The Prisoner of Chillon

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
There are seven columns, massy and grey, 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
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: 
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, 
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 
When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay living by his side.