And not the exile’s—when, midst lonely billows,
He wakes the Alpine notes his mother sung,
Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows,
Where, murmuring to the wind, his harp is hung:
And not the pilgrim’s—though his thoughts be holy,
And sweet his avè-song when day grows dim;
Yet, as he journeys, pensively and slowly,
Something of sadness floats through that low hymn.
But thou!—the spirit which at eve is filling
All the hush’d air and reverential sky—