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20 Such is the scene that greets the eye: wide sweep of plain to left and right: In front low hills that seem to lie wrapped in a veil of yellow light— Low peaks that through the summer haze frown from their fancied altitude, As some small potentate might gaze upon a ragged multitude. Thus does the battlemented pile of high-built crags, all weather-scarred, Where grass land stretches mile on mile, keep scornful solitary guard; Where the sweet spell is not yet broke, while from her wind-swept, sun-kissed dream Man's cruel touch has not yet woke this Land where silence reigns supreme:

Not the grim silence of a cave, some vaulted stalactited room, Where feeble candle-shadows wave fantastically through the gloom— But restful silence, calm repose: the spirit of these sky-bound plains Tempers the restless blood that flows too fiery through the swelling veins; Breathes a faint message in the ear, bringing the weary traveller peace; Whispers, 'Take heart and never fear, for soon the pilgrimage will cease!