98
THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.
Fair lake, thy lovely and thy haunted shore
Hath only echoes for the poet’s lute;
None may tread there save with unsandalled foot,
Submissive to the great who went before,
Filled with the mighty memories of yore.
And yet how mournful are the records there—
Captivity, and exile, and despair,
Did they endure who now endure no more.
The patriot, the woman, and the bard,
Whose names thy winds and waters bear along;
What did the world bestow for their reward
But suffering, sorrow, bitterness, and wrong?—
Genius!—a hard and weary lot is thine—
The heart thy fuel—and the grave thy shrine.
49
