Where, through Gargano’s woody dells, O’er bending oaks the north wind swells,[116] A sainted hermit’s lowly tomb Is bosom’d in umbrageous gloom, In shades that saw him live and die Beneath their waving canopy. ’Twas his, as legends tell, to share The converse of immortals there; Around that dweller of the wild There “bright appearances” have smiled, 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 echoes 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. 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 soothe 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, Extending its mysterious power O’er every scene, o’er every hour: E’en thus _he_ withers; and to him Italia’s brilliant skies are dim. He withers--in that glorious clime Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time; And suns, that shed on all below Their full and vivifying glow, From him alone their power withhold, And leave his heart in darkness cold. Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair-- _He_ only seems to perish there.