THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. A FABLE. 1. My hair is grey, but not with years, In a single night, [1] As men's have grown from sudden fears: For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 10 And for the same his lineal race Of whom this wreck is left the last. 11. There are seven pillars of gothic mold, There are seven columns, massy and grey, A sunbeam which hath lost its way, And through the crevice and the cleft; 20 30 40 OF CHILLON. III. They chain'd us each to a column stone, But even these at length grew cold. A grating sound-not full and free IV. I was the eldest of the three, 50 60 70 |