
Marzio.—I here declare those whom I did accuseAre innocent. 'T is I alone am guilty.
Judge.—Drag him away to torments; let them beSubtle and long drawn out, to tear the foldsOf the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him notTill he confess.
Marzio.—Torture me as ye will:A keener pain has wrung a higher truthFrom my last breath. She is most innocent!Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me;I will not give you that fine piece of natureTo rend and ruin.(ExitMarzio,guarded.)
Camillo.—What say ye now, my Lords?
Judge.—Let tortures strain the truth till it be whiteAs snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind.
Camillo.—Yet stained with blood.
Judge(toBeatrice). —Know you this paper, Lady?
Beatrice.—Entrap me not with questions. Who stands hereAs my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he,Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, judge,What, all in one? Here is Orsino's name;Where is Orsino? Let his eye meet mine.What means this scrawl? Alas! ye know not what,And therefore on the chance that it may beSome evil, will ye kill us?
(Enter an Officer.)
Officer.—Marzio's dead.
Judge.—What did he say?
Officer.—Nothing. As soon as weHad bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us,As one who baffles a deep adversary;And holding his breath, died.
Judge.—There remains nothingBut to apply the question to those prisoners,Who yet remain stubborn.
Camillo.—I overruleFurther proceedings, and in the behalfOf these most innocent and noble personsWill use my interest with the Holy Father.
Judge.—Let the Pope's pleasure then be done.MeanwhileConduct these culprits each to separate cells;And be the engines ready: for this nightIf the Pope's resolution be as grave,Pious, and just as once, I'll wring the truthOut of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan.(Exeunt.)
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
FRA GIACOMO.Alas, Fra Giacomo,Too late!—but follow me;Hush! draw the curtain,—so!—She is dead, quite dead, you see.Poor little lady! she liesWith the light gone out of her eyes,But her features still wear that softGray meditative expression,Which you must have noticed oft,And admired too, at confession.How saintly she looks, and how meek!Though this be the chamber of death,I fancy I feel her breathAs I kiss her on the cheek.With that pensive religious face,She has gone to a holier place!And I hardly appreciated her,—Her praying, fasting, confessing,Poorly, I own, I mated her;I thought her too cold, and rated herFor her endless image-caressing.Too saintly for me by far,As pure and as cold as a star,Not fashioned for kissing and pressing,—But made for a heavenly crown.Ay, father, let us go down,—But first, if you please, your blessing.Wine? No? Come, come, you must!You'll bless it with your prayers,And quaff a cup, I trust,To the health of the saint up stairs?My heart is aching so!And I feel so weary and sad,Through the blow that I have had,—You'll sit, Fra Giacomo?My friend! (and a friend I rank youFor the sake of that saint,)—nay, nay!Here's the wine,—as you love me, stay!—'T is Montepulciano!—Thank you.Heigh-ho! 'T is now six summersSince I won that angel and married her:I was rich, not old, and carried herOff in the face of all comers.So fresh, yet so brimming with soul!A tenderer morsel, I swear,Never made the dull black coalOf a monk's eye glitter and glare.Your pardon!—nay, keep your chair!I wander a little, but meanNo offence to the gray gaberdine;Of the church, Fra Giacomo,I'm a faithful upholder, you know,But (humor me!) she was as sweetAs the saints in your convent windows,So gentle, so meek, so discreet,She knew not what lust does or sin does.I'll confess, though, before we were one,I deemed her less saintly, and thoughtThe blood in her veins had caughtSome natural warmth from the sun.I was wrong,—I was blind as a bat,—Brute that I was, how I blundered!Though such a mistake as thatMight have occurred as patTo ninety-nine men in a hundred.Yourself, for example? you've seen her?Spite her modest and pious demeanor,And the manners so nice and precise,Seemed there not color and light,Bright motion and appetite,That were scarcely consistent withice?Externals implying, you see,Internals less saintly than human?—Pray speak, for between you and meYou're not a bad judge of a woman!A jest,—but a jest!—Very true:'T is hardly becoming to jest,And that saint up stairs at rest,—Her soul may be listening, too!I was always a brute of a fellow!Well may your visage turn yellow,—To think how I doubted and doubted,Suspected, grumbled at, floutedThat golden-haired angel,—and solelyBecause she was zealous and holy!Noon and night and mornShe devoted herself to piety;Not that she seemed to scornOr dislike her husband's society;But the claims of hersoulsupersededAll that I asked for or needed,And her thoughts were far awayFrom the level of sinful clay,And she trembled if earthly mattersInterfered with heravesandpaters,Poor dove, she so fluttered in flyingAbove the dim vapors of hell—Bent on self-sanctifying—That she never thought of tryingTo save her husband as well.And while she was duly electedFor place in the heavenly roll,I (brute that I was!) suspectedHer manner of saving her soul.So, half for the fun of the thing,What did I (blasphemer!) but flingOn my shoulders the gown of a monk—Whom I managed for that very dayTo get safely out of the way—And seat me, half sober, half drunk,With the cowl thrown over my face,In the father confessor's place.Eheu! benedicite!In her orthodox sweet simplicity,With that pensive gray expression,She sighfully knelt at confession,While I bit my lips till they bled,And dug my nails in my hand,And heard with averted headWhat I'd guessed and could understand.Each word was a serpent's sting,But, wrapt in my gloomy gown,I sat, like a marble thing,As she told me all!—Sit down!More wine, Fra Giacomo!One cup,—if you love me! No?What, have these dry lips drankSo deep of the sweets of pleasure—Sub rosa, but quite without measure—That Montepulciano tastes rank?Come, drink! 't will bring the streaksOf crimson back to your cheeks;Come, drink again to the saintWhose virtues you loved to paint,Who, stretched on her wifely bed,With the tender, grave expressionYou used to admire at confession,Lies poisoned, overhead!Sit still,—or by heaven, you die!Face to face, soul to soul, you and IHave settled accounts, in a finePleasant fashion, over our wine.Stir not, and seek not to fly,—Nay, whether or not, you are mine!Thank Montepulciano for givingYou death in such delicate sips;'T is not every monk ceases livingWith so pleasant a taste on his lips;But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,Take this! and this! and this!Cover him over, Pietro,And bury him in the court below,—You can be secret, lad, I know!And, hark you, then to the convent go,—Bid every bell of the convent toll,And the monks say mass for your mistress' soul.ROBERT BUCHANAN.
FRA GIACOMO.
Alas, Fra Giacomo,Too late!—but follow me;Hush! draw the curtain,—so!—She is dead, quite dead, you see.Poor little lady! she liesWith the light gone out of her eyes,But her features still wear that softGray meditative expression,Which you must have noticed oft,And admired too, at confession.How saintly she looks, and how meek!Though this be the chamber of death,I fancy I feel her breathAs I kiss her on the cheek.With that pensive religious face,She has gone to a holier place!And I hardly appreciated her,—Her praying, fasting, confessing,Poorly, I own, I mated her;I thought her too cold, and rated herFor her endless image-caressing.Too saintly for me by far,As pure and as cold as a star,Not fashioned for kissing and pressing,—But made for a heavenly crown.Ay, father, let us go down,—But first, if you please, your blessing.
Wine? No? Come, come, you must!You'll bless it with your prayers,And quaff a cup, I trust,To the health of the saint up stairs?My heart is aching so!And I feel so weary and sad,Through the blow that I have had,—You'll sit, Fra Giacomo?My friend! (and a friend I rank youFor the sake of that saint,)—nay, nay!Here's the wine,—as you love me, stay!—'T is Montepulciano!—Thank you.
Heigh-ho! 'T is now six summersSince I won that angel and married her:I was rich, not old, and carried herOff in the face of all comers.So fresh, yet so brimming with soul!A tenderer morsel, I swear,Never made the dull black coalOf a monk's eye glitter and glare.Your pardon!—nay, keep your chair!I wander a little, but meanNo offence to the gray gaberdine;Of the church, Fra Giacomo,I'm a faithful upholder, you know,But (humor me!) she was as sweetAs the saints in your convent windows,So gentle, so meek, so discreet,She knew not what lust does or sin does.I'll confess, though, before we were one,I deemed her less saintly, and thoughtThe blood in her veins had caughtSome natural warmth from the sun.I was wrong,—I was blind as a bat,—Brute that I was, how I blundered!Though such a mistake as thatMight have occurred as patTo ninety-nine men in a hundred.Yourself, for example? you've seen her?Spite her modest and pious demeanor,And the manners so nice and precise,Seemed there not color and light,Bright motion and appetite,That were scarcely consistent withice?Externals implying, you see,Internals less saintly than human?—Pray speak, for between you and meYou're not a bad judge of a woman!A jest,—but a jest!—Very true:'T is hardly becoming to jest,And that saint up stairs at rest,—Her soul may be listening, too!I was always a brute of a fellow!Well may your visage turn yellow,—To think how I doubted and doubted,Suspected, grumbled at, floutedThat golden-haired angel,—and solelyBecause she was zealous and holy!Noon and night and mornShe devoted herself to piety;Not that she seemed to scornOr dislike her husband's society;But the claims of hersoulsupersededAll that I asked for or needed,And her thoughts were far awayFrom the level of sinful clay,And she trembled if earthly mattersInterfered with heravesandpaters,Poor dove, she so fluttered in flyingAbove the dim vapors of hell—Bent on self-sanctifying—That she never thought of tryingTo save her husband as well.And while she was duly electedFor place in the heavenly roll,I (brute that I was!) suspectedHer manner of saving her soul.So, half for the fun of the thing,What did I (blasphemer!) but flingOn my shoulders the gown of a monk—Whom I managed for that very dayTo get safely out of the way—And seat me, half sober, half drunk,With the cowl thrown over my face,In the father confessor's place.Eheu! benedicite!In her orthodox sweet simplicity,With that pensive gray expression,She sighfully knelt at confession,While I bit my lips till they bled,And dug my nails in my hand,And heard with averted headWhat I'd guessed and could understand.Each word was a serpent's sting,But, wrapt in my gloomy gown,I sat, like a marble thing,As she told me all!—Sit down!
More wine, Fra Giacomo!One cup,—if you love me! No?What, have these dry lips drankSo deep of the sweets of pleasure—Sub rosa, but quite without measure—That Montepulciano tastes rank?Come, drink! 't will bring the streaksOf crimson back to your cheeks;Come, drink again to the saintWhose virtues you loved to paint,Who, stretched on her wifely bed,With the tender, grave expressionYou used to admire at confession,Lies poisoned, overhead!
Sit still,—or by heaven, you die!Face to face, soul to soul, you and IHave settled accounts, in a finePleasant fashion, over our wine.Stir not, and seek not to fly,—Nay, whether or not, you are mine!Thank Montepulciano for givingYou death in such delicate sips;'T is not every monk ceases livingWith so pleasant a taste on his lips;But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,Take this! and this! and this!
Cover him over, Pietro,And bury him in the court below,—You can be secret, lad, I know!And, hark you, then to the convent go,—Bid every bell of the convent toll,And the monks say mass for your mistress' soul.
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
GINEVRA.If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chanceTo Modena, where still religiouslyAmong her ancient trophies is preservedBologna's bucket (in its chain it hangsWithin that reverend tower, the Guirlandina),Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate,Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,Will long detain thee; through their archèd walks,Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpseOf knights and dames, such as in old romance,And lovers, such as in heroic song,Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,That in the springtime, as alone they sat,Venturing together on a tale of love,Read only part that day.—A summer sunSets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go,Enter the house—prythee, forget it not—And look awhile upon a picture there.'T is of a Lady in her earliest youth,The last of that illustrious race;Done by Zampieri—but I care not whom.He who observes it, ere he passes on,Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,That he may call it up when far away.She sits inclining forward as to speak,Her lips half open, and her finger up,As though she said "Beware!" her vest of goldBroidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,An emerald stone in every golden clasp;And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,A coronet of pearls. But then her face,So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,The overflowings of an innocent heart,—It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,Like some wild melody!Alone it hangsOver a moldering heirloom, its companion,An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,But richly carved by Antony of TrentWith Scripture stories from the life of Christ;A chest that came from Venice, and had heldThe ducal robes of some old Ancestor,That, by the way—it may be true or false—But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt notWhen thou hast heard the tale they told me there.She was an only child; from infancyThe joy, the pride, of an indulgent Sire;Her Mother dying of the gift she gave,That precious gift, what else remained to him?The young Ginevra was his all in life,Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;And in her fifteenth year became a bride,Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,She was all gentleness, all gayety,Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.But now the day was come, the day, the hour;Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;And, in the lustre of her youth, she gaveHer hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.Great was the joy; but at the Bridal-feast,When all sate down, the bride was wanting there,Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried,"'T is but to make a trial of our love!"And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.'T was but that instant she had left Francesco,Laughing and looking back, and flying still,Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.But now, alas, she was not to be found;Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,But that she was not!Weary of his life,Francesco flew to Venice, and, forthwith,Flung it away in battle with the Turk.Orsini lived,—and long mightst thou have seenAn old man wandering as in quest of something,Something he could not find, he knew not what.When he was gone, the house remained awhileSilent and tenantless,—then went to strangers.Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,When, on an idle day, a day of searchMid the old lumber in the Gallery,That moldering chest was noticed; and 't was saidBy one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,"Why not remove it from its lurking-place?"'T was done as soon as said; but on the wayIt burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold!All else had perished,—save a nuptial-ring,And a small seal, her mother's legacy,Engraven with a name, the name of both,"Ginevra."There then had she found a grave!Within that chest had she concealed herself,Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,Fastened her down for ever!SAMUEL ROGERS.
GINEVRA.
If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chanceTo Modena, where still religiouslyAmong her ancient trophies is preservedBologna's bucket (in its chain it hangsWithin that reverend tower, the Guirlandina),Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate,Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,Will long detain thee; through their archèd walks,Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpseOf knights and dames, such as in old romance,And lovers, such as in heroic song,Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,That in the springtime, as alone they sat,Venturing together on a tale of love,Read only part that day.—A summer sunSets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go,Enter the house—prythee, forget it not—And look awhile upon a picture there.
'T is of a Lady in her earliest youth,The last of that illustrious race;Done by Zampieri—but I care not whom.He who observes it, ere he passes on,Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,That he may call it up when far away.
She sits inclining forward as to speak,Her lips half open, and her finger up,As though she said "Beware!" her vest of goldBroidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,An emerald stone in every golden clasp;And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,A coronet of pearls. But then her face,So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,The overflowings of an innocent heart,—It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,Like some wild melody!Alone it hangsOver a moldering heirloom, its companion,An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,But richly carved by Antony of TrentWith Scripture stories from the life of Christ;A chest that came from Venice, and had heldThe ducal robes of some old Ancestor,That, by the way—it may be true or false—But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt notWhen thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child; from infancyThe joy, the pride, of an indulgent Sire;Her Mother dying of the gift she gave,That precious gift, what else remained to him?The young Ginevra was his all in life,Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;And in her fifteenth year became a bride,Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,She was all gentleness, all gayety,Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.But now the day was come, the day, the hour;Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;And, in the lustre of her youth, she gaveHer hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the Bridal-feast,When all sate down, the bride was wanting there,Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried,"'T is but to make a trial of our love!"And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.'T was but that instant she had left Francesco,Laughing and looking back, and flying still,Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.But now, alas, she was not to be found;Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,But that she was not!Weary of his life,Francesco flew to Venice, and, forthwith,Flung it away in battle with the Turk.Orsini lived,—and long mightst thou have seenAn old man wandering as in quest of something,Something he could not find, he knew not what.When he was gone, the house remained awhileSilent and tenantless,—then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,When, on an idle day, a day of searchMid the old lumber in the Gallery,That moldering chest was noticed; and 't was saidBy one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,"Why not remove it from its lurking-place?"'T was done as soon as said; but on the wayIt burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold!All else had perished,—save a nuptial-ring,And a small seal, her mother's legacy,Engraven with a name, the name of both,"Ginevra."There then had she found a grave!Within that chest had she concealed herself,Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,Fastened her down for ever!
SAMUEL ROGERS.
BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire;"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train,I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—oh, break my father's chain!""Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day;Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way."Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band,With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land;"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he,The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see."His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's blood came and went;He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent;A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,—What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?That hand was cold,—a frozen thing,—it dropped from his like lead,—He looked up to the face above,—the face was of the dead!A plume waved o'er the noble brow,—the brow was fixed and white;—He met at last his father's eyes,—but in them was no sight!Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze?They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze;They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood,For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood."Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then:Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown;He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sate down.Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,—"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now;My king is false, my hope betrayed; my father—oh! the worth,The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet,I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met!Thou wouldst have known my spirit then; for thee my fields were won;And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train;And with a fierce o'ermastering grasp, the raging war-horse led,And sternly set them face to face,—the king before the dead!"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?Be still, and gaze thou on, false king, and tell me what is this?The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, where are they?If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!"Into these glassy eyes put light;—be still! keep down thine ire!Bid these white lips a blessing speak,—this earth is not my sire!Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head!"He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell; upon the silent faceHe cast one long, deep, troubled look,—then turned from that sad place.His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain:His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.FELICIA HEMANS.
BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.
The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire;"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train,I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—oh, break my father's chain!"
"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day;Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way."Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.
And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band,With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land;"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he,The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see."
His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's blood came and went;He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent;A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,—What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?
That hand was cold,—a frozen thing,—it dropped from his like lead,—He looked up to the face above,—the face was of the dead!A plume waved o'er the noble brow,—the brow was fixed and white;—He met at last his father's eyes,—but in them was no sight!
Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze?They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze;They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood,For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.
"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then:Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown;He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sate down.
Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,—"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now;My king is false, my hope betrayed; my father—oh! the worth,The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!
"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet,I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met!Thou wouldst have known my spirit then; for thee my fields were won;And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"
Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train;And with a fierce o'ermastering grasp, the raging war-horse led,And sternly set them face to face,—the king before the dead!
"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?Be still, and gaze thou on, false king, and tell me what is this?The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, where are they?If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!
"Into these glassy eyes put light;—be still! keep down thine ire!Bid these white lips a blessing speak,—this earth is not my sire!Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head!"
He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell; upon the silent faceHe cast one long, deep, troubled look,—then turned from that sad place.His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain:His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.
FELICIA HEMANS.
THE PRISONER OF 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.Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,And thy sad floor an altar,—for 't was trod,Until his very steps have left a traceWorn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,By Bonnivard!—May none those marks efface!For they appeal from tyranny to God.————
THE PRISONER OF 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.Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,And thy sad floor an altar,—for 't was trod,Until his very steps have left a traceWorn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,By Bonnivard!—May none those marks efface!For they appeal from tyranny to God.————
My hair is gray, but not with years,Nor grew it whiteIn 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,For they have been a dungeon spoil,And mine has been the fate of thoseTo whom the goodly earth and airAre banned, and barred,—forbidden fare;But this was for my father's faithI suffered chains and courted death;That father perished at the stakeFor tenets he would not forsake;And for the same his lineal raceIn darkness found a dwelling-place;We were seven,—who now are one,Six in youth, and one in age,Finished as they had begun,Proud of Persecution's rage;One in fire, and two in field,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.There are seven pillars of Gothic mouldIn 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,And through the crevice and the cleftOf 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,And in each ring there is a chain;That iron is a cankering thing;For in these limbs its teeth remainWith marks that will not wear away,Till I have done with this new day,Which now is painful to these eyes,Which have not seen the sun to riseFor years,—I cannot count them o'er,I lost their long and heavy scoreWhen my last brother drooped and died,And I lay living by his side.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,But with that pale and livid lightThat made us strangers in our sight;And thus together, yet apart,Fettered in hand, but pined in heart;'T was still some solace, in the dearthOf the pure elements of earth,To hearken to each other's speech,And each turn comforter to eachWith some new hope, or legend old,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 freeAs they of yore were wont to be;It might be fancy,—but to meThey never sounded like our own.I was the eldest of the three,And to uphold and cheer the restI ought to do—and did—my best,And each did well in his degree.The youngest, whom my father loved,Because our mother's brow was givenTo him, with eyes as blue as heaven,—For him my soul was sorely moved;And truly might it be distrestTo see such bird in such a nest;For he was beautiful as day(When day was beautiful to meAs to young eagles, being free),—A polar day, which will not seeA 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 naught but others' ills,And then they flowed like mountain rills,Unless he could assuage the woeWhich he abhorred to view below.The other was as pure of mind,But formed to combat with his kind;Strong in his frame, and of a moodWhich 'gainst the world in war had stood,And perished in the foremost rankWith 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 cheerThose 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 gulfAnd fettered feet the worst of ills.Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:A thousand feet in depth belowIts massy waters meet and flow;Thus much the fathom-line was sentFrom Chillon's snow-white battlement,Which round about the wave inthralls;And double dungeon wall and waveHave made,—and like a living grave.Below the surface of the lakeThe dark vault lies wherein we lay,We heard it ripple night and day;Sounding o'er our heads it knocked;And I have felt the winter's sprayWash through the bars when winds were highAnd wanton in the happy sky;And then the very rock hath rocked,And I have felt it shake, unshocked,Because I could have smiled to seeThe death that would have set me free.I said my nearer brother pined,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;The milk drawn from the mountain goatWas changed for water from the moat.Our bread was such as captives' tearsHave moistened many a thousand years,Since man first pent his fellow-menLike 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 mouldWhich in a palace had grown cold,Had his free breathing been deniedThe 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 scooped for him a shallow graveEven from the cold earth of our cave.I begged them, as a boon, to layHis corse in dust whereon the dayMight shine,—it was a foolish thought,But then within my brain it wrought,That even in death his free-born breastIn 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 aboveThe being we so much did love;His empty chain above it leant,Such murder's fitting monument!But he, the favorite and the flower,Most cherished 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 soughtTo hoard my life, that his might beLess wretched now, and one day free;He, too, who yet had held untiredA spirit natural or inspired,—He, too, was struck, and day by dayWas withered on the stalk away.O God! it is a fearful thingTo see the human soul take wingIn any shape, in any mood:—I've seen it rushing forth in blood,I've seen it on the breaking oceanStrive with a swoln convulsive motion,I've seen the sick and ghastly bedOf Sin delirious with its dread:But these were horrors,—this was woeUnmixed 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 bloomWas as a mockery of the tomb,Whose tints as gently sunk awayAs a departing rainbow's ray,—An eye of most transparent light,That almost made the dungeon bright,And not a word of murmur,—notA 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,—lostIn this last loss, of all the most;And then the sighs he would suppressOf 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 't was hopeless, but my dreadWould not be thus admonishèd;I called, and thought I heard a sound,—I burst my chain with one strong bound,And rushed to him:—I found him not,Ionly stirred in this black spot,Ionly lived,—Ionly drewThe accursed breath of dungeon-dew;The last—the sole—the dearest linkBetween 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 knowThat what we love shall ne'er be so.I know not whyI could not die,I had no earthly hope—but faith,And that forbade a selfish death.What next befell me then and thereI 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 gray;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 breathWhich neither was of life nor death:—A sea of stagnant idleness,Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!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 eyesRan over with the glad surprise,And they that moment could not seeI was the mate of misery;But then by dull degrees came backMy senses to their wonted track,I saw the dungeon walls and floorClose slowly round me as before,I saw the glimmer of the sunCreeping as it before had done,But through the crevice where it cameThat bird was perched, as fond and tame,And tamer than upon the tree;A lovely bird, with azure wings,And song that said a thousand things,And seemed to say them all for me!I never saw its like before,I ne'er shall see its likeness more.It seemed, like me, to want a mate,But was not half so desolate,And it was come to love me whenNone 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,But knowing well captivity,Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine!Or if it were, in wingèd guise,A visitant from Paradise:For—Heaven forgive that thought! the whileWhich made me both to weep and smile—I sometimes deemed that it might beMy brother's soul come down to me;But then at last away it flew,And then 't was mortal,—well I knew,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 atmosphereThat hath no business to appearWhen skies are blue and earth is gay.A kind of change came in my fate,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 chainWith links unfastened did remain,And it was liberty to strideAlong 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,Returning where my walk begun,Avoiding only, as I trod,My brothers' graves without a sod;For if I thought with heedless treadMy step profaned their lowly bed,My breath came gaspingly and thick,And my crushed heart fell blind and sick.I made a footing in the wall,It was not therefrom to escape,For I had buried one and allWho loved me in a human shape:And the whole earth would henceforth beA wider prison unto me:No child,—no sire,—no kin had I,No partner in my misery;I thought of this and I was glad,For thought of them had made me mad;But I was curious to ascendTo my barred windows, and to bendOnce more, upon the mountains high,The quiet of a loving eye.I saw them,—and they were the same,They were not changed like me in frame;I saw their thousand years of snowOn high,—their wide long lake below,And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;I heard the torrents leap and gushO'er channelled rock and broken bush;I saw the white-walled distant town,And whiter sails go skimming down;And then there was a little isle,Which in my very face did smile,The only one in view;A small green isle, it seemed no more,Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,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.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 fastAs then to me he seemed to fly,And then new tears came in my eye,And I felt troubled,—and would fainI had not left my recent chain;And when I did descend again,The darkness of my dim abodeFell on me as a heavy load;It was as in a new-dug graveClosing o'er one we sought to save,And yet my glance, too much oppressed,Had almost need of such a rest.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,I asked not why and recked not where,It was at length the same to me,Fettered or fetterless to be,I learned to love despair.And thus when they appeared at last,And all my bonds aside were cast,These heavy walls to me had grownA hermitage, and all my own!And half I felt as they were comeTo tear me from a second home;With spiders I had friendship made,And watched 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,Had power to kill,—yet, strange to tell;In quiet we had learned to dwell,—My very chains and I grew friends,So much a long communion tendsTo make us what we are:—even IRegained my freedom with a sigh.LORD BYRON.
My hair is gray, but not with years,Nor grew it whiteIn 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,For they have been a dungeon spoil,And mine has been the fate of thoseTo whom the goodly earth and airAre banned, and barred,—forbidden fare;But this was for my father's faithI suffered chains and courted death;That father perished at the stakeFor tenets he would not forsake;And for the same his lineal raceIn darkness found a dwelling-place;We were seven,—who now are one,Six in youth, and one in age,Finished as they had begun,Proud of Persecution's rage;One in fire, and two in field,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.
There are seven pillars of Gothic mouldIn 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,And through the crevice and the cleftOf 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,And in each ring there is a chain;That iron is a cankering thing;For in these limbs its teeth remainWith marks that will not wear away,Till I have done with this new day,Which now is painful to these eyes,Which have not seen the sun to riseFor years,—I cannot count them o'er,I lost their long and heavy scoreWhen my last brother drooped and died,And I lay living by his side.
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,But with that pale and livid lightThat made us strangers in our sight;And thus together, yet apart,Fettered in hand, but pined in heart;'T was still some solace, in the dearthOf the pure elements of earth,To hearken to each other's speech,And each turn comforter to eachWith some new hope, or legend old,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 freeAs they of yore were wont to be;It might be fancy,—but to meThey never sounded like our own.
I was the eldest of the three,And to uphold and cheer the restI ought to do—and did—my best,And each did well in his degree.The youngest, whom my father loved,Because our mother's brow was givenTo him, with eyes as blue as heaven,—For him my soul was sorely moved;And truly might it be distrestTo see such bird in such a nest;For he was beautiful as day(When day was beautiful to meAs to young eagles, being free),—A polar day, which will not seeA 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 naught but others' ills,And then they flowed like mountain rills,Unless he could assuage the woeWhich he abhorred to view below.
The other was as pure of mind,But formed to combat with his kind;Strong in his frame, and of a moodWhich 'gainst the world in war had stood,And perished in the foremost rankWith 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 cheerThose 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 gulfAnd fettered feet the worst of ills.
Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:A thousand feet in depth belowIts massy waters meet and flow;Thus much the fathom-line was sentFrom Chillon's snow-white battlement,Which round about the wave inthralls;And double dungeon wall and waveHave made,—and like a living grave.Below the surface of the lakeThe dark vault lies wherein we lay,We heard it ripple night and day;Sounding o'er our heads it knocked;And I have felt the winter's sprayWash through the bars when winds were highAnd wanton in the happy sky;And then the very rock hath rocked,And I have felt it shake, unshocked,Because I could have smiled to seeThe death that would have set me free.
I said my nearer brother pined,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;The milk drawn from the mountain goatWas changed for water from the moat.Our bread was such as captives' tearsHave moistened many a thousand years,Since man first pent his fellow-menLike 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 mouldWhich in a palace had grown cold,Had his free breathing been deniedThe 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 scooped for him a shallow graveEven from the cold earth of our cave.I begged them, as a boon, to layHis corse in dust whereon the dayMight shine,—it was a foolish thought,But then within my brain it wrought,That even in death his free-born breastIn 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 aboveThe being we so much did love;His empty chain above it leant,Such murder's fitting monument!
But he, the favorite and the flower,Most cherished 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 soughtTo hoard my life, that his might beLess wretched now, and one day free;He, too, who yet had held untiredA spirit natural or inspired,—He, too, was struck, and day by dayWas withered on the stalk away.O God! it is a fearful thingTo see the human soul take wingIn any shape, in any mood:—I've seen it rushing forth in blood,I've seen it on the breaking oceanStrive with a swoln convulsive motion,I've seen the sick and ghastly bedOf Sin delirious with its dread:But these were horrors,—this was woeUnmixed 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 bloomWas as a mockery of the tomb,Whose tints as gently sunk awayAs a departing rainbow's ray,—An eye of most transparent light,That almost made the dungeon bright,And not a word of murmur,—notA 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,—lostIn this last loss, of all the most;And then the sighs he would suppressOf 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 't was hopeless, but my dreadWould not be thus admonishèd;I called, and thought I heard a sound,—I burst my chain with one strong bound,And rushed to him:—I found him not,Ionly stirred in this black spot,Ionly lived,—Ionly drewThe accursed breath of dungeon-dew;The last—the sole—the dearest linkBetween 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 knowThat what we love shall ne'er be so.I know not whyI could not die,I had no earthly hope—but faith,And that forbade a selfish death.
What next befell me then and thereI 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 gray;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 breathWhich neither was of life nor death:—A sea of stagnant idleness,Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!
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 eyesRan over with the glad surprise,And they that moment could not seeI was the mate of misery;But then by dull degrees came backMy senses to their wonted track,I saw the dungeon walls and floorClose slowly round me as before,I saw the glimmer of the sunCreeping as it before had done,But through the crevice where it cameThat bird was perched, as fond and tame,And tamer than upon the tree;A lovely bird, with azure wings,And song that said a thousand things,And seemed to say them all for me!I never saw its like before,I ne'er shall see its likeness more.It seemed, like me, to want a mate,But was not half so desolate,And it was come to love me whenNone 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,But knowing well captivity,Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine!Or if it were, in wingèd guise,A visitant from Paradise:For—Heaven forgive that thought! the whileWhich made me both to weep and smile—I sometimes deemed that it might beMy brother's soul come down to me;But then at last away it flew,And then 't was mortal,—well I knew,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 atmosphereThat hath no business to appearWhen skies are blue and earth is gay.
A kind of change came in my fate,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 chainWith links unfastened did remain,And it was liberty to strideAlong 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,Returning where my walk begun,Avoiding only, as I trod,My brothers' graves without a sod;For if I thought with heedless treadMy step profaned their lowly bed,My breath came gaspingly and thick,And my crushed heart fell blind and sick.
I made a footing in the wall,It was not therefrom to escape,For I had buried one and allWho loved me in a human shape:And the whole earth would henceforth beA wider prison unto me:No child,—no sire,—no kin had I,No partner in my misery;I thought of this and I was glad,For thought of them had made me mad;But I was curious to ascendTo my barred windows, and to bendOnce more, upon the mountains high,The quiet of a loving eye.
I saw them,—and they were the same,They were not changed like me in frame;I saw their thousand years of snowOn high,—their wide long lake below,And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;I heard the torrents leap and gushO'er channelled rock and broken bush;I saw the white-walled distant town,And whiter sails go skimming down;And then there was a little isle,Which in my very face did smile,The only one in view;A small green isle, it seemed no more,Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,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.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 fastAs then to me he seemed to fly,And then new tears came in my eye,And I felt troubled,—and would fainI had not left my recent chain;And when I did descend again,The darkness of my dim abodeFell on me as a heavy load;It was as in a new-dug graveClosing o'er one we sought to save,And yet my glance, too much oppressed,Had almost need of such a rest.
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,I asked not why and recked not where,It was at length the same to me,Fettered or fetterless to be,I learned to love despair.And thus when they appeared at last,And all my bonds aside were cast,These heavy walls to me had grownA hermitage, and all my own!And half I felt as they were comeTo tear me from a second home;With spiders I had friendship made,And watched 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,Had power to kill,—yet, strange to tell;In quiet we had learned to dwell,—My very chains and I grew friends,So much a long communion tendsTo make us what we are:—even IRegained my freedom with a sigh.
LORD BYRON.