THE PRISONER OF CHILLON LORD BYRON NOTE TO THE PUPIL. Lord Byron was born in London in 1788 Perhaps his most noted work is "Childe Harold." He wrote much. His first published work, "Hours of Idleness," was severely criticised by the Edinburgh Review, and he replied in his satire “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." The chief of his other poems are "The Giaour," "The Corsair," 66 Lara," 66 Manfred," "Mazeppa," "Don Juan," "Sardanapalus." The story of "The Prisoner of Chillon " is not founded on fact save in part. The poet's hero and the historical one have few points of resemblance. Bonnivard, the Genevese patriot referred to, was confined for political, not religious, reasons, and he had no brothers confined with him. Byron's life was an unhappy one. He separated from his wife and lived upon the Continent. He spent the greater part of his time in Switzerland and Italy, though he was in Greece for considerable time. In 1823 the Revolution in Greece aroused him, and he joined himself to the Greek cause, and in 1824 died at Missolonghi of a fever. Y My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears; For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And for the same his lineal race Proud of Persecution's rage; For the God their foes denied ; Of whom this wreck is left the last. There are seven pillars of Gothic mold, A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 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 to 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. They chain'd us each to a column stone, But even these at length grew cold. A grating sound—not full and free 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, who 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, With tears for naught but other's ills, The other was as pure of mind, Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 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 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 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, Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; Wash through the bars when winds were high And then the very rock hath rock'd, Because I could have smiled to see I said my nearer brother pined, The milk drawn from the mountain goat |