For he had roved a pilgrim there,
And gazed on many a spot so fair
It seem’d like some enchanted grove,
Where only peace, and joy, and love,
Those exiles of the world, might rove,
And breathe its heavenly air;
And, all unmix’d with ruder tone,
Their “wood-notes wild” be heard alone!
Far from the frown of stern control,
That vainly would subdue the soul,