XXII.
His step had track’d the waste, his soul had stirr’d
The ancient solitudes—his voice had told
Of wrongs to call down heaven.[234] That tale was heard
In Hasli’s dales, and where the shepherds’ fold
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold
On the bleak Oberland; and where the light
Of day’s last footsteps bathes in burning gold
Great Righi’s cliffs; and where Mount Pilate’s height
Casts o’er his glassy lake the darkness of his might.