While the crowd in a speechless circle gather, To see the Son fall by the doom of the father. It is a lovely hour as yet

Before the summer sun shall set,

Which rose upon that heavy day,
And mocked it with his steadiest ray;

And his evening beams are shed
Full on Hugo's fated head,
As his last confession pouring
To the monk, his doom deploring
In penitential holiness,

He bends to hear his accents bless
With absolution such as may

Wipe our mortal stains away.

That high sun on his head did glisten
As he there did bow and listen—
And the rings of chestnut hair

Curled half down his neck so bare;
But brighter still the beam was throwing
Upon the axe which near him shone
With a clear and ghastly glitter-
Oh that parting hour was bitter!
Even the stern stood chilled with awe :
Dark the crime, and just the law—
Yet they shuddered as they saw.

The parting prayers are said and over
Of that false son and daring lover!
His beads and sins are all recounted,
His hours to their last minute mounted—
His mantling cloak before was stripped.
His bright brown locks must now be clipped;
"Tis done all closely are they shorn-

The vest which till this moment wqpi—
The scarf which Parasina gave—
Must not adorn him to the grave.
Even that must now be thrown aside,
And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ;
But no—that last indignity

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye.

No—yours my forfeit blood and breath—

These hands are chained—but let me die
At least with an unshackled eye-
Strike:'—and as the word he said,
Upon the block he bowed his head;

These the last accents Hugo spoke :
'Strike'—and flashing fell the stroke-
Rolled the head—and, gushing, sunk
Back the stained and heaving trunk,
In the dust, which each deep vein
Slacked with its ensanguined rain;
His eyes and lips a moment quiver,
Convulsed and quick—then fix for ever."

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

The Prisoner of Chillon is a sweet and touching poem. Chillon is a ruined castle on the lake of Geneva in Switzerland, in the dungeon of which three gallant brothers were confined, each chained to a separate pillar, till, after years of anguish, the two younger died, and were buried under the cold floor of the prison. The eldest was at length liberated, when worn out with age and misery—and is supposed, in his joyless liberty, to tell, in this poem, the sad story of his imprisonment.

The annexed verses describe the sympathy of the unhappy brothers, the peculiar loveliness of the youngest, and the bitterness of sorrow with which the survivor deplored the fate of this "blooming Benjamin of the family."

"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
Fettered in hand, but joined 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,
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,

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.

*

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 distrest

To see such bird in such a nest;
He was the favourite and the flower,
Most cherished since his natal hour;
His mother's image in fair face,
The infant love of all his race,
His martyred 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 inspired—
He, too, was struck, and day by day
Was withered 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,
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 wo
Unmixed 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 ray—
An 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 listened but I could not hear—
I called, for I was wild with fear;
I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread
Would not be thus admonished;

I called, and thought I heard a sound—
I burst my chain with one strong bound,
And rushed to him:—I found him not,
I only stirred in this black spot,

I only lived — only drew

The accursed breath of dungeon dew."

TURKEY.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime?
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,

Where the flowers ever blossomn, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume; Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul* in her bloom;

Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,

And the voice of the nightingale never' is mute :

Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,

In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,

And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye;

Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?

'Tis the clime of the east; 'tis the land of the Sun—

Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?

Oh! wild as the accents of lover's farewell

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

* Gul,—The rose.

VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.

The king was on his throne,
The satraps thronged the hall;
A thousand bright lamps shone
O'er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,

In Judah deemed divine—
Jehovah's vessels hold

The godless heathen's wine!

In that same hour and hall,
The fingers of a hand
Come forth against the wall,
And wrote as if on sand:
The fingers of a man ;—
A solitary hand
Along the letters ran,

And traced them like a wand.

The monarch saw, and shook.
And bade no more rejoice;
All bloodless waxed his look,
And tremulous his voice.
"Let the men of lore appear,
The wisest of the earth,
And expound the words of fear,
Which mar our royal mirth."

Chaldea's seers are good,

But here they have no skill;
And the unknown letters stood
Untold and awful still.
And Babel's men of age

Are wise and deep in lore;

But now they were not sage, They saw—but knew no more,

A captive in the land,

A stranger and a youth,
He heard the king's command,
He saw that writing's troth,
The lamps around were bright,
The prophecy in view;
He read it on that night,—
The morrow proved it true.