The Prisoner of Chillon

My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men’s have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bowed, 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 banned, and barred—forbidden fare; But this was for my father’s faith I suffered chains and courted death; That father perished 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, Finished as they had begun, Proud of Persecution’s rage; One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have sealed, Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied;— Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the last.