For we were used to hunter's fare, 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, 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 mold 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 unlock'd his chain, And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 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. I might have spared my idle prayer- They coldly laugh'd—and laid him there:
The flat and turfless earth above The 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 cherish'd since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face, The infant love of all his race, His martyr'd father's dearest thought, My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free; He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspired— He, too, was struck, and day by day Was wither'd on the stalk away. Oh God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood:-
I've seen it rushing forth in blood,
I've seen it on the breaking ocean
Strive with a 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 Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray-
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, For I was sunk in silence-lost
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 listen'd, but I could not hear- I call'd, for I was wild with fear; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished;
I call'd, and thought I heard a sound- I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rush'd to him:-I found him not, I only stirr'd in this black spot, I only lived-I only drew
The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; The last the sole-the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, 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 know That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why
I had no earthly hope-but faith, And that forbade a selfish death.
I CALLED FOR I WAS WILD WITH FEAR: St in 3.Le 208
PUSHED BY JOEN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STEFT, DEC.1.18 0.
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