But even these at length grew cold. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. As they of yore were wont to be: It might be fancy-but to me They never sounded like our own. I was the eldest of the three, And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do and did-my best; And each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved (When day was beautiful to me And thus he was as pure and bright, With tears for nought but others' ills, Unless he could assuage the woe The other was as pure of mind, Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, And perish'd in the foremost rank With joy but not in chains to pine: His spirit wither'd with their clank; I saw it silently decline And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine: But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills, Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: A double dungeon wall and wave Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were high And wanton in the happy sky; And then the very rock hath rock'd, And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free. I said my nearer brother pin'd, I said his mighty heart declin'd; He loath'd and put away his food; It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. The milk drawn from the mountain goat The flat and turfless earth above But he, the favourite and the flower, The infant love of all his race, He, too, was struck, and day by day He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak, So tearless, yet so tender-kind, And griev'd for those he left behind; Was as a mockery of the tomb, A little talk of better days, |