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Around that dweller of the wild There "bright appearances" have smiled,14 And angel-wings, at eve, have been Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. And oft from that secluded bower Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour, A swell of viewless harps, a sound Of warbled anthems pealing round. Oh, none but voices of the sky Might wake that thrilling harmony, Whose tones, whose very echos made An Eden of the lonely shade!

Years have gone by; the hermit sleeps Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps; Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown, And veil'd his low, sepulchral stone: Yet still the spot is holy, still Celestial footsteps haunt the hill; And oft the awe-struck mountaineer Aërial vesper-hymns may hear, Around those forest-precincts float, Soft, solemn, clear,—but still remote.