VIII.
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ut 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,[17]My latest care, for whom I soughtTo hoard my life, that his might be 170Less 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.[18]Oh, God! it is a fearful thingTo see the human soul take wingIn any shape, in any mood:[19]I've seen it rushing forth in blood,I've seen it on the breaking ocean 180Strive 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 bloom 190Was 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--lost 200In 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, 210And 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: 220I 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 whyI could not die,[20]I had no earthly hope--but faith,And that forbade a selfish death. 230
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