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 could not die;

I had no earthly hope-but faith, And that forbade a selfish death.

IX.

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 grey,
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, crime,

But silence, and a stirless breath
Which neither was of life nor death;
A sea of stagnant idleness,

-no

Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!

X.

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 wingèd guise,

A visitant from Paradise;
[whie
For-Heaven forgive that thought! the
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.

XI.

A kind of change came in my fate,
My keepers grew compassionate:
I know not what had made them so,
They were inured to sights of woe;
But so it was my broken chain
With links unfasten'd did remain,
And it was liberty to stride

Along my cell from side to side,
And up and down, and then athwart,
And tread it over every part;
And round the pillars one by one,
Returning where my walk begun,
Avoiding only, as I trod,

My brothers' graves without a sod.
For if I thought with heedless tread
My step profaned their lowly bed,
My breath came gaspingly and thick,
And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick.

XII.

I made a footing in the wall,
It was not therefrom to escape,

For I had buried one and all

Who loved me in a human shape:

And the whole earth would henceforth be

A wider prison unto me:

No child-no sire-no kin had I,

No partner in my misery;

I thought of this, and I was glad,

For thought of them had made me mad.
But I was curious to ascend

To my barr'd windows, and to bend
Once more, upon the mountains high,
The quiet of a loving eye.

XIII.

I saw them--and they were the same,
They were not changed like me in frame;
I saw their thousand years of snow
On high-their wide long lake below,
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;
I heard the torrents leap and gush
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush?
I saw the white-wall'd distant town,
And whiter sails go skimming down;
And then there was a little isle,*
Which in my very face did smile,

The only one in view :

A small green isle, it seem'd no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor;
But in it there were three tall trees,
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze,
And by it there were waters flowing,
And on it there were young flowers growing,
Of gentle breath and hue.
The fish swam by the castle wall,
And they seem'd joyous each and all;
The eagle rode the rising blast,
Methought he never flew so fast
As then to me he seem'd to fly,

And then new tears came in my eye,
And I felt troubled-and would fain
I had not left my recent chain;
And when I did descend again,

Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, not j far from Chillon, is a very small island; the only one I could Precive, in my voyage round and over the lake, within its rcumference. It contains a few trees (I think not above three), and from its singleness and diminutive size has a pecukar effect upon the view.

The darkness of my dim abode
Fell on me as a heavy load;
It was as is a new-dug grave,
Closing o'er one we sought to save-
And yet my glance, too much opprest,
Had almost need of such a rest.

XIV.

It might be months, or years, or days, I kept no count-I took no note,

I had no hope my eyes to raise,

And clear them of their dreary mote; At last men came to set me free,

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, It was at length the same to me, Fetter'd or fetterless to be,

I learn'd to love despair.

And thus, when they appear'd at last,
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage-and all my own!
And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home:
With spiders I had friendship made,
And watch'd them in their sullen trade,
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill-yet, strange to tell!
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell-
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are ---even I
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.

Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout All countries of the Catholic persuasion, me weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes

about,

The people take their fill of recreation,

And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, However high their rank, or low their station,

With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking,

And other things which may be had for asking.

19

XVIII.

heir jealousy (if they are ever jealous) Is of a fair complexion altogether, ct like that sooty devil of Othello's, Which smothers women in a bed of feather, lut worthier of these much more jolly fellows, When weary of the matrimonial tether His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, it takes at once another, or another's.

XIX

1st ever see a Gondola? For fear You should not, I'll describe it you exactly: sa long cover'd boat that's common here, Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly,

Que septem dici sex tamen es e solent.-OVID.

Row'd by two rowers, each call'd 'Gondolier,'
It glides along the water looking blackly,
Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe,
Where none can make out what you say or do.
XX.

And up and down the long canals they go,
And under the Rialto shoot along,
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow-
And round the theatres, a sable throng,
They wait in their dusk livery of woe,-

But not to them do woeful things belong,
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun,
Like mourning coaches when the funeral's done.

XXI.

But to my story.--'Twas some years ago,
It may be thirty, forty, more or less,
The Carnival was at its height, and so
Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress;
A certain lady went to see the show,

Her real name I know not, nor can guess, And so we'll call her Laura, if you please, Because it slips into my verse with ease.

XXII.

She was not old, nor young, nor at the years Which certain people call a 'certain age,' Which yet the most uncertain age appears,

Because I never heard, nor could engage A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears,

To name, define by speech, or write on page, The period meant precisely by that word,Which surely is exceedingly absurd.

XXIII.

Laura was blooming still, had made the best Of time, and time return'd the compliment, And treated her genteelly, so that, dress'd,

She look'd extremely well where'er she went ; A pretty woman is a welcome guest,

And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent; Indeed, she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter

Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her.

XXIV.

She was a married woman: 'tis convenient,
Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule
To view their little slips with eyes more lenient;
Whereas, if single ladies play the fool
(Unless within the period intervenient

A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool), I don't know how they ever can get over it, Except they manage never to discover it.

XXV.

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic,

And made some voyages, too, in other seas, And when he lay in quarantine for pratique

(A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), His wife would mount at times her highest attic,

For thence she could discern the ship with He was a merchant, trading to Aleppo, [ease: His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly Beppo.

XXXII.

His 'bravo' was decisive, for that sound
Hush'd 'Academie' sigh'd in silent awe;
The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around,

For fear of some false note's detected flaw.
The 'prima donna's' tuneful heart would bound
Dreading the deep damnation of his bab
Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto,
Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto.

XXXIII.

He patronized the Improvisatori,

Nay, could himself extemporize some start Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a sty Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance. Italians can be, though in this their glory

Must surely yield the palm to that wil
France has:

In short, he was a perfect cavaliero,
And to his very valet seem'd a hero.

XXXIV.

Then he was faithful, too, as well as amorous
So that no sort of female could complain,
Although they're now and then a little clamur
He never put the pretty souls in pain;
His heart was one of those which most enarr
Wax to receive, and marble to retain:
He was a lover of the good old school,
Who still become more constant as they cor

XXXV.

No wonder such accomplishments should tur A female head, however sage and steadyWith scarce a hope that Beppo could retura

In law he was almost as good as dead, he Nor sent nor wrote, nor show'd the least concr

And she had waited several years already. And really if a man won't let us know That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so.

XXXVI.

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman

(Although, God knows, it is a grievous st Tis, I may say, permitted to have toy mah

I can't tell who first brought the custom t But 'Cavalier Serventes' are quite comma And no one notices, nor cares a pin ;

And we may call this (not to say the worst) A second marriage, which corrupts the fr XXXVII.

The word was formerly a 'Cicisbeo,"

But that is now grown vulgar and indec The Spaniards call the person a * Corteje, For the same mode subsists in Spain, th recent ;

In short, it reaches from the Po to Teio, And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea s

• Cortejo is pronounced Corteks, with an astratt, w ing to the Arabesque guttural. It means what there no precise name for in England, though the practas common as in any tramontane country whatever.