ON THE SHORE.
"Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
And thy sad floor an altar—for 't was trod
Until his very steps have left a trace
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
By Bonnivard!—May none those marks efface!
For they appeal from tyranny to God."
When finally his liberators burst into his cell, they found him pale and shadow-like, still chained to the column around which he had walked so many years. A hundred voices cried to him at once: "Bonnivard, you are free!" The prisoner slowly rose, and his first question was: "And Geneva?" "Free, also!" was the answer.