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Sonnet on Chillon |
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George Gordon Byron |
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Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! |
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Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, |
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For there thy habitation is the heart -- |
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The heart which love of thee alone can bind; |
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And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd -- |
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To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, |
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Their country conquers with their martyrdom, |
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And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. |
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Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, |
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And thy sad floor an altar -- for 'twas trod, |
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Until his very steps have left a trace |
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Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, |
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By Bonnivard! -- May none those marks efface! |
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For they appeal from tyranny to God. |