THE SHIPWRECK

Don Juan, Canto II

LI

AT half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars,
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose,
That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,
For yet they strove, although of no great use.
There was no light in heaven but a few stars;
The boats put off, o'er crowded with their crews;
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port,
And going down head-foremost-sunk, in short.

LII

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell,

Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave, – Then some leaped overboard, with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave;

And the sea yawned round her like a hell,

And down she sucked with her the whirling wave,

Like one who grapples with his enemy,

And strives to strangle him before he die.

LIII

And first a universal shriek there rushed,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gushed
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek - the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

MONT BLANC

Manfred, Act I. Scene I

Voice of the Second Spirit

MONT BLANC is the monarch of mountains,

They crowned him long ago

On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow.

Around his waist are forests braced,

The avalanche in his hand;
But ere it fall, that thundering ball
Must pause for thy command.
The glacier's cold and restless mass
Moves onward day by day;
But I am he who bids it pass,
Or with its ice delay.

I am the spirit of the place,

Could make the mountain bow
And quiver to his caverned base —
And what with me wouldst Thou?

THE COLISEUM

Manfred, Act III. Scene IV. - Interior of the Tower
Manfred Alone

THE stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful!
I linger yet with Nature, for the night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness,

I learned the language of another world.
I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering―upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;
The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar
The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber: and,
More near, from out the Cæsars' palace came
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song

Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bowshot. Where the Cæsars dwelt,

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst

A grove which springs through levelled battlements,

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which softened down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and filled up, As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries; Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old ! — The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns. —

'T was such a night!

'Tis strange that I recall it at this time;

But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight Even at the moment when they should array Themselves in pensive order.

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 ;
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned -

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 't was trod,
Until his very steps have left a trace

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
May none those marks efface!

By Bonnivard!

-

For they appeal from tyranny to God.

I

My hair is gray, but not with years,
Nor grew it white

In a single night,

As men's have grown from sudden fears.
My limbs are bowed, 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 banned, and barred forbidden fare;
But this was for my father's faith
I suffered chains and courted death;
That father perished 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,
Finished as they had begun,

Proud of Persecution's rage;
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have sealed:
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 gray,
Dim with a dull imprisoned 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,

I lost their long and heavy score
When my last brother drooped and died,
And I lay living by his side.

III

They chained us each to a column stone,
And we were three-yet, each alone:
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,
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart;
'T was still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To harken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each
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 dungeon stone,

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,

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: