VIII.

But he, 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,[17] My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be 170 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.[18] Oh, God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood:[19] I've seen it rushing forth in blood, I've seen it on the breaking ocean 180 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 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 190 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 200 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, 210 And rushed to him:--I found him not, _I_ only stirred in this black spot, _I_ only lived, _I_ only drew The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; 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-- My brothers--both had ceased to breathe: 220 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-- A frantic feeling, when we know That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die,[20] I had no earthly hope--but faith, And that forbade a selfish death. 230