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SONNET ON CHILLON.
ETERNAL spirit of the chainless mind!
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
For there thy habitation is the heart-
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
And thy sad floor an altar—for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard !!—May none those marks efface !
For they appeal from tyranny to God.
PRISONER OF CHILLON.
Nor grew it white
In a single night,
But rusted with a vile repose,
And mine has been the fate of those
That father perish'd at the stake
Six in youth, and one in age,
Proud of Persecution's rage;
There are seven pillars of gothic mold,
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
They chain'd us each to a column stone,