The Prisoner of Chillon
Lines:392Movement:Romanticism
My hair is grey, but not with years,Nor grew it white In a single night,As men's have grown from sudden fears:My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose,For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of thoseTo whom the goodly earth and airAre banned, and barred--forbidden fare;But this was for my father's faithI suffered chains and courted death;That father perished at the stakeFor tenets he would not forsake;And for the same his lineal raceIn darkness found a dwelling place;We were seven--who now are one, Six in youth, and one in age,Finished as they had begun, Proud of Persecution's rage;One in fire, and two in field,Their belief with blood have sealed,Dying as their father died,For the God their foes denied;--Three were in a dungeon cast,Of whom this wreck is left the last. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,There are seven columns, massy and grey,Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,A sunbeam which hath lost its way,And through the crevice and the cleftOf the thick wall is fallen and left;Creeping o'er the floor so damp,Like a marsh's meteor lamp:And in each pillar there is a ring, And in each ring there is a chain;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 riseFor years--I cannot count them o'er,I lost their long and heavy scoreWhen my last brother drooped and died,And I lay living by his side. They chained 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 lightThat made us strangers in our sight:And thus together--yet apart,Fettered in hand, but joined in heart,'Twas still some solace in the dearthOf the pure elements of earth,To hearken to each other's speech,And each turn comforter to eachWith 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 meThey 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 givenTo him, with eyes as blue as heaven-- For him my soul was sorely moved:And truly might it be distressedTo 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 seeA 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,With tears for nought but others' ills,And then they flowed like mountain rills,Unless he could assuage the woeWhich he abhorred to view below. The other was as pure of mind,But formed to combat with his kind;Strong in his frame, and of a moodWhich 'gainst the world in war had stood,And perished 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 cheerThose 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 belowIts massy waters meet and flow;Thus much the fathom-line was sentFrom Chillon's snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave inthralls:A double dungeon wall and waveHave made--and like a living grave.Below the surface of the lakeThe dark vault lies wherein we lay:We heard it ripple night and day; Sounding o'er our heads it knocked;And I have felt the winter's sprayWash through the bars when winds were highAnd wanton in the happy sky; And then the very rock hath rocked, And I have felt it shake, unshocked,Because I could have smiled to seeThe death that would have set me free. I said my nearer brother pined,I said his mighty heart declined,He loathed and put away his food;It was not that 'twas coarse and rude,For we were used to hunter's fare,And for the like had little care:The milk drawn from the mountain goatWas changed for water from the moat,Our bread was such as captives' tearsHave moistened many a thousand years,Since man first pent his fellow menLike 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 mouldWhich in a palace had grown cold,Had his free breathing been deniedThe 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 unlocked his chain,And scooped for him a shallow graveEven from the cold earth of our cave.I begged them, as a boon, to layHis corse in dust whereon the dayMight shine--it was a foolish thought,But then within my brain it wrought,That even in death his freeborn breastIn such a dungeon could not rest.I might have spared my idle prayer--They coldly laughed--and laid him there:The flat and turfless earth aboveThe 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 cherished since his natal hour,His mother's image in fair face,The infant love of all his race,His martyred father's dearest thought,My latest care, for whom I soughtTo hoard my life, that his might beLess wretched now, and one day free;He, too, who yet had held untiredA spirit natural or inspired--He, too, was struck, and day by dayWas withered on the stalk away.Oh, God! it is a fearful thingTo see the human soul take wingIn any shape, in any mood:I've seen it rushing forth in blood,I've seen it on the breaking oceanStrive with a swoln convulsive motion,I've seen the sick and ghastly bedOf Sin delirious with its dread:But these were horrors--this was woeUnmixed 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 bloomWas as a mockery of the tomb,Whose tints as gently sunk awayAs a departing rainbow's ray;An eye of most transparent light,That almost made the dungeon bright;And not a word of murmur--notA 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--lostIn this last loss, of all the most;And then the sighs he would suppressOf fainting Nature's feebleness,More slowly drawn, grew less and less:I listened, but I could not hear;I called, for I was wild with fear;I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dreadWould not be thus admonished;I called, and thought I heard a sound--I burst my chain with one strong bound,And rushed to him:--I found him not,_I_ only stirred in this black spot,_I_ only lived, _I_ only drewThe accursed breath of dungeon-dew;The last, the sole, the dearest linkBetween 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 knowThat what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die,I had no earthly hope--but faith,And that forbade a selfish death. What next befell me then and there I know not well--I never knew--First came the loss of light, and air, And then of darkness too:I had no thought, no feeling--none--Among the stones I stood a stone,And was, scarce conscious what I wist,As shrubless crags within the mist;For all was blank, and bleak, and grey;It was not night--it was not day;It was not even the dungeon-light,So hateful to my heavy sight,But vacancy absorbing space,And fixedness--without a place;There were no stars--no earth--no time--No check--no change--no good--no crime--But silence, and a stirless breathWhich neither was of life nor death;A sea of stagnant idleness,Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! A light broke in upon my brain,-- It was the carol of a bird;It ceased, and then it came again, The sweetest song ear ever heard,And mine was thankful till my eyesRan over with the glad surprise,And they that moment could not seeI was the mate of misery;But then by dull degrees came backMy senses to their wonted track;I saw the dungeon walls and floorClose slowly round me as before,I saw the glimmer of the sunCreeping as it before had done,But through the crevice where it cameThat bird was perched, as fond and tame, And tamer than upon the tree;A lovely bird, with azure wings,And song that said a thousand things, And seemed to say them all for me!I never saw its like before,I ne'er shall see its likeness more:It seemed like me to want a mate,But was not half so desolate,And it was come to love me whenNone 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 wingéd guise,A visitant from Paradise;For--Heaven forgive that thought! the whileWhich made me both to weep and smile--I sometimes deemed that it might beMy 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 lone,--Lone--as the corse within its shroud,Lone--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. A kind of change came in my fate,My keepers grew compassionate;I know not what had made them so,They were inured to sights of woe,But so it was:--my broken chainWith links unfastened did remain,And it was liberty to strideAlong my cell from side to side,And up and down, and then athwart,And tread it over every part;And round the pillars one by one,Returning where my walk begun,Avoiding only, as I trod,My brothers' graves without a sod;For if I thought with heedless treadMy step profaned their lowly bed,My breath came gaspingly and thick,And my crushed heart felt blind and sick. I made a footing in the wall, It was not therefrom to escape,For I had buried one and all, Who loved me in a human shape;And the whole earth would henceforth beA wider prison unto me:No child--no sire--no kin had I,No partner in my misery;I thought of this, and I was glad,For thought of them had made me mad;But I was curious to ascendTo my barred windows, and to bendOnce more, upon the mountains high,The quiet of a loving eye. I saw them--and they were the same,They were not changed like me in frame;I saw their thousand years of snowOn high--their wide long lake below,And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;I heard the torrents leap and gushO'er channelled rock and broken bush;I saw the white-walled 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 seemed 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 seemed joyous each and all;The eagle rode the rising blast,Methought he never flew so fastAs then to me he seemed to fly;And then new tears came in my eye,And I felt troubled--and would fainI had not left my recent chain;And when I did descend again,The darkness of my dim abodeFell 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 asked not why, and recked not where;It was at length the same to me,Fettered or fetterless to be, I learned to love despair.And thus when they appeared at last,And all my bonds aside were cast,These heavy walls to me had grownA hermitage--and all my own!And half I felt as they were comeTo tear me from a second home:With spiders I had friendship made,And watched 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 learned to dwell;My very chains and I grew friends,So much a long communion tendsTo make us what we are:--even IRegained my freedom with a sigh.