Nor reach his dying hand 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 free-born 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 favourite 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. O 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
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, 210 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 breath: 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
No check, no change, no good,
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, I saw the dungeon walls and floor Close slowly round me as before, 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!
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, 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 while Which made me both to weep and smileI sometimes deem'd 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, For he would never thus have flown, And left me twice so doubly loneLone, as the corse within its shroud; 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.
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 channell'd rock and broken bush; I saw the white-wall'd 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 seem'd 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 seem'd joyous, each and all; The eagle rode the rising blast,
Methought he never flew so fast As then to me he seem'd to fly, And then new tears came in my eye, And I felt troubled - and would fain
I had not left my recent chain; And when I did descend again, The darkness of my dim abode 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.
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 ask'd not why, and reck'd not where; It was at length the same to me, Fetter'd or fetterless to be,
I learn'd to love despair.
And thus, when they appear'd 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: With spiders I had friendship made, And watch'd 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 learn'd to dwell My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are: even I Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.
Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls Are level with the waters, there shall be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,
A loud lament along the sweeping sea! If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, What should thy sons do? - any thing but weep:
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers - as the slime,
The dull green ooze of the receding deep, Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam, That drives the sailor shipless to his home, Are they to those that were; and thus they creep,
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds Were but the overbeating of the heart, And flow of too much happiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous Hood 30 Of sweet sensations battling with the blood. But these are better than the gloomy errors. The weeds of nations in their last decay, When vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors,
And mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; And hope is nothing but a false delay, The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death,
When faintness, the last mortal birth of pain, And apathy of limb, the dull beginning
And then he talks of life, and how again He feels his spirit soaring, albeit weak, And of the fresher air, which he would seek; And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, And so the film comes o'er him and the dizzy 50 Chamber swims round and round- and shadows busy,
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream. And all is ice and blackness, and the earth That which it was the moment ere our birth. II
There is no hope for nations! Of many thousand years -
Search the page the daily scene,
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Full of the magic of exploded science Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, Above the far Atlantic! She has taught Her Esau-brethren1 that the haughty flag, The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, May strike to those whose red right hands have bought
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, forever
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river,
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, Damn'd like the dull canal with locks and chains,
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep,
Three paces, and then faltering : — better be Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ, Than stagnate in our marsh, or o'er the deep
Fly, and one current to the ocean add, One spirit to the souls our fathers had, One freeman more, America, to thee!
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
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