But if thou goest, I follow-" "Peace," he said'She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; The ghastly colour from his lips had fled;

In his deportment, shape, and mien, appear'd
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace,

Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

"He spake of love, such love as spirits feel
In worlds whose course is equable and pure;
No fears to beat away-no strife to heal—
The past unsighed for, and the future sure;
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood
Revived, with finer harmony pursued,

Of all that is most beauteous--imaged there
In happier beauty, more pellucid streams,
An ampler ether, a diviner air,

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And fields invested with purpureal gleams,

Climes which the sun, who shed: the brightest day
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.

Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earned

That privilege by virtue." Ill," said he, "The end of man's existence I discerned,

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Who from ignoble games and revelry

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight,
While tears were thy best pastime, day and night,

1 "And while my youthful peers, before my eyes,
(Each hero following his peculiar bent)
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise
By martial sports,—or, seated in the tent,

Chieftains and kings in council were detained,
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.

"The wished-for wind was given :-I then revolved The oracle upon the silent sea;

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And, if no worthier led the way, resolved
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,—

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Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

"Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife; On thee too fondly did my memory hang,

And on the joys we shared in mortal life,—

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The paths which we had trod—these fountains,--flowers;
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.

"But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 'Behold, they tremble !-haughty their array, Yet of their number no one dares to die' ?

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In soul I swept the indignity away:

Old frailties then recurred :—but lofty thought,

In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.

"And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak

That self might be annulled; her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love."

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Aloud she shrieked!-for Hermes reappears!

Round the dear shade she would have clung-'tis vain :

The hours are past,—too brief had they been years;
And him no mortal effort can detain:

Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day,

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He through the portal takes his silent way,
And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she lay.

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved,
She perished; and, as for a wilful crime
By the just gods whom no weak pity moved,
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time,
Apart from happy ghosts, that gather flowers
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.

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Yet tears to human suffering are due;
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown

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Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,

As fondly he believes.-Upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew

From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
And ever, when such stature they had gained
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight-
A constant interchange of growth and blight!

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As men's have grown from sudden fears:

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
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;
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,
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 ;
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,
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 c'er, I lost their long and heavy score

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