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- His mantling cloak before was stripp'd, His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd; 'Tis 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 headman'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 flashing 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 headman's stroke, He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, His sole adieu to those around.
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 comprest,
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 past, 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 headman's shock,
In quicken'd brokenness that came,
In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame,
None knew-and none can ever know:
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 he 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, Intently 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 depth 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, By which the rest shall bloom and live All greenly fresh and wildly free: But if the lightning, in its wrath,
The waving boughs with fury scathe,
The massy trunk the ruin feels, And never more a leaf reveals.
There are seven pillars of gothic mold, In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, There are seven columns, massy and Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, A sunbeam which hath lost its way, And through the crevice and the cleft Of 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 rise For years-I cannot count them o'er, I lost their long and heavy score, When my last brother droop'd and died, And I lay living by his side.
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; 'Twas 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, or legend old, 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. 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 distrest, 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, With tears for nought but others' ills, And then they flow'd like mountain rills,
Unless he could assuage the woe Which he abhorr'd to view below.
The other was as pure of mind, But form'd to combat with his kind; Strong in his frame, and of a mood Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, And perish'd in the foremost rank
With joy :-but not in chains to pine: His spirit wither'd with their clank, I saw it silently decline-
And so perchance in sooth did mine; But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear.
He was a hunter of the hills,
Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf, And fetter'd feet the worst of ills.
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,
Which round about the wave enthralls: 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.
I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined, He loath'd 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 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 mold 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. I , 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 unlock'd his chain, And scoop'd for him a shallow grave Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine-it was a foolish thought, But then within my brain it wrought, That even in death his freeborn breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer- They coldly laugh'd—and laid him there: The flat and turfless earth above The 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 cherish'd since his natal hour, His mother's image in fair face, The infant love of all his race, His martyr'd father's dearest thought, My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free; He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspiredHe, too, was struck, and day by day Was wither'd on the stalk away. Oh God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood:I've seen it rushing forth in blood, I've seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of sin delirious with its dread: But these were horrors-this was woe Unmix'd 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 Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sank away As a departing rainbow's ray- An eye of most transparent light, That almost made the dungeon bright, And not a word of murmur-not A 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 In this last loss, of all the most; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness, More slowly drawn, grew less and less: I listen'd, but I could not hear-
I call'd, for I was wild with fear; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished;
I call'd, and thought I heard a sound- I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rush'd to him:-I found him not, I only stirr'd in this black spot, I only lived-I only drew The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; The last-the sole-the dearest link Between 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 know
That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why
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 gray, 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 breath Which 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 eyes Ran over with the glad surprise, And they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery;
But then by dull degrees came back My senses to their wonted track. I saw the dungeon walls and floor Close slowly round me as before, I saw the glimmer of the sun Creeping as it before had done, But through the crevice where it came That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, And tamer than upon the tree; A lovely bird, with azure wings, And song that said a thousand things, And seem'd to say them all for me! I never saw its like before,
I ne'er shall see its likeness more:
It seem'd like me to want a mate, But was not half so desolate, And it was come to love me when None 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 winged guise,
A visitant from Paradise;
For-Heaven forgive that thought! the while
Which made me both to weep and smile; I sometimes deem'd that it might be My 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.
MANFRED INVOKES THE WITCH OF THE ALPS.
A lower Valley in the Alps. A Cataract. Enter MANFRED.
It is not noon-the sunbow's rays still arch The torrent with the many hues of heaven, And roll the sheeted silver's waving column O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, And fling its lines of foaming light along, And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, The giant steed, to be bestrode by death, As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes But mine now drink this sight of loveliness; I should be sole in this sweet solitude, And with the Spirit of the place divide The homage of these waters.-I will call her. (MANFRED takes some of the water into the palm of his hand, and flings it in the air, mutter- ing the adjuration. After a pause, the WITCH OF THE ALPS rises beneath the arch of the sunbeam of the torrent.)
Man. Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light, And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form The charms of earth's least-mortal daughters grow To an unearthly stature, in an essence
Of purer elements; while the hues of youth,— Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow,
The blush of earth embracing with her heaven,— Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame
The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. Beautiful Spirit! in thy calm clear brow, Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, Which of itself shows immortality,
I read that thou wilt pardon to a son Of earth, whom the abstruser powers permit At times to commu mune with them-if that he Avail him of his spells-to call thee thus,
And gaze on thee a moment.
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings.
I have expected this-what wouldst thou with me? Man. To look upon thy beauty-nothing further. The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce To the abodes of those who govern her- But they can nothing aid me. I have sought From them what they could not bestow, and now I search no further.
Witch. What could be the quest
Which is not in the power of the most powerful, The rulers of the invisible?
But why should I repeat it? 'twere in vain. Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it. Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same; My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes; The thirst of their ambition was not mine, The aim of their existence was not mine;
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, Made me a stranger; though I wore the form, I had so sympathy with breathing flesh, Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me Was there but one who-but of her anon.
I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, I held but slight communion; but instead, My joy was in the wilderness, to breathe The difficult air of the iced mountain's top Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing Flit o'er the herbless granite; or to plunge Into the torrent, and to roll along
On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. In these my early strength exulted; or To follow through the night the roving moon, The stars and their developement; or catch The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim; Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd leaves, While autumn winds were at their evening song. These were my pastimes, and to be alone; For if the beings, of whom I was one,— Hating to be so,-cross'd me in my path, I felt myself degraded back to them, And was all clay again. And then I dived, In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, Searching its cause in its effect; and drew From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up dust, Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd The nights of years in sciences untaught, Save in the old-time; and with time and toil, And terrible ordeal, and such penance As in itself hath power upon the air, And spirits that do compass air and earth, Space, and the peopled infinite, I made Mine eyes familiar wit!. eternity, Such as, before me, did the Magi, and
He who from out their fountain dwellings raised Eros and Anteros, at Gadara,
As I do thee-and with my knowledge grew The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy
Of this most bright intelligence, until- Witch. Proceed.
Man. Oh! I but thus prolong'd my words, Boasting these idle attributes, because As I approach the core of my heart's grief- But to my task. I have not named to thee Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being, With whom I wore the chain of human ties; If I had such, they seem'd not such to me- Yet there was one-
Witch. Spare not thyself-proceed.
Man. She was like me in lineaments-her eyes, Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine; But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty. She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind To comprehend the universe: nor these Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, Pity, and smiles, and tears-which I had not; And tenderness-but that I had for her; Humility-and that I never had.
Her faults were mine-her virtues were her own- I loved her, and destroy'd her! Witch.
Man. Not with my hand, but heart, which broke her heart
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed Blood, but not hers-and yet her blood was shed— I saw-and could not stanch it.
And for thisA being of the race thou dost despise, The order which thine own would rise above, Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st back To recreant mortality-Away!
Man. Daughter of air! I tell thee, since that hour- But words are breath-look on me in my sleep, Or watch my watchings-Come and sit by me! My solitude is solitude no more,
But peopled with the furies;—I have gnash'd My teeth in darkness till returning morn, Then cursed myself till sunset;-I have pray'd For madness as a blessing-'tis denied me. I have affronted death-but in the war Of elements the waters shrank from me, And fatal things pass'd harmless-the cold hand Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, Back by a single hair, which would not break. In phantasy, imagination, all
The affluence of my soul-which one day was A Croesus in creation-I plunged deep; But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back Into the gulph of my unfathom'd thought. I plunged amidst mankind-Forgetfulness I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found, And that I have to learn-my sciences, My long pursued and super-human art, Is mortal here--I dwell in my despair- And live-and live for ever.
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