Madam Guyon, in the Bastile, speaks to us still of patience in
suffering. The walls of her prison were nine feet thick and a
narrow slit through the massive masonry admitted all the light
that ever reached her. The cell was narrow and dirty with the
mold of ages. Dreary and cold in winter and suffocating in
summer. No privileges, no books, no recreations or employments.
But here was born that blithe bird-song of her captivity:
“My cage confines me round:
Abroad I can not fly;
But tho my wings are closely bound,
My heart’s at liberty.
My prison walls can not control
The flight, the freedom of the soul.
And in God’s mighty will I find
The joy, the freedom of the mind.” (Text.)
(1783)