Suspended to a tree in the midst of an intricate wood of
singularly romantic beauty, as a direction to the Hermitage
hid in its deepest recesses.
SHOULD e’er some Pilgrim’s fainting footsteps stray
Through these deep shades and solitude forlorn,
Droop not; for Charity, to cheer thy way,
E’er bade me wait thee at soft eve and morn.
Know, she herself is oft a wanderer here,
And often hides her in this leaf-clad dell.
Then turn thee, Pilgrim, sweet repose is near,
With Contemplation, in yon Herinit’s cell.
(Mrs. Walter Spencer)
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