But even these at length grew cold. 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, 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; Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: A double dungeon wall and wave Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; 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 pin'd, I said his mighty heart declin'd; He loath'd and put away his food; It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare, The milk drawn from the mountain goat The flat and turfless earth above But he, the favourite and the flower, The infant love of all his race, He, too, was struck, and day by day Of Sin delirious with its dread: He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak, So tearless, yet so tender-kind, And griev'd for those he left behind; Was as a mockery of the tomb, |