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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 ! (1)—May none those marks efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God.
My hair is gray, but not with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night, (2)
But rusted with a vile repose,
And mine has been the fate of those