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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;


But this was for my father's faith

I suffered chains and courted death;

That father perish'd at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race

In darkness found a dwelling-place;
We were seven-who now are one,
Six in youth, and one in age,

Finish'd as they had begun,

Proud of Persecution's rage;

One in fire, and two in field,

Their belief with blood have seal'd;


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 mold,
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,
There are seven columns, massy and
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,
A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left;
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
Like a marsh's meteor lamp:
And in each pillar there is a ring,

And in each ring there is a chain ;


That iron is a cankering thing,
For in these limbs its teeth remain,
With marks that will not wear away,
Till I have done with this new day,
Which now is painful to these eyes
Which have not seen the sun so rise
For years-I cannot count them o'er,
I lost their long and heavy score,

When my last brother droop'd and died,

And I lay living by his side.


They chain'd us each to a column stone,

And we were three-yet, each alone,

We could not move a single pace,

We could not see each other's face,



But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight;
And thus together—yet apart,

Fettered in hand, but pined in heart;
'Twas still some solace in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,

To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each,
With some new hope, or legend old,

Or song heroically bold;

But even these at length grew cold.
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon-stone,
A grating sound—not full and free
As they of yore were wont to be:
It might be fancy-but to me

They never sounded like our own.



I was the eldest of the three,
And to uphold and cheer the rest
I ought to do-and did my best-
And each did well in his degree.
The youngest, whom my father loved,
Because our mother's brow was given
To him-with eyes as blue as heaven,
For him my soul was sorely moved;
And truly might it be distrest

To see such bird in such a nest;
For he was beautiful as day—
(When day was beautiful to me
As to young eagles, being free)-
A polar day, which will not see
A sunset till its summer's gone,
Its sleepless summer of long light,



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