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Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.

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

gray, Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, A sunbeam which hath lost its way, And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left; Creeping o'er the floor so damp, Like a marsh's meteor lamp; 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 away, Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise

I cannot count them o'er, I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother droop'd and

died, And I lay living by his side.

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

For years

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' and barrd — forbidden

fare;
But this was for my father's faith
I suffer'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;

They chain'd us each to a column stone,
And we were three — yet, each alone:
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight;
And thus together — yet apart,
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart;
'Twas still some solace in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comfurter to each
With some new hope, or legend old,
Or song heroically bold;
But even these at length grew cold.
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon-stone,

A grating sound - not full and free
As they of yore were wont to be;

It might be fancy — but to me
They never sounded like our own.

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But half our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for

retiring;
And we heard the distant and random

gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and

gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised

not a stone But we left him alone with his glory.

JOHN KEBLE.

1792–1866. (JOHN KEBle was born on St. Mark's Day (April 25), 1792, at Fairford, in Gloucestershire. He was elected Scholar of Corpus, Oxford, in his fifteenth, and Fellow of Oriel in his nineteenth year. After a few years of tutorship at Oxford and curacy in the country, he became Vicar of Hursley in Hampshire in 1839, where he continued to minister till his death in 1866. He was with Dr. Newman and Dr. Pusey regarded as forming the Triumvirate of the Oxford Catholic move. meni. His prose works consist of an elaborate edition of Hooker, a careful Life of Bishop Wilson, and various theological treatises. But it is as a poet much more than a scholar or a controversialist that he is known; and of his poetical works, the Lyra Innocentium, the Translation of the Psalter, a posthumous volume of Poems, and The Christian Year (1827), it is by the last that

, he acquired an universal and undying fame in English literature. As Professor of Poetry at Oxford he wrote in Latin Praelections on Poetry, which are remarkable both for their subtlety and their exquisite Latinity. His Life was written by his friend Mr. Justice Coleridge.]

THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT.

[The Christian Inheritance.) SEE Lucifer like lightning fall,

Dashed from his throne of pride; While, answering Thy victorious

call,

The Saints his spoils divide;
This world of Thine, by him usurped

too long,
Now opening all her stores to heal Thy

servants' wrong.
So when the first-born of Thy foes

Dead in the darkness lay,
When Thy redeemed at midnight

Among their fathers' tombs;
A land that drinks the rain of Heaven

at will,
Whose waters kiss the feet of many a

yine-clad hill; Oft as they watched, at thoughtful

eve, A gale from bowers of balm Sweep o'er the billowy corn, and

heave

The tresses of the palm,
Just as the lingering Sun had touched

with gold,
Far o'er the cedar shade, some tower of

giants old;
It was a fearful joy, I ween,

To trace the Heathen's toil,
The limpid wells, the orchards

green,
Left ready for the spoil,
The household stores untouched, the

roses bright Wreathed o'er the cottage walls in gar

lands of delight. And now another Canaan yields

To Thine all-conquering ark;

rose

And cast their bonds away,
The orphaned realm threw wide her

gates, and told
Into freed Israel's lap her jewels and

her gold.

And when their wondrous march

was o'er, And they had won their homes, Where Abraham fed his flock of

yore,

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