«The silence, till my strength should be Enough to leave my accents free e;

<<

« And then her hand on mine she laid, "And smooth'd the pillow for my head, « And stole along on tiptoe tread, «And gently oped the door, and spake «In whispers-ne'er was voice so sweet! « Even music follow'd her light feet ;«But those she call'd were not awake, «And she went forth; but, ere she pass'd, « Another look on me she cast, «Another sign she made, to say « That I had nought to fear, that all « Were near, at my command or call, And she would not delay

"Her due return :—while she was gone, Methought I felt too much alone.

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XXII.

«She came with mother and with sire« What need of more ?—I will not tire << With long recital of the rest,

<< Since I became the Cossacks' guest:

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་་

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They found me senseless on the plain-
They bore me to the nearest hut-

They brought me into life again—

« Me-one day o'er their realm to reign!
« Thus the vain fool who strove to glut
«His rage, refining on my pain,

« Sent me forth to the wilderness,

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Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone,

« To pass the desart to a throne.

« What mortal his own doom may guess ?— Let none despond, let none despair!

«To-morrow the Borysthenes
May see our coursers graze at ease
Upon his Turkish bank,-and never
"Had I such welcome for a river

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« As I shall yield when safely there.

Comrades, good night!»-The Hetman threw
His length beneath the oak-tree shade,
With leafy couch already made,
A bed nor comfortless nor new
To him, who took his rest whene'er
The hour arrived, no matter where :-
His eyes the hastening slumbers steep.
And if ye marvel Charles forgot
To thank his tale, he wonder'd not,-
The king had been an hour asleep.

1

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 consigued-

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 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! -May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.