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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! 1-May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.