Or of some hermit’s cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.”
(Here is more than the tangible picture; the smoke wreaths have put unseen dwellers there); and again:—
“O Sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro’ the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
I have learned
To look on Nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity!
Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample power