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The faithful spirit, which distress But heightens to devotedness, By toil and trial vanquish'd not, Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot.

He hath reach'd a mountain hung with vine, And woods that wave o'er the lovely Rhine; The feudal towers that crest its height Frown in unconquerable might; Dark is their aspect of sullen state, No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate1 To bid the wearied pilgrim rest, At the chieftain's board a welcome guest; Vainly rich evening's parting smile Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile, That midst bright sunshine lowers on high, Like a thunder-cloud in a summer-sky.

Not these the halls where a child of song Awhile may speed the hours along; Their echos should repeat alone The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner's moan, Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast, When his phantom-train are hurrying past.2