Sidor som bilder

That iron is a cankering thing,
For in these limbs its teeth remain,
With marks that will not wear away,
Till I have done with this new day,
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.


They chain'd 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 light
That made us strangers in our sight;
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,

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..



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,
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 see such bird in such a nest;
For he was beautiful as day—
(When day was beautiful to me
As to young eagles, being free)-
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,

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The other was as pure of mind,

But formed to combat with his kind;
Strong in his frame, and of a mood

Which 'gainst the world in war had stood,
And 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;


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.


Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:

A thousand feet in depth below

Its massy waters meet and flow;

Thus much the fathom-line was sent

From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 3
Which round about the wave enthralls:

A double dungeon wall and wave
Have made and like a living grave.
Below the surface of the lake

The dark vault lies wherein we lay,


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