The Prisoner of Chillon

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W. Chubb, 1824 - 35 páginas
 

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Página 16 - To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Página 14 - A small green isle, it seem'd no more, Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing Of gentle breath and hue.
Página 14 - It might be months, or years, or days, I kept no count — I took no note, I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote...
Página 17 - I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air...
Página 13 - I saw them — and they were the same, They were not changed like me in frame; I saw their thousand years of snow On high — their wide long lake below. And the blue Rhone in fullest flow...
Página 29 - Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,— Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me. Though parted, it was not to fly. Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, Nor mute, that the world might belie.
Página 4 - 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...
Página 5 - As they of yore were wont to be: It might be fancy, but to me They never sounded like our own.
Página 15 - With spiders I had friendship made, And watched them in their sullen trade; Had seen the mice by moonlight play — And why should I feel less than they? We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill; yet, strange to tell! In quiet we had learned to dwell. My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are: — even I Regained my freedom with a sigh.
Página 23 - To live within himself: she was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all; upon a tone, A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart Unknowing of its cause of agony.

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