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BYRON.

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

I.

My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men’s have grown from sudden fears ; My limbs are bow’d, 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 sufi'er’d 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.

II.

There are-seven pillars of Gothic mould, In Chillon’s dungeons deep and old, There are seven columns, massy and gray,

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