Chillon thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar-for 'twas trod, Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, ADVERTISEMENT. WHEN this poem was composed, I was not sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should have endeavoured to dignify the subject by an attempt to celebrate his courage and his virtues. With some account of his life I have been furnished, by the kindness of a citizen of that republic, which is still proud of the memory of a man worthy of the best age of ancient freedom :François de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonnivard, originaire de Seyssel et Seigneur de Lunes, naquit en 1496. Il fit ses études à Turin: en 1510 Jean Aimé de Bonnivard, son oncle, lui résigna le Prieuré de St Victor, qui aboutissait aux murs de Genève, et qui formait un béné fice considérable. Ce grand homme-(Bonnivard mérite ce titre par la force de son âme, la droiture de son cœur, la noblesse de ses intentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage de ses démarches, l'étendue de ses connaissances, et la vivacité de son esprit),-ce grand homme, qui excitera l'admiration de tous ceux qu'une vertu héroïque peut encore émouvoir, inspirera encore la plus vive reconnaissance dans les cœurs des Génévois qui aiment Genève. Bonnivard en fut toujours un des plus fermes appuis: pour assurer la liberté de notre République, il ne craignit pas de perdre souvent la sienne; il oublia son repos; il méprisa ses richesses; il ne négligea rien pour affermir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora de son choix: dès ce moment il la chérit comme le plus zélé de ses citoyens; il la servit avec l'intrépidité d'un héros, et il écrivit son Histoire avec la naiveté d'un philosophe et la chaleur d'un patriote.、 'Il dit dans le commencement de son Histoire de Genève, que, dès qu'il eut commencé de lire T'histoire des nations, il se sentit entraîné par son goût pour les Républiques, dont il épousa toujours les intérêts: c'est ce goût pour la liberté qui lui fit sans doute adopter Genève pour sa patrie. 'Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annonça hautement comme le défenseur de Genève contre le Duc de Savoye et l'Evêque. En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa patrie. Le Duc de Savoye étant entré dans Genève avec cinq cent hommes, Ponnivard craint le ressentiment du Duc; il voulut se retirer à Fribourg pour en éviter les suites; mais il fut trahi par deux hommes qui l'accompagnaient, et conduit par ordre du Prince à Grolée, où il resta prisonnier pendant deux ans. Bonnivard était malheureux dans ses voyages: comme ses malheurs n'avaient point ralenti son zèle pour Genève, il était toujours un ennemi redoutable pour ceux qui la menaçaient, et par conséquent il devait être exposé à leurs coups. Il fut rencontré en 1530 sur le Jura par des voleurs, qui le dépouillèrent et qui le mirent encore entre les mains du Duc de Savoye : ce Prince le fit enfermer dans le Château de Chillon, où il resta sans être interrogé jusques en 1536; il fut alors delivré par les Bernois, qui s'emparèrent du Pays de Vaud. 'Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivité, eut le plaisir de trouver Genève libre et réformée : la République s'empressa de lui témoigner sa reconnaissance, et de le dédommager des maux qu'il avoit soufferts; elle le reçut Bourgeois de la ville au mois de Juin, 1536; elle lui donna la maison habitée autrefois par le Vicaire-Général, et elle lui assigna une pension de deux cent écus d'or tant qu'il séjournerait à Genève. Il fut admis dans le Conseil de Deux-Cent en 1537. Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'être utile: après avoir travaillé à rendre Genève libre, il réussit à la rendre tolérante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil à accorder aux ecclésiastiques et aux paysans un tems suffisant pour examiner les propositions qu'on leur faisait; il réussit par sa douceur: on prêche toujours le Christianisme avec succès quand on le prêche avec charité. Bonnivard fut savant: ses manuscrits, qui sont dans la bibliothèque publique, prouvent qu'il avait bien lu les auteurs classiques Latins, et qu'il avait approfondi la théologie et l'histoire. Ce grand homme aimait les sciences, et il croyait qu'elles pouvaient faire la gloire de Genève; aussi il ne négligea rien pour les fixer dans cette ville naissante; en 1551 il donna sa bibliothèque au public; elle fut le commencement de notre bibliothèque publique; et ces livres sont en partie les rares et belles éditions du quinzième siècle qu'on voit dans notre collection. Enfin, pendant la même année, ce bon patriote institua la République son héritière, à condition qu'elle employerait ses biens à entretenir le collège dont on projettait la fondation. 'Il parait que Bonnivard mourut en 1570; mais on ne peut l'assurer, parcequ'il y a une lacune dans le Nécrologe depuis le mois de Juillet, 1570, jusques en 1571. I. My hair is grey, but not with years; Nor grew it white In a single night," * As men's have grown from sudden fears: And mine has been the fate of those 1 suffer'd chains and courted death: Proud of Persecution's rage; For the God their foes denied ;- II. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, And in each ring there is a chain; For in these limbs its teeth remain, 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; 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, Ludovico Sforza, and others.-The same is asserted of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI., though not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the same effect; to such, and not to fear, this change in hers was to be attributed. And thus together-yet apart, But even these at length grew cold. A grating sound-not full and free IV. I 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 distress'd 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. v. The other was as pure of mind, With joy-but not in chains to pine: And so perchance in sooth did mine; Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; VI. 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 Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; [high 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. VII. I said my nearer brother pined, The Chateau de Chillon is situated between Clarens and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of the Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the Rhone, and oppasite are the heights of Meillerie and the 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 of Bonnivard have left their traces. He was confined here several years. It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of his Heloise, 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 chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a great distance. The walls are white. Might shine-it was a foolish thought, VIII. 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 inspiredHe, too, was struck, and day by day Was wither'd on the stalk away. O 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 swoll'n convulsive motion, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of Sin delirious with its dread: But these were horrors-this was woe 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; 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 rayAn 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! A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise, 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 : I listen'd, but I could not hear I call'd, for I was wild with fear; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread I call'd, and thought I heard a sound- I only lived-I only drew The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; The last, the sole,-the dearest link One on the earth, and one beneath- I had not strength to stir, or strive, I could not die; I had no earthly hope-but faith, 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: I had no thought, no feeling-none- There were no stars,--no earth,-no time, No check, no change, -no good,crime, But silence, and a stirless breath -no Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! X. A light broke in upon my brain- But then by dull degrees came back A lovely bird, with azure wings, I never saw its like before, I ne'er shall see its likeness more: It seem'd, like me, to want a mate, And cheering from my dungeon's brink, Or broke its cage to perch on mine, Sweet bird, I could not wish for thine! Or if it were, in winged guise, A visitant from Paradise; [while For-Heaven forgive that thought! the 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 loneLone, as the corse within its shroud Lone, as a solitary cloud, 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. A kind of change came in my fate, Along my cell from side to side, My brothers' graves without a sod; XII. I made a footing in the wall, It was not therefrom to escape, 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, 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 XIII. I saw them—and they were the same, A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 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. The darkness of my dim abode 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; 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. 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 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? 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 dwellMy very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are :--even I Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. BEPPO: A VENETIAN STORY. 1817. Rosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: Look you lisp, and wear strange suits: disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think that you have swam in a Gondola.-As You Like It, Act IV., Scene I. Annotation of the Commentators. That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those times, and was then what Paris is now the seat of all dissoluteness.-S. A. 'Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout All countries of the Catholic persuasion, Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, The people take their fill of recreation, And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, However high their rank, or low their station, With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking, And other things which may be had for asking. |