I was the eldest of the three, And to uphold and cheer the rest 70 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— 75 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 80 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; 85 And thus he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay, With tears for nought but others’ ills, And then they flowed like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe 90 Which he abhorr’d to view below.
The other was as pure of mind, But form’d to combat with his kind; Strong in his frame, and of a mood Which ’gainst the world in war had stood, 95 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; 100 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; To him this dungeon was a gulf, 105 And fetter’d feet the worst of ills.
Lake Leman lies by Chillon’s walls: A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent 110 From Chillon’s snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave inthrals: A double dungeon wall and wave Have made and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake 115 The dark vault lies wherein we lay, We heard it ripple night and day; Sounding o’er our heads it knock’d; And I have felt the winter’s spray Wash through the bars when winds were high, 120 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. 125
I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined, He loathed and put away his food: It was not that ’twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter’s fare, 130 And for the like had little care: The milk drawn from the mountain goat Was changed for water from the moat, Our bread was such as captives’ tears Have moisten’d many a thousand years, 135 Since man first pent his fellow-men Like brutes within an iron den: But what were these to us or him? These wasted not his heart or limb; My brother’s soul was of that mould 140 Which in a palace had grown cold, Had his free breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain’s side; But why delay the truth?—he died. I saw, and could not hold his head, 145 Nor reach his dying hand—nor dead— Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. He died—and they unlock’d his chain, And scoop’d for him a shallow grave 150 Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begg’d them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine—it was a foolish thought, But then within my brain it wrought, 155 That even in death his free-born breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer— They coldly laugh’d—and laid him there: The flat and turfless earth above 160 The being we so much did love; His empty chain above it leant, Such murder’s fitting monument!