They chain'd us each to a column-stone, | Its massy waters meet and flow;

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,
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,
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.

1 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,
But form'd to combat with his kind;
Strong in his frame, and of a mood
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;
To him this dungeon was a gulf,
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills.

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: A thousand feet in depth below

Thus much the fathom-line was sent
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,
Which round about the wave enthralls:
A double dungeon wall and wave
Have made and like a living grave.
Below the surface of the lake
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 werehig
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 piued,
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,
And for the like had little care:
The milk drawn from the mountain-goa
Was changed for water from the moat,
Our bread was such as captive's tears
Have moisten'd many a thousand years,
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 mold
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,
Nor reach his dying hand-nor dead,
Though hard I strove, but strove in va
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
He died-and they unlock'd his chain,
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave
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,
That even in death his freeborn breast
In such a dungeon could not rest.
I might have spared my idle prayer-
They coldly laugh'd – and laid him ther
The flat and turfless earth above
The being we so much did love;
His empty chain above it leant,
Such murder's fitting monument!

But he, the favourite and the flower,
Most cherish'd since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face,

The infant love of all his race,
His martyr'd father's dearest thought,
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be

Less wretched now, and one day free;
He, too, who yet had held untired
A spirit natural or inspired—

He, too, was struck, and day by day
Was wither'd on the stalk away.
Oh God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood:-
I've seen it rushing forth in blood,
I've seen it on_the_breaking ocean
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion,
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of Sin delirious with its dread:

But these were horrors-this was woe
Lamir'd with such-but sure and slow:
He faded, and so calm and meek,
Se softly worn, so sweetly weak,
So tearless, yet so tender-kind,
And grieved for those he left behind;

With all the while a cheek whose bloom
Was as a mockery of the tomb,
Whose tints as gently sunk away
da departing rainbow's ray—
An eye of most transparent light,
That almost made the dungeon bright,
And not a word of murmur-not
A groan o'er his untimely lot,—
ttle talk of better days,
Alittle hope my own to raise,
fel was sunk in silence-lost

this last loss, of all the most; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness, More slowly drawn, grew less and less: listen'd, but I could not hearalld, for I was wild with fear; Tew twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished; call'd, and thought I heard a soundrst my chain with one strong bound; dad rush'd to him:-I found him not, Inly stirr'd in this black spot, only lived-I only drew

And then of darkness too:

I had no thought, no feeling-none
Among the stones I stood a stone,
And was, scarce conscious what I wist,
As shrubless crags within the mist;
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray,
It was not night—it was not day,
It was not even the dungeon-light,
So hateful to my heavy sight,
But vacancy absorbing space,
And fixedness-without a place;
There were no stars--no earth-no time-
No check- -no change-no good-no crime-
But silence, and a stirless breath
Which neither was of life nor death;
A sea of stagnant idleness,

Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew;
The last-the sole-the dearest link
Beween me and the eternal brink,
Which bound me to my failing race,
Fa broken in this fatal place.
On the earth, and one beneath-
My brothers-both had ceased to breathe:
took that hand which lay so still,
Alas! my own was full as chill;
I had not strength to stir, or strive,
But felt that I was still alive-
frantic

feeling, when we know

Ta what we love shall ne'er be so.

Thaw not why

Inald not die;

had no

earthly hope-but faith,

And that forbade a selfish death.

I know not well-I never knew-
What next befel me then and there
First came the loss of light, and air,

A light broke in upon my brain, —
It was the carol of a bird;
It ceased, and then it came again,
The sweetest song ear ever heard,
And mine was thankful till my eyes
Ran over with the glad surprise,
And they that moment could not see
I was the mate of misery;

But then by dull degrees came back
My senses to their wonted track,
I saw the dungeon-walls and floor
Close slowly round me as before,
I saw the glimmer of the sun
Creeping as it before had done,
But through the crevice where it came
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame,
And tamer than the tree;
upon
A lovely bird, with azure wings,
And song that said a thousand things,
And seem'd to say them all for me!
I never saw its like before,

I ne'er shall see its likeness more:
It seem'd like me to want a mate,
But was not half so desolate,
And it was come to love me when
None lived to love me so again,
And cheering from my dungeon's brink,
Had brought me back to feel and think.
I know not if it late were free,
Or broke its cage to perch on mine,
But knowing well captivity,

Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine!
Or if it were, in winged guise,
A visitant from Paradise;

For-Heaven forgive that thought! the
while

Which made me both to weep and smile;
I sometimes deem'd that it might be
My brother's soul come down to me;
But then at last away it flew,
And then 'twas mortal-well I knew,
For he would never thus have flown,
And left me twice so doubly lone,-
Lone-as the corse within its shroud,
Lone-as a solitary cloud,

A single cloud on a sunny day,

MAZEPPA.

CELUI qui remplissait alors cette place, tait un gentilhomme Polonais, nommé Mazeppa, né dans le palatinat de Podolie; il avoit été élevé page de Jean Casimir, et avait pris à sa cour quelque teinture des belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant été découverte, le mari le fit lier tout au sur un cheval farouche, et le laissa aller en cet état. Le cheval, qui était da pays de l'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent: il resta bong-temps parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs courses contre les Tartares. La supériorité de ses lumières lui donna une grande sideration parmi les Cosaques : sa répulation s'augmentant de jour en jour obligea le Czar à le faire Prince de l'Ukraine."

"Le roi fuyant et poursuivi eut son cheval tué sous lui; le Colonel Gieta, blessé, et perdant tout son sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois à cheval, dans la fuite, ce conquérant qui n'avait pu y monter pendant la bataille."

"Le roi alla par un autre chemin avec quelques cavaliers. Le carosse où il était rompit dans la marche ; on le remit à cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'égara pendant la nuit dans un bois; là, son courage ne pouvant plus suppléer à ses forces épuisées, les douleurs de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par la fatigue, son cheval étant tombé de lassitude, il se coucha quelques heures, au pied d'un arbre, en danger d'être surpris à tout moment par les vainqueurs qui le cherchaient de tous côtés."-VOLTAIRE, Histoire de Charles XII.

Tras after dread Pultowa's day, When fortune left the royal Swede, And a slaughter'd army lay,

mere to combat and to bleed. The power and glory of the war, Faithless as their vain votaries, men, lad pass'd to the triumphant Czar, And Moscow's walls were safe again, Tatil a day more dark and drear, Aud a more memorable year,

ald give to slaughter and to shame mightier host and haughtier name; greater wreck, a deeper fall, A shock to one-a thunderbolt to all.

ich was the hazard of the die;
The wounded Charles was taught to fly
By day and night through field and flood,
Maid with his own and subjects' blood;
Fay thousands fell that flight to aid:
And not a voice was heard to upbraid
Ambition in his humbled hour,
bra truth had nought to dread from power.
horse was slain, and Gieta gave
His-and died the Russians' slave.
The too sinks after many a league
And in the depth of forests, darkling
Of well sustain'd, but vain fatigue;
The beacons of surrounding foes-
watch-fires in the distance sparkling
Aking must lay his limbs at length.
Are these the laurels and repose
They laid him by a savage tree,
For which the nations strain their strength?

The

A band of chiefs!-alas! how few,
Since but the fleeting of a day
Had thinn'd it; but this wreck was true
And chivalrous; upon the clay
Each sate him down, all sad and mute,

Beside his monarch and his steed,
For danger levels man and brute,
And all are fellows in their need.
Among the rest, Mazeppa made
His pillow in an old oak's shade-
Himself as rough, and scarce less old,
The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold;
But first, outspent with his long course,
The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse,
And made for him a leafy bed,

And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane,
And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein,
And joy'd to see how well he fed;
For until now he had the dread

His wearied courser might refuse
To browze beneath the midnight dews:

But he was hardy as his lord,
And little cared for bed and board;
But spirited and docile too,
Whate'er was to be done, would do.
Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb,
All Tartar-like he carried him;
Obey'd his voice, and came to call,
And knew him in the midst of all:
Though thousands were around, and Night,
Without a star, pursued her flight,
That steed from sunset until dawn
His chief would follow like a fawn.

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak,
And laid his lance beneath his oak,
Felt if his arms in order good
The long day's march had well withstood-
If still the powder fill'd the pan,
And flints unloosen'd kept their lock—
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt,
And whether they had chafed his belt –
And next the venerable man,
From out his haversack and can,
Prepared and spread his slender stock:
And to the monarch and his men
The whole or portion offer'd then
With far less of inquietude
Than courtiers at a banquet would.
And Charles of this his slender share
With smiles partook a moment there,
To force of cheer a greater show,
And seem above both wounds and woe;
And then he said-" Of all our band,

Though firm of heart and strong of hand,
In skirmish, march, or forage, none
Can less have said, or more have done,
Than thee, Mazeppa! On the earth
So fit a pair had never birth,
Since Alexander's days till now,
As thy Bucephalus and thou:

All Scythia's fame to thine should yield
For pricking on o'er flood and field."
Mazeppa answer'd-" Ill betide

The school wherein I learn'd to ride!"

Quoth Charles Old hetman, wherefore so,

Since thou hast learn'd the art so well?"
Mazeppa said ""Twere long to tell;
And we have many a league to go
With every now and then a blow,
And ten to one at least the foe,
Before our steeds may graze at ease
Beyond the swift Borysthenes:

And, Sire, your limbs have need of rest,
And I will be the sentinel

Of this your troop." "But I request,"
Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt tell
This tale of thine, and I may reap
Perchance from this the boon of sleep,
For at this moment from my eyes
The hope of present slumber flies.”

"Well, Sire, with such a hope, I'll track My seventy years of memory back: I think 'twas in my twentieth spring,

Ay, 'twas, when Casimir was king -
John Casimir,-I was his page
Six summers in my earlier age;
A learned monarch, faith! was he,
And most unlike your majesty:
He made no wars, and did not gain
New realms to lose them back again;
And (save debates in Warsaw's diet)
He reign'd in most unseemly quiet;
Not that he had no cares to vex,
He loved the muses and the sex;
And sometimes these so froward are,
They made him wish himself at war;
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took
Another mistress, or new book:
And then he gave prodigious fêtes-
All Warsaw gather'd round his gates
To gaze upon his splendid court,
And dames, and chiefs, of princely port
He was the Polish Solomon,
So sung his poets, all but one,
Who, being unpension'd, made a satire.
And boasted that he could not flatter.
It was a court of jousts and mimes.
Where every courtier tried at rhymes:
Even I for once produced some verses,
And sign'd my odes, Despairing Thirsis.
There was a certain Palatine,
A count of far and high descent,
Rich as a salt-or silver-mine;
And he was proud, ye may divine,
As if from heaven he had been sent:
He had such wealth in blood and ore
As few could match beneath the throne

And he would gaze upon his store,
And o'er his pedigree would pore,
Until by some confusion led,
Which almost look'd like want of head,
He thought their merits were his own.
His wife was not of his opinion—
His junior she by thirty years-
Grew daily tired of his dominion;
And after wishes, hopes, and fears,
To virtue a few farewell tears,
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and danc
A restless dream or two, some glances

Awaited but the usual chances,
Those happy accidents which render
The coldest dames so very tender,
To deck her Count with titles given.
Tis said, as passports into heaven;
But, strange to say, they rarely boast
Of these who have deserved them most

"I was a goodly stripling then;
At seventy years I so may say,
That there were few, or boys or men,
Who, in my dawning time of day,
Of vassal or of knight's degree,
Could vie in vanities with me;
For I had strength, youth, gaiety,
A port not like to this ye see,
But smooth, as all is rugged now;
For time, and care, and war, have plough