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. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. I. My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, (2) As men's have grown from sudden fears: For they have been a dungeon's spoil, Finish'd as they had begun, For the God their foes denied; Of whom this wreck is left the last. II. There are seven pillars of gothic mold, And in each ring there is a chain; For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away, Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For yearss-I cannot count them o'er, I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother droop'd and died, And I lay living by his side. |