When, musing on companions gone, We doubly feel ourselves alone, 135 Something, my friend, we yet may gain, There is a pleasure in this pain: It soothes the love of lonely rest, Deep in each gentler heart impress'd. 'Tis silent amid worldly toils, 140 And stifled soon by mental broils; But, in a bosom thus prepared, Its still small voice is often heard, Whispering a mingled sentiment, 'Twixt resignation and content. 145 Oft in my mind such thoughts awake, By lone Saint Mary's silent lake; Thou know'st it well,--nor fen, nor sedge, Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 150 At once upon the level brink; And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land. Far in the mirror, bright and blue, Each hill's huge outline you may view; 155 Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare, Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there, Save where, of land, yon slender line Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine. Yet even this nakedness has power, 160 And aids the feeling of the hour: Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, Where living thing conceal'd might lie; Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell; 165 There's nothing left to fancy's guess, You see that all is loneliness: And silence aids--though the steep hills Send to the lake a thousand rills; In summer tide, so soft they weep, 170 The sound but lulls the ear asleep; Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, So stilly is the solitude. Nought living meets the eye or ear, But well I ween the dead are near; 175 For though, in feudal strife, a foe Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low, Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil, The peasant rests him from his toil, And, dying, bids his bones be laid, 180 Where erst his simple fathers pray'd.