Selected Poems (75 page)

Prometheus

I

Titan! to whose immortal eyes

The sufferings of mortality,

Seen in their sad reality,

Were not as things that gods despise;

5

What was thy pity’s recompense?

A silent suffering, and intense;

The rock, the vulture, and the chain,

All that the proud can feel of pain,

The agony they do not show,

10

The suffocating sense of woe,

Which speaks but in its loneliness,

And then is jealous lest the sky

Should have a listener, nor will sigh

Until its voice is echoless.

II

15

Titan! to thee the strife was given

Between the suffering and the will,

Which torture where they cannot kill;

And the inexorable Heaven,

And the deaf tyranny of Fate,

20

The ruling principle of Hate.

Which for its pleasure doth create

The things it may annihilate,

Refused thee even the boon to die:

The wretched gift eternity

25

Was thine – and thou hast borne it well.

All that the Thunderer wrung from thee

Was but the menace which flung back

On him the torments of thy rack;

The fate thou didst so well foresee,

30

But would not to appease him tell;

And in thy Silence was his Sentence,

And in his Soul a vain repentance,

And evil dread so ill dissembled

That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

III

35

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,

To render with thy precepts less

The sum of human wretchedness,

And strengthen Man with his own mind;

But baffled as thou wert from high,

40

Still in thy patient energy,

In the endurance, and repulse

Of thine impenetrable Spirit,

Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,

A mighty lesson we inherit:

45

Thou art a symbol and a sign

To Mortals of their fate and force;

Like thee, Man is in part divine,

A troubled stream from a pure source;

And Man in portions can foresee

50

His own funereal destiny;

His wretchedness, and his resistance,

And his sad unallied existence:

To which his Spirit may oppose

Itself — and equal to all woes,

55

And a firm will, and a deep sense,

Which even in torture can descry

Its own concenter’d recompense,

Triumphant where it dares defy,

And making Death a Victory.

Diodati, July, 1816.

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON

A Fable

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;

5

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,

10

And thy sad floor an altar — for ’twas trod,

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,

B Bonnivard! — May none those marks efface!

Until his very steps have left a trace

For they appeal from tyranny to God.

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, by the kindness of a citizen of that republic, which is still proud of the memory of a man worthy of the best age of ancient freedom: —

‘François de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonnivard, originaire de Seyssel et Seigneur de Lunes, naquit en 1496. Il 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.

‘Ce grand homme — (Bonnivard mérite 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, I’étendue de ses connaissances et la vivacité de son esprit), – ce grand homme, qui excitera I’admiration de tous ceux qu’une vertu héroïque peut encore émouvoir, inspirera encore la plus vive reconnaissance dans les cœurs des Génévois qui aiment Genève. Bonnivard en fut toujours un des plus fermes appuis: pour assurer la liberté de notre République, il ne craignit pas de perdre souvent la sienne; il oublia son repos; il méprisa ses richesses; il ne négligea rien pour affermir le bonheur d’une patrie qu’il honora de son choix: ds ce moment il la chérit comme le plus zélé de ses citoyens; il la servit avec l’intrépidité d’un héros, et il écrivit son Histoire avec la naïeté d’un philosophe et la chaleur d’un patriote.

‘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 goût pour les Républiques, dont il épousa toujours les intérêts
: c’est ce goût pour la liberté qui lui fit sans doute adopter Genève pour sa patrie.

‘Bonnivard, encore jeune, s’annonça hautement comme le défenseur de Genève contre le Duc de Savoye et l’Evêque.

‘En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa patrie. Le Duc de Savoye étant entré dans Genève avec cinq cent hommes, Bonnivard craint le ressentiment du Duc; il voulut se retirer á Fribourg pour en éviter les suites; mais il fut trahi par deux hommes qui l’accompagnoient, et conduit par ordre du Prince á Grolée, oú il resta prisonnier pendant deux ans. Bonnivard etoit malheureux dans ses voyages: comme ses malheurs n’avoient point ralenti son zèle pour Genève, il etoit toujours un ennemi redoutable pour ceux qui la menaçoient, et par conséquent il devait être exposé á 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 dans le Château de Chillon, oú il resta sans être interrogé jusques en 1536; il fut alors delivré par les Bernois, qui s’emparèrent du Pays de Vaud.

‘Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivité, eut le plaisir de trouver Genève libre et réformée: la République s’empressa de lui témoigner sa reconnaissance, et de le dédommager des maux qu’il avoit soufferts; elle le reçut Bourgeois de la ville au mois de Juin, 1536; elle lui donna la maison habitée autrefois par le Vicaire-Général, et elle lui assigna une pension de deux cent écus d’or tant qu’il séjourneroit à Genève. Il fut admis dans le Conseil de Deux-Cent en 1537.

‘Bnnivard n’a pas fini d’être utile: après avoir travaillé à rendre Genève libre, il réussit à la rendre tolérante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil à accorder aux Ecclésiastiques et aux paysans un tems suffisant pour examiner les propositions qu’on leur faisoit; il réussit par sa douceur: on prêche toujours le Christianisme avec succès quand on le prêche avec charité.

‘Bonnivard fut savant: ses manuscrits, qui sont dans la Bibliothèque publique, prouvent qu’il avoit bien lu les auteurs classiques Latins, et qu’il avoit approfondi la théologie et l’histoire. Ce grand homme aimoit les sciences, et il croyoit qu’elles pouvoient faire la gloire de Genève; aussi il ne négligea rien pour les fixer dans cette ville naissante; en 1551 il donna sa bibliothéque au public; elle fut le commencement de notre biblothéque publique; et ces livres sont en partie les rares et belles éditions du quinzième siècle qu’on voit dans notre collection. Enfin, pendant la même année, ce bon patriote institua la République son héritière, à condition qu’elle employeroit ses biens à entretenir le collège dont on projettoit la fondation.

‘Il paroit que Bonnivard mourut en 1570; mais on ne peut l’assurer, parcequ’il y a une lacune dans le Nécrologe depuis le mois de Juillet, 1570, jusques en 1571.’

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON

I

My hair is grey, but not with years,

Nor grew it white

In a single night,
¹

As men’s have grown from sudden fears:

5

My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil,

But rusted with a vile repose,

For they have been a dungeon’s spoil,

And mine has been the fate of those

To whom the goodly earth and air

10

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;

15

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,

20

Proud of Persecution’s rage;

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; —

25

Three were in a dungeon cast,

Of whom this wreck is left the last.

II

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,

In Chillon’s dungeons deep and old,

There are seven columns massy and grey,

30

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,

35

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,

40

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

45

I lost their long and heavy score

When my last brother droop’d and died,

And I lay living by his side.

III

They chain’d us each to a column stone,

And we were three – yet, each alone;

50

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,

55

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

60

With some new hope or legend old

Or song heroically bold;

But even these at length grew cold.

Our voices took a dreary tone,

An echo of the duneon stone

65

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.

IV

I was the eldest of the three,

70

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

75

To him — with eyes as blue as heaven,

For him my soul was sorely moved:

And truly might it be distress’d

To see such bird in such a nest;

For he was beautiful as day -

80

(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,

85

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,

90

Unless he could assuage the woe

Which he abhorr’d to view below.

V

The other was as pure of mind,

But form’d to combat with his kind;

Strong in his frame, and of a mood

95

Which ’gainst the world in war had stood,

And perish’d in the foremost rank