Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphant chant, Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? pain ? What ignorance of With thy clear, keen joyance Languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 376 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. We look before and after, And pine for what is not : With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. - Byron. A FABLE. SONNET ON CHILLON. ETERNAL spirit of the chainless mind! 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 trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! - May none those marks efface. For they appeal from tyranny to God. I. My hair is gray, but not with years; In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears: For they have been a dungeon's spoil, Proud of Persecution's rage; 378 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied ; II. gray, There are seven pillars of Gothic mould And in each ring there is a chain ; For in these limbs its teeth remain, For years, III. They chained us each to a column stone, And thus together, yet apart, Fettered in hand, but pined in heart, But even these at length grew cold. IV. 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 distressed 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, |