The works of the rt. hon. lord Byron, Volume 3
R. W. Pomeroy, 1824
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Page 176 - 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...
Page 185 - I thought of this, and I was glad, For thought of them had made me mad ; But I was curious to ascend To my barr'd windows, and to bend Once more, upon the mountains high, The quiet of a loving eye.
Page 187 - These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage — and all my own ! And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a second home : With spiders I had friendship made, And watch'd them in their sullen trade...
Page 178 - Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave enthralls: A double dungeon wall and wave Have made — and like a living grave.
Page 182 - The last, the sole, the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race, Was broken in this fatal place.
Page 187 - 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.
Page 179 - A double dungeon wall and wave Have made — and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay, We heard it ripple night and day; Sounding o'er our heads it...
Page 180 - Like brutes within an iron den ; But what were these to us or him? These wasted not his heart or limb ; My brother's soul was of that mould Which in a palace had grown cold, Had his free breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain's side; But why delay the truth?
Page 187 - 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 ; At last men came to set me free...
Page 175 - 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...