THEY tell me thou art dead

Gone-gone-for ever more;

Thy spotless soul hath fled
Unto a brighter shore.
Ah! none that saw thine eye
Of pure cerulean blue,
Raised to the God on high,

And gemm'd with tears like dew, But knew thou wert too bright,

Like those of heav'nly birth,

An angel sent to light,

And wean our souls from earth.

When on the clouds I gaze,

I fancy I can see

Thy hand the curtain raise

Thy sweet smile turn on me : And when at eve I kneel,

To praise our gracious Lord, Thou'rt near me then, I feel

My lost one-my adored. O! ever near me keep,

And sin will flee away; Watch o'er me while I sleep,

My guide-my hope-my stay.

CHILLON

66

TRANSLATED AND ADAPTED FROM THE IMPRESSIONS DE

VOYAGE," PAR ALEX, DUMAS.

BY THE HONORABLE MISS M.

CHILLON, the ancient state-prison of the Dukes of Savoy, and at present the arsenal of the Canton de Vaux, was built in 1250.

The captivity of Bonnivard has filled it with his memory. Bonnivard had declared that he would sacrifice his liberty, and Berthelier his life, for the enfranchisement of his country. This mutual declaration was overheard, and when the executioners came, they found them ready to fulfil it.

He

Berthelier suffered on the scaffold; and Bonnivard, transported to Chillon, experienced there a fearful captivity. remained for six long years bound by the middle of his body to a chain, of which the other end was fastened to an iron ring firmly riveted in a pillar, and having no liberty, nor even being able to lie down, except where the length of his chain permitted him to extend himself. Like a chained wild beast, he made the circuit of his pillar, wearing the stones with his footsteps.

Gnawed by the thought that his captivity served nothing to the freedom of his country, and that he, with Geneva, was doomed to eternal chains, how was it that in this long night, interrupted by no day, and whose silence was only broken by the sound of the waves dashing against the walls of the

château, that his reason did not destroy his life, or life his reason,—and that his jailor never found him either dead or senseless, while that one, single, and eternal idea must have crushed his heart and dried his brain?

And during that time-those six years-that eternity—not a complaint, not a groan escaped him,-except, doubtless, when the wind and rain beset the walls, for then his voice would be lost in the great voice of Nature, and Thou alone, oh, God! couldst distinguish his cries and lamentations. Oh! without that relief, would he not have dashed his head against the pillar, or strangled himself with his chain? Could he have lived till that day when hundreds rushed tumultuously into his prison, while their mingled voices exclaimed,

"Bonnivard, thou art free!"

"And Geneva?"

"Free also!"

Since that time the dungeon of the martyr is become a temple, and his pillar an altar. He who has a noble heart, glowing with liberty, will turn aside from his route, that he may go and kneel upon the spot where he suffered. He will seek upon the solid granite pillar, to which he was enchained so long, the characters that Bonnivard may have traced there. He will search upon the worn flag-stones for the trace of his footsteps, and fasten himself to the chain by which he was fettered, to prove whether it is still firmly fixed with the cement of so many ages.

In 1816, on one of those beautiful nights which the Almighty seems to have made for Switzerland alone, a small skiff, leaving behind a track silvered by the broken rays of the moon, silently sailed towards the whitened walls of the Château de Chillon, and stopped on the margin of the lake without shock and without noise, like a swau as she lands. A man stepped ashore: he had a pale countenance, piercing

eyes, and high uncovered forehead. He was wrapt in a long black cloak, which concealed his figure; but he was perceived to limp slightly in his walk. He asked to see Bonnivard's dungeon. He staid there a long time, and alone; and when they went in afterwards they found, upon the very pillar to which the martyr had been chained, a new name—

BYRON.

LINES.

BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

WHERE Malvern's verdant ridges gleam
Beneath the morning ray,

Look eastward: see Sabrina's stream

Roll rapidly away:

Not even such fair scenes detain

Those who are cited to the main.

Impossible yet youth returns,
Who runs (we hear) as fast,
And in my breast the fire that burns
She promises shall last.

The lord of these domains was one
Who loved me like an only son.

• Fleetwood Parkhurst, of Ripple Court, a descendant of the Fleetwoods, the Dormers, and the Fortescues.

I see the garden-walks so trim,
The house-reflecting pond,
I hear again the voice of him
Who seldom went beyond

The Roman camp's steep-sloping side,
Or the long meadow's level ride.

And why? A little girl there was
Who fixed his eyes on home,
Whether she roll'd along the grass,
Or gates and hedges clomb,

Or dared defy Alonzo's tale
(Hold but her hand) to turn her pale.

Where is she now? Not far away.

As brave, too? Yes, and braver;
She dares to hear her hair turns gray,
And never looks the
graver:

Nor will she mind Old Tell-tale more

Than those who sang her charms before.

How many idle things were said
On eyes that were but bright!
Their truer glory was delayed
To guide his steps aright
Whose purest hand and loftiest mind
Might lead the leaders of mankind.

"Alonzo the Brave," by Lewis.

+ Mr. Rosenhagen lost his sight by unremitted labour in the public service. He was private secretary to two prime ministers, Percival and Vansittart. His lady is lately dead.