Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/359

 And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd— 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.