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SONNET ON CHILLON.
Eternal spirit of the chainless mind!
The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned—
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
VOL. VI. B
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
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.