The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, * * * * * And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this paradise. [Illustration] THE PRISONER OF CHILLON AND THE BIRD. "Thro' 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, And seem'd to say them all for me!" (_The Prisoner of Chillon._) or, looking backwards through a score of centuries, I see before me the Gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand--his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his droop'd head sinks gradually low-- And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him--he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won. Byron is emphatically a citizen of the world, who has "not only painted the environs, but reflected the passions and aspirations of every scene which he visualizes." And it is this magic power of conveying the authentic impression of an actual occurrence, which renders his most recondite situations so thrilling,--which breathes a Western vigour into the scented air of the Orient, and thrills with poignant pathos through the horrors of the _Prisoner of Chillon_.