The tuneful solitude, and pray their aid.
Ungrateful office his who tries to set
Men free from the close meshes of the net
In which religions of whatever kind
Presume to hold humanity confined.
Repulsed by those for whose sakes I pursued
A thankless work, I trod ways rough and rude,
Until, the track by good chance missed, I came
Solitary, out of heart, footsore, lame,
To this strange spot where the Nine Sisters camp