My hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.[107] My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, 5 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; 10 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 15 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; 20 One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have sealed[108]: Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied;-- Three were in a dungeon cast, 25 Of whom this wreck is left the last. II There are seven[109] pillars of Gothic mould In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, There are seven columns massy and gray, Dim with a dull imprisoned ray, 30 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[110]: 35 And in each pillar there is a ring, And in each ring there is a chain; That iron is a cankering[111] thing, For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away 40 Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years--I cannot count them o'er, I lost their long and heavy score 45 When my last brother drooped and died, And I lay living by his side. III