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Oh Love! no habitant of earth thou art-
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee,
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart,
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ;
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven,
Even with its own desiring phantasy,

And to a thought such shape and image given,
As haunts the unquench'd soul—parch’d-wearied-

wrung-and riven.

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased,
And fevers into false creation ;-where,
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ?
In him alone, Can Nature show so fair ?
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men,
The unreach'd Paradise of our despair,

Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen,
And overpowers the page where it would bloom again ?

Who loves, ravestis youth's frenzy—but the cure
Is bitterer still : as charm by charm unwinds
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's
Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on,
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds ;

The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun,
Seems ever near the prize—wealthiest when most undone.

We wither from our youth, we gasp away-
Sick—sick ; unfound the boon-unslaked the thirst,
Though to the last, in verge of our decay,
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first-

But all too late,- -so are we doubly curst.
Love, fame, ambition, avarice—'tis the same,
Each idle and all ill—and none the worst-

For all are meteors with a different name,
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.

SONNET ON CHILLON.

ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind !

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,

For there thy habitation is the heart-
The heart which love of thee alone can bind ;
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd-

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,

Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place,

And thy sad floor an altar—for 'twas trod,
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.

BONNIVARD AND HIS BROTHERS.

(PRISONER OF CHILLON, Stanzas 6-8.)

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 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.

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 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.
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 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,

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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 sunk away As a departing rainbow's rayAn 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

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