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Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint To that rude shrine's departed saint, And deem that spirits of the blest There shed sweet influence o'er her breast.

And thither Otho now repairs, To sooth his soul with vows and prayers; And if for him, on holy ground, The lost—one, Peace, may yet be found, Midst rocks and forests, by the bed, Where calmly sleep the sainted dead, She dwells, remote from heedless eye, With Nature's lonely majesty.

Vain, vain the search—his troubled breast Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest; The weary pilgrimage is o'er, The hopes that cheer'd it are no more. Then sinks his soul, and day by day, Youth's buoyant energies decay. The light of health his eye hath flown, The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. Joyless as one on whom is laid Some baleful spell that bids him fade,