Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle’s height,
Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well,
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright
Oft in mid-storms—oh! not with beauty’s eye,
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning;
No! pilgrim of unwearying charity!
Thy spell was love—the mountain-deserts turning
To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice!