Note *
Chapter VII
(*Note: This poem and that entitled The Traveller in vol. ii, have already appeared in a periodical publication. [A. R.])
THE PILGRIM* Slow o’er the Apennine, with bleeding feet, A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way, To deck the Lady of Loretto’s seat With all the little wealth his zeal could pay. From mountain-tops cold died the evening ray, And, stretch’d in twilight, slept the vale below; And now the last, last purple streaks of day Along the melancholy West fade slow. High o’er his head, the restless pines complain, As on their summit rolls…
Return to passage