A line like the pathway of former feet;
If, midst the hills, in some lonely spot,
We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot;—
If the cell, where a hermit of old hath pray’d,
Lift up its cross through the solemn shade;
Or if some nook, where the wild flowers wave,
Bear token sad of a mortal grave,—
Doubt not but there will our steps be stay’d,
There our quick spirits awhile delay’d;
There will thought fix our impatient eyes,