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 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. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor and 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.