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 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 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.