« AnteriorContinuar »
SONNET ON CHILLON.
ETERNAL spirit of the chainless mind!
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
For there thy habitation is the heart-
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!!—May none those marks efface !
For they appeal from tyranny to God.
PRISONER OF CHILLON.
My hair is grey, but not with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears : My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,
And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place;
Six in youth, and one in age,
Proud of Persecution's rage;
Dying as their father died,
There are seven pillars of gothic mold,