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SONNET ON CHILLON.
ETERNAL spirit of the chainless mind!
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.
As men's have grown from sudden fears:
My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
To whom the goodly earth and air
But this was for my father's faith
I suffered chains and courted death;
That father perish'd at the stake
Proud of Persecution's rage;
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have seal'd;
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied;
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.
There are seven pillars of gothic mold,
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
They chain'd us each to a column stone,
And we were three-yet, each alone,
But with that pale and livid light