Celestial footsteps haunt the hill;
And oft the awe-struck mountaineer
Aërial vesper-hymns may hear
Around those forest-precincts float,
Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote.
Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint
To that rude shrine’s departed saint,
And deem that spirits of the blest
There shed sweet influence o’er her breast.
And thither Otho now repairs,