Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub

THE

PRISONER OF CHILLON.

A FABLE.

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 consign'd-

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.

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

My hair is gray, but not with years,

Nor grew it white

In a single night, (2)
As men's have grown from sudden fears:
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil,

But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,

And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd, and barr’d-forbidden fare;

10

« AnteriorContinuar »