SONNET ON CHILLON. ETERNAL spirit of the chainless mind! 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. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. I. 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: For they have been a dungeon's spoil, |