The Castle Of Chillon

by Letitia Elizabeth Landon

Fair lake, thy lovely and thy haunted shore
Has only echoes for the poet's lute;
None may tread there save with unsandalled foot,
Submissive to the great that 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.