Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/397

337 Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?

Or is it but a groundless creed?

What matters it?—I blame them not

Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot

Was moved; and in this way express'd

Their notion of its perfect rest.

A Convent, even a hermit's Cell

Would break the silence of this Dell:

It is not quiet, is not ease;

But something deeper far than these:

The separation that is here

Is of the grave; and of austere

And happy feelings of the dead:

And, therefore, was it rightly said

That Ossian, last of all his race!

Lies buried in this lonely place.