. A selection from the works of Lord Byron. weeps not, now,And but for that chill, changeless brow,Where cold Obstructions apathyAppals the gazing mourners heart,As if to him it could impart SONNET ON CHILLON. 27 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;Yes, but for these and these alone,Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,He still might doubt the tyrants power;So fair, so calm, so softly seald,The first, last look by death reveald ! 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 t
. A selection from the works of Lord Byron. weeps not, now,And but for that chill, changeless brow,Where cold Obstructions apathyAppals the gazing mourners heart,As if to him it could impart SONNET ON CHILLON. 27 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;Yes, but for these and these alone,Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,He still might doubt the tyrants power;So fair, so calm, so softly seald,The first, last look by death reveald ! 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 consignd— To fetters, and the damp vaults dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom,And Freedoms fame finds wings on every ! 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 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. My hair is grey, but not with years,Nor grew it whiteIn a single night,As mens have grown from sudden fears :My limbs are bowd, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose,For they have been a dungeons spoil, And mine has been the fate of thoseTo whom the goodly earth and airAre bannd, and barrd—forbidden fare ;But this was for my fathers faithI sufferd chains and courted death ;That father perishd at the stakeFor tenets he would not forsake ;And for the same his lineal raceIn darkness found a dwelling-place ; THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 29 We were seven—who now are one, Six in youth, and one in age,Finishd as they had begun, Proud of Persecutions rage;One in fire, and two in field,Their belief with blood have seald,Dying as their father died,For the God their foes denied;Three were in a dungeon cast,Of whom this wreck is left the last. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,In Chillons dungeons deep and ol
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