But if the lightning, in its wrath, The waving boughs with fury scathe, And never more a leaf reveals." [In Parisina there is no tumult or stir. It is all sadness, and pity, and terror. There is too much of horror, perhaps, in the circumstances; but the writing is beautiful throughout, and the whole wrapped in a rich and redundant veil of poetry, where every thing breathes the pure essence of genius and sensibility.-JEFFREY. SONNET ON CHILLON. ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind !* 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. [In the first draught, the sonnet opens thus "Beloved Goddess of the chainless mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom.] |