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		There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,
		In Chillons dungeons deep and old,
		There are seven columns, massy and grey,
		Dim with a dull imprisond ray,
		A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
		And through the crevice and the cleft[1 -   :    .]

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		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 Ihave done with this new day,
		Which now is painful to these eyes,
		Which have not seen the sun so rise

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		They chaind us each to a column stone,
		And we were three-yet, each alone;
		We could not move a single pace,
		We could not see each others face,
		But with that pale and livid light
		That made us strangers in our sight

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