To soothe his soul with vows and prayers;
And if for him, on holy ground,
The lost one, Peace, may yet be found,
Midst rocks and forests, by the bed
Where calmly sleep the sainted dead,
She dwells, remote from heedless eye,
With nature’s lonely majesty.
Vain, vain the search!—his troubled breast
Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest:
The weary pilgrimage is o’er,