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THE

PRISONER OF CHILLON, &c.

1

SONNET ON CHILLON.

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind!
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
For there thy habitation is the heart—

The heart which love of thee alone can bind;

And when thy sons to fetters are consigned—
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
Their country conquers with their martyrdom,

And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.

VOL. VI. B

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.

A FABLE.

I.

My hair is grey, but not with years,

Nor grew it white

In a single night,2 As men's have grown from sudden fears:

B2

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