The Prisoner of Chillon

(1816)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824)

			I
	My hair is grey, but not with years,
	  Nor grew it white
	  In a single night,1
	As men's have grown from sudden fears:
5	My limbs are bow'd, 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
10	Are bann'd, and barr'd -- forbidden fare;
	But this was for my father's faith
	I suffer'd chains and courted death;
	That father perish'd at the stake
	For tenets he would not forsake;
15	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,
	Finish'd as they had begun,
20	  Proud of Persecution's rage;
	One in fire, and two in field,
	Their belief with blood have seal'd:
	Dying as their father died,
	For the God their foes denied; --
25	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 grey,
30	Dim with a dull imprison'd 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,
35	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,
40	With marks that will not wear away,
	Till I have done with this new day,
	Which now is painful to these eyes,
	Which have not seen the sun so rise
	For years -- I cannot count them o'er,
45	I lost their long and heavy score
	When my last brother droop'd and died,
	And I lay living by his side.

			III
	They chain'd us each to a column stone,
	And we were three -- yet, each alone;
50	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,
55	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
60	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,
65	  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,
70	  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
75      To him - with eyes as blue as heaven,
	  For him my soul was sorely moved:
	And truly might it be distressed
	To see such bird in such a nest;
	For he was beautiful as day --
80	  (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
85	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,
90	Unless he could assuage the woe
	Which he abhorr'd to view below

			V
	The other was as pure of mind,
	But form'd to combat with his kind;
	Strong in his frame, and of a mood
95	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 
100	  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;
105	  To him this dungeon was a gulf,
	And fetter'd feet the worst of ills

			VI
	  Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:
	A thousand feet in depth below
	Its massy waters meet and flow;
110	Thus much the fathom-line was sent
	From Chillon's snow-white battlement,2
	  Which round about the wave inthrals:
	A double dungeon wall and wave
	Have made -- and like a living grave.
115	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
120	Wash through the bars when winds were high
	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
125	The death that would have set me free

			VII
	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,
130 	For we were used to hunter's fare,
	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 captive's tears
135 	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;
140	My brother's soul was of that mould
	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.
145 	I saw, and could not hold his head,
	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,
150	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,
155 	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 there:
160 	The flat and turfless earth above
	The being we so much did love;
	His empty chain above it leant,
	Such murder's fitting monument!

			VIII
	But he, the favourite and the flower,
165 	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
170 	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
175 	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,
180 	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
185 	Unmix'd with such -- but sure and slow:
	He faded, and so calm and meek,
	So softly worn, so sweetly weak,
	So tearless, yet so tender -- kind,
	And grieved for those he left behind;
190 	With all the while a cheek whose bloom
	Was as a mockery of the tomb,
	Whose tints as gently sunk away
	As a departing rainbow's ray --
	An eye of most transparent light,
195 	That almost made the dungeon bright,
	And not a word of murmur -- not
	A groan o'er his untimely lot, --
	A little talk of better days,
	A little hope my own to raise,
200  	For I was sunk in silence -- lost
	In 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:
205 	I listen'd, but I could not hear --
	I call'd, for I was wild with fear;
	I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread
	Would not be thus admonished;
	I call'd, and thought I heard a sound 
210 	I burst my chain with one strong bound,
	And rush'd to him: -- I found him not,
	I only stirr'd in this black spot,
	I only lived -- I only drew
	The accursed breath of dungeon-dew;
215 	The last -- the sole -- the dearest link
	Between me and the eternal brink,
	Which bound me to my failing race,
	Was broken in this fatal place.
	One on the earth, and one beneath --
220 	My brothers -- both had ceased to breathe:
	I 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 --
225 	A frantic feeling, when we know
	That what we love shall ne'er be so.
	  I know not why
	  I could not die,
	I had no earthly hope - but faith,
230 	And that forbade a selfish death.

			IX
	What next befell me then and there
	  I know not well - I never knew --
	First came the loss of light, and air,
	  And then of darkness too:
235 	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 grey,
240	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;
245	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,
250	Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!

			X
	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,
255	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
260	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,
265	But through the crevice where it came
	That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame,
	  And tamer than upon the tree;
	A lovely bird, with azure wings,
	And song that said a thousand things,
270	  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,
275	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,
280	  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;
285	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,
290	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,
295	  A single cloud on a sunny day,
	While all the rest of heaven is clear,
	A frown upon the atmosphere,
	That hath no business to appear
	  When skies are blue, and earth is gay.

			XI
300	A kind of change came in my fate,
	My keepers grew compassionate;
	I know not what had made them so,
	They were inured to sights of woe,
	But so it was: -- my broken chain
305	With links unfasten'd did remain,
	And it was liberty to stride
	Along my cell from side to side,
	And up and down, and then athwart,
	And tread it over every part;
310	And round the pillars one by one,
	Returning where my walk begun,
	Avoiding only, as I trod,
	My brothers' graves without a sod;
	For if I thought with heedless tread
315 	My step profaned their lowly bed,
	My breath came gaspingly and thick,
	And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick.

			XII
	I made a footing in the wall,
	  It was not therefrom to escape,
320 	For I had buried one and all
	  Who loved me in a human shape;
	And the whole earth would henceforth be
	A wider prison unto me:
	No child -- no sire -- no kin had I,
325 	No partner in my misery;
	I thought of this, and I was glad,
	For thought of them had made me mad;
	But I was curious to ascend
	To my barr'd windows, and to bend
330 	Once more, upon the mountains high,
	The quiet of a loving eye.

			XIII
	I saw them - and they were the same,
	They were not changed like me in frame;
	I saw their thousand years of snow
335 	On high -- their wide long lake below,
	And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;
	I heard the torrents leap and gush
	O'er channeled rock and broken bush;
	I saw the white-wall'd distant town,
340 	And whiter sails go skimming down;
	And then there was a little isle,3
	Which in my very face did smile,
	  The only one in view;
	A small green isle, it seem'd no more,
345	Scarce broader than my dungeon floor,
	But in it there were three tall trees,
	And o'er it blew the mountain breeze,
	And by it there were waters flowing,
	And on it there were young flowers growing,
350	  Of gentle breath and hue.
	The fish swam by the castle wall,
	And they seem'd joyous each and all;
	The eagle rode the rising blast,
	Methought he never flew so fast
355 	As then to me he seem'd to fly,
	And then new tears came in my eye,
	And I felt troubled -- and would fain
	I had not left my recent chain;
	And when I did descend again,
360 	The darkness of my dim abode
	Fell on me as a heavy load;
	It was as is a new-dug grave,
	Closing o'er one we sought to save, --
	And yet my glance, too much oppress'd,
365 	Had almost need of such a rest

			XIV
	It might be months, or years, or days,
	  I kept no count - I took no note,
	I had no hope my eyes to raise,
	  And clear them of their dreary mote;
370 	At last men came to set me free,
	  I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where,
	It was at length the same to me,
	Fetter'd or fetterless to be,
	  I learn'd to love despair.
375 	And thus when they appear'd at last,
	And all my bonds aside were cast,
	These heavy walls to me had grown
	A hermitage -- and all my own!
	And half I felt as they were come
380 	To tear me from a second home:
	With spiders I had friendship made,
	And watch'd them in their sullen trade,
	Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
	And why should I feel less than they?
385 	We were all inmates of one place,
	And I, the monarch of each race,
	Had power to kill - yet, strange to tell!
	In quiet we had learn'd to dwell --
	My very chains and I grew friends,
390 	So much a long communion tends
	To make us what we are: - even I
	Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.

2. The Château de Chillon is situated between Clarens and which last is at one extremity of the Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Meillerie and range of Alps above Boveret and St Gingo. Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent: below it, washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the depth of 800 feet, French measure: within it are a range of dungeons, in which the early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of state, were confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam black with age, on which we were informed that the condemned were formerly executed. In the cells are seven pillars, or, rather, eight, one being half merged in the wall; in some of these are rings for the fetters and the fettered: in the pavement the steps Bonnivard have left their traces. He was confined here several years. It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of his Héloïse, in the rescue of one of her children by Julie from the water; the shock of which, and the illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of her death. The château is large, and seen along the lake for a great distance. The walls are white.

3. Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, not far from Chillon, is a very small island; the only one I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the lake, within its circumference. It contains a few trees (I think not above three), and from its singleness and diminutive size has a peculiar effect upon the view.

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 consign'd --
	    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.

poems copied with gratitude from http://www.english.upenn.edu/Projects/knarf/Byron/chillon.html (13 November 2008)

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