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 Yet bosom'd midst that savage scene, One chosen spot, of gentler mien, Gave promise to the pilgrim's eye Of shelter from the tempest nigh. Glad sight! the ivied cross it bore, The sculptur'd saint that crown'd its door, Less welcome now were monarch's dome, Than that low cell, some hermit's home.

Thither the outcasts bent their way, By the last lingering gleam of day, When, from a cavern'd rock, which cast Deep shadows o'er them as they pass'd, A form, a warrior-form of might, As from earth's bosom, sprung to sight. His port was lofty—yet the heart Shrunk from him with recoiling start; His mien was youthful—yet his face Had nought of youth's ingenuous grace, Nor chivalrous, nor tender thought, Its traces on his brow had wrought; Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye, But calm and cold severity, A spirit haughtily austere, Stranger to pity as to fear. It seem'd as pride had thrown a veil O'er that dark brow and visage pale, Leaving the searcher nought to guess, All was so fix'd and passionless.