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She fear'd-she felt that something ill
Lay on her soul, so deep and chill-
That there was sin and shame she knew;
That some one was to die—but who?
She had forgotten : did she breathe ?
Could this be still the earth beneath,
The sky above, and men around;
Or were they fiends who now so frown'd
On one, before whose eyes each eye
Till then had smiled in sympathy ?
All was confused and undefined
To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind;
A chaos of wild hopes and fears :
And now in laughter, now in tears,
But madly still in each extreme,
She strove with that convulsive dream:
For so it seem'd on her to break :
Oh! vainly must she strive to wake!

The convent bells are ringing,

But mournfully and slow;
In the grey square turret swinging,

With a deep sound, to and fro•

Heavily to the heart they go! Hark! the hymn is singing

The song for the dead below,

Or the living who shortly shall be so!
For a departing being's soul
The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll:
He is near his mortal goal;
Kneeling at the friar's knee,
Sad to hear-and piteous to see-
Kneeling on the bare cold ground,
With the block before and the guards around-
And the headsman with his bare arm ready,
That the blow may be both swift and steady,
Feels if the axe be sharp and true-
Since he set its edge anew:
While the crowd in a speechless circle gather
To sec the son fall by the doom of the father!

It is a lovely hour as yet
Before the summer sun shall set,
Which rose upon that heavy day,
And mock'd it with his steadiest ray;
And his evening beams are shed
Full on Hugo's fated head,
As his last confession pouring
To the monk, his doom deploring
In penitential holiness,
He bends to hear his accents bless
With absolution such as may
Wipe our mortal stains away.
That high sun on his head did glisten
As he there did bow and listen-
And the rings of chestnut hair
Curl'd half down his neck so bare;

But brighter still the beam was thrown
Upon the axe which near him shone
With a clear and ghastly glitter-
Oh! that parting hour was bitter!
Even the stern stood chill'd with awe:
Dark the crime, and just the law-
Yet they shudder'd as they saw.

The parting prayers are said and over
Of that false son-and daring lover:
His beads and sins are all recounted,
His hours to their last minute mounted-
Mis mantling cloak before was stripp'd
His bright brown locks must now be clippid:
'T is done-all closely are they shorn-
'The vest which till this moment worn-
The scarf which Parisina gave-
Must not adorn him to the grave.
Even that must now be thrown aside,
And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied;
But no-that last indignity
Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye.
All feelings, seemingly subdued
In deep disdain, were half renew'd
When headsman's hands prepared to bind
Those eyes which would not brook such blind :
As if they dared not look on death!

No-yours my forfeit blood and breath-
These hands are chain'd—but let me die
At least with an unshackled eye-
Strike!”_-And as the word he said,
Upon the block he bow'd his head;
These the last accents Hugo spoke;
“Strike!”—and Aashing fell the stroke-
Roll’d the head-and, gushing, sunk
Back the stain’d and heaving trunk
In the dust, which each deep vein
Slaked with its ensanguined rain;
His eyes and lips a moment quiver,
Convulsed and quick-then fix for ever.
He died, as erring man should die,

Without display, without parade;
Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd,
As not disdaining priestly aid,
Nor desperate of all hope on high.
And while before the prior kneeling,
His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling;
His wrathful sire-his paramour-
What were they in such an hour ?
No more reproach--no more despair;
No thought but heaven-no word but prayer-
Save the few which from him broke,
When, bared to meet the headsman's stroke,
He claim'd to die with eyes unbound,
His sole adieu to those around. (1)

(1) “ The grand part of this poem is that wbich describes the execution of the rival son; and in which, though there in no

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Still as the lips that closed in death,
Each gazer's bosom held his breath:
But yet, afar, from man to man,
A cold electric shiver ran,

As down the deadly blow descended
On him whose life and love thus ended;
And, with a hushing sound compress'd,
A sigh shrunk back on every breast;
But no more thrilling noise rose there,
Beyond the blow that to the block
Pierced through with forced and sullen shock,
Save one-what cleaves the silent air
So madly shrill, so passing wild?
That, as a mother's o'er her child,
Done to death by sudden blow,
To the sky these accents go,
Like a soul's in endless woe.
Through Azo's palace-lattice driven,
That horrid voice ascends to heaven,
And every eye is turn'd thereon;
But sound and sight alike are gone!
It was a woman's shriek-and ne'er
In madlier accents rose despair;
And those who heard it, as it pass'd,
In mercy wish'd it were the last.


Hugo is fallen; and, from that hour,
No more in palace, hall, or bower,
Was Parisina heard or seen:

Her name as if she ne'er had been-
Was banish'd from each lip and ear,
Like words of wantonness or fear;
And from Prince Azo's voice, by none
Was mention heard of wife or son.
No tomb-no memory had they,
Theirs was unconsecrated clay;
At least the knight's who died that day.
But Parisina's fate lies hid

Like dust beneath the coffin-lid:
Whether in convent she abode,

And won to heaven her dreary road,
By blighted and remorseful years
Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears;

Or if she fell by bowl or steel,

For that dark love she dared to feel;

Or if, upon the moment smote,

She died by tortures less remote,
Like him she saw upon the block,
With heart that shared the headsman's shock,

In quicken'd brokenness that came,

In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame,
None knew-and none can ever know:

pomp, either of language or of sentiment, and though every thing
is conceived and expressed with the utmost simplicity and direct

But whatsoe'er its end below,

Her life began and closed in woe!


And Azo found another bride
And goodly sons grew by his side;
But none so lovely and so brave
As him who wither'd in the grave;
Or if they were-on his cold eye

Their growth but glanced unheeded by,
Or noticed with a smother'd sigh.
But never tear his cheek descended,
And never smile his brow unbended;
And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought

The intersected lines of thought;

Those furrows which the burning share
Of sorrow ploughs untimely there;
Scars of the lacerating mind
Which the soul's war doth leave behind.
He was past all mirth or woe:
Nothing more remain❜d below
But sleepless nights and heavy days,
A mind all dead to scorn or praise,
A heart which shunn'd itself-and yet
That would not yield—nor could forget,
Which, when it least appear'd to melt,
Intensely thought-intensely felt:
The deepest ice which ever froze
Can only o'er the surface close-
The living stream lies quick below,
And flows and cannot cease to flow.
Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted
By thoughts which Nature hath implanted;
Too deeply rooted thence to vanish,
Howe'er our stifled tears we banish;
When, struggling as they rise to start
We check those waters of the heart,
They are not dried-those tears unshed
But flow back to the fountain-head,
And resting in their spring more pure,
For ever in its depths endure,
Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd,
And cherish'd most where least reveal'd.
With inward starts of feeling left,
To throb o'er those of life bereft;
Without the power to fill again
The desert gap which made his pain;
Without the hope to meet them where
United souls shall gladness share,
With all the consciousness that he
Had only pass'd a just decree;
That they had wrought their doom of ill;
Yet Azo's age was wretched still.
The tainted branches of the tree,

If lopp'd with care, a strength may give,

ness, there is a spirit of pathos and poetry to which it would not be easy to find many parallels." Jeffrey.

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(1) When this poem was composed, I was not sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should have endeavoured to dignify the subject by an attempt to celebrate his courage and his virtues. With some account of his life I have been furnished, "Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivité, eut le plaisir de trouver by the kindness of a citizen of that republic, which is still proud Genève libre et réformé : la république s'empressa de lui temoiof the memory of a man worthy of the best age of ancient free-gner sa reconnaissance, et de le dédommager des maux qu'il avoit dom:soufferts: elle le reçut bourgeois de la ville au mois de juin 1556; elle lui donna la maison habitée autrefois par le Vicaire-general, et elle lui assigna une pension de deux cents écus d'or tant qu'il séjourneroit à Genève. Il fut admis dans le Conseil des DeuxCents en 1557.

dans le château de Chillon, où il resta sans être interrogé jusqu'en 1856; il fut alors délivré par les Bernois, qui s'emparèrent du pays de Vaud.

"François de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonnivard, originaire de Seyssel et Seigneur de Lunes, naquit en 1496. li fit ses études à Turin: en 1510 Jean Aimé de Bonnivard, son oncle, lui résigna le prieuré de St. Victor, qui aboutissoit aux murs de Genève, et qui formoit un bénéfice considérable.

"Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'être utile: après avoir travaillé à rendre Genève livre, il réussit à la rendre tolérante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil à accorder aux ecclésiastiques et aux paysans un temps suffisant pour examiner les propositions qu'on leur faisoit; il réussit par sa douceur: on préche toujours le Christíanisme avec succès quand on le prêche avec charité.

"Bonnivard fut savant: ses manuscrits, qui sont dans la bi

"Ce grand homme-(Bonnivard merite ce titre par la force de son âme, la droiture de son cœur, la noblesse de ses intentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage de ses démarches, l'étendue de ses connaissances et la vivacité de son esprit),-ce grand homme, qui excitera l'admiration de tous ceux qu'une vertu heroique peut encore emouvoir, inspirera encore la plus vive reconnaissance dans les cœurs des Genevois qui aiment Geneve. Bon-bliothèque publique, prouvent qu'il avoit bien lu les auteurs clasnivard en fut toujours un des plus fermes appuis : pour assurer la siques latins, et qu'il avoit approfondi la théologie et l'histoire. liberté de notre république, il ne craignit pas de perdre souvent Ce grand homme aimoit les sciences, et il croyoit qu'elles pou- ¡ la sienne : il oublia son repos; il méprisa les richesses; il ne né-voient faire la gloire de Genéve; aussi il ne négligea rien pour ies gligea rien pour affermir une patrie qu'il honora de son choix: fixer dans cette ville naissante; en 1851 il donna sa bibliothèque dès ce moment il la cherit comme le plus zele de ses citoyens; au public; elle fut le commencement de notre bibliothèque puil la servit avec l'intrépidité d'un héros, et il écrivit son histoire blique, et ces livres sont en partie ces rares et belles éditions u avec la naïveté d'un philosophe et la chaleur d'un patriote. quinzième siècle qu'on voit dans notre collection. Enfin, pendant la même année, ce bon patriote institua la république son heritière, à condition qu'elle employeroit ses biens à entretenir le college dont on projetoit la fondation.

"Il dit, dans le commencement de son Histoire de Genève, que dès qu'il eut commencé de lire l'histoire des nations, il se sentit entraîné par son gout pour les républiques, dont il épousa toujours les intérêts: c'est ce goût pour la liberté qui lui lit sans doute adopter Geneve pour sa patrie. "Bonnivard encore jeune s'annonça hautement comme le dé- mois de juillet 1570, jusqu'en 1571.” fenseur de Genève contre le duc de Savoye et l'Evêque.

"Il paroit que Bonnivard mourut en 1570; mais on ne peut l'assurer, parce qu'il y a une lacune dane le Nécrologe depuis le

"En 1519, Bonnivard devint le martyr de sa patrie: le Duc de Savoye étant entre dans Geneve avec cinq cents hommes, Bonnivard craignit le ressentiment du Duc; il voulut se retirer à Fribourg pour en éviter les suites; mais il fut trahi par deux hommes qui l'accompagnoient, et conduit par ordre du Prince à Grolée, où il resta prisonnier pendant deux ans. Bonnivard étoit malheureux dans ses voyages: comme ses malheurs n'avoient point ralenti son zèle pour Genève, il étoit toujours un ennemi redoutable pour ceux qui la menaçoient, et par conséquent il devoit être exposé à leurs coups. Il fut rencontré en 1530 sur le Jura, par des voleurs, qui le dépouillèrent, et qui le mirent encore entre les mains du Duc de Savoye : ce Prince le fit enfermer

Lord Byron wrote this beautiful poem at a small inn, in the little village of Ouchy, near Lausanne, where he happened, in June, 1816, to be detained two days by stress of weather; "thereby adding," says Moore, "one more deathless association to the already immortalised localities of the Lake.”—E. (2) In the first draught, the sonnet opens thus

"Beloved Goddess of the chainless mind!

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art.
Thy palace is within the Freeman's heart,
Whose soul the love of thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd-

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
Thy joy is with them still, and unconfined,

Their country conquers with their martyrdom."-E.

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.



My hair is grey, but not with years,
Nor grew it white

In a single night,

As men's have grown from sudden fears : (2)
limbs are bow'd, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose, (3)
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,

And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd, and barr'd-forbidden fare;
But this was for my father's faith
I suffer'd chains and courted death:
That father perish'd at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place.
We were seven-who now are one,
Six in youth and one in age,
Finish'd as they had begun,

Proud of Persecution's rage; (4)
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have seal'd:
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, (5) In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,

(1) "I will tell you something about Chillon. A M. de Luc, ninety years old, a Swiss, had it read to him, and is pleased with it-so my sister writes. He said that he was with Rousseau at Chillon, and that the description is perfectly correct. But this is not all; I recollected something of the name, and find the following passages in The Confessions, vol. iii. p. 217, liv. iii. De tous ces amusements, celui qui me plut davantage fut une promenade autour du Lac, que je fis en bateau avec De Luc père, sa bonne, ses deux fils, et ma Thérèse. Nous mimes sept jours à cette tournée par le plus beau temps du monde. J'en gardai le vif souvenir des sites qui m'avoient frappé à l'autre extrémité du Lac, et dont je fis la description, quelques années après, dans La Nouvelle Heloise. This nonagenarian, De Luc, must be one of the 'deux fils.' He is in England, infirm, but still in faculty. It is odd that he should have lived so long, and not wanting in oddness, that he should have made this voyage with Jean Jacques, and afterwards, at such an interval, read a poem by an Englishman (who made precisely the same circumnavigation) upon the same scenery."-B. Letters, April 9, 1817.-Jean André de Luc, F.R. S., died at Windsor, in the July following. He was born

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They chain'd 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 light
That made us strangers in our sight:
And thus together-yet apart,
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart;
'T was still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope of 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 me
They never sounded like our own. (6)

in 1726, at Geneva, was the author of many geological works, and corresponded with most of the learned societies of Europe.


(2) Ludovico Sforza, and others. The same is asserted of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis the Sixteenth, though not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the same effect; to such, and not to fear, this change in hers was to be attributed. (3) In the MS.

"But with the inward waste of grief.”—E. (4) In the MS.

“Braving rancour-chains-and rage."-E.

(5) The fidelity of Lord Byron's description of the dungeon of Chillon, to which he has given a deathless interest, is shown in the engraving in Finden's Illustrations, from Mr. Stanfield's drawing of the interior of the prison.-E.

(6) "This picture of the first feelings of the three gallang brothers, when bound apart in this living tomb, and of the gradual decay of their cheery fortitude, is full of pity and agony." Jeffrey.

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Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:
A thousand feet in depth below
Its massy waters meet and flow;
Thus much the fathom-line was sent
From Chillon's snow-white battlement, (1)
Which round about the wave inthrals:
A double dungeon wall and wave
Have made and like a living grave.
Below the surface of the lake
The dark vault lies wherein we lay,
We heard it ripple night and day;

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd:
And I have felt the winter's spray

Wash through the bars when winds were high
And wanton in the happy sky;

And then the very rock hath rock'd,
And I have felt it shake, unshock'd,
Because I could have smiled to see
The death that would have set me free.

(1) The Château de Chillon is situated between Clarens and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of the Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Meillerie and the range of Alps above Boveret and St. Gingo. Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent: below it, washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the depth of 800 feet, French measure: within it are a range of dungeons, in which the early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of state, were confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam black with age, on which we were informed that the condemned were formerly cuted. In the cells are seven pillars, or rather eight, one being half merged in the wall; in some of these are rings for the fetters and the fettered; in the pavement the steps of Bonnivard have left their traces. He was confined here several years. It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of his Héloïse, In the rescue of one of her children by Julie from the water; the shock of which, and the illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of her death. The château is large, and seen along the lake for a great distance. The walls are white.-["The early


I said my nearer brother pined,
I said his mighty heart declined,
He loathed and put away his food;
It was not that 't was coarse and rude,
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 mould
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. (2)

history of this castle," says Mr. Tennant, who went over it in 1821, "is, I believe, involved in doubt. By some historians it is said to be built in the year 1120, and according to others, in the year 1236; but by whom it was built seems not to be known. It is said, however, in history, that Charles the Fifth, Duke of Savoy, stormed and took it in 1856; that he there found great hidden treasures, and many wretched beings pining away their lives in these frightful dungeons, amongst whom was the good Bonnivard. On the pillar to which this unfortunate man is said to have been exe-chained, I observed, cut out of the stone, the name of one whose beautiful poem has done much to heighten the interest of this dreary spot, and will, perhaps, do more towards rescuing from oblivion the names of Chillon' and 'Bonnivard,' than all the cruel sufferings which that injured man endured within its damp and gloomy walls.”—E.]


(2) In the MS.

"But why withhold the blow ?-be died."-E.

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