SONNET ON CHILLON.

ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heartThe 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.

a 2

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.

THE

PRISONER OF CHILLON.

A FABLE.

1.

My hair is grey, but not with years, grew it white

Nor

In a single night, 2

As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bowed, 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
But this was for my father's faith
I suffered chains and courted death;