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'Till, Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath
Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death.
—Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine
Between interminable tracts of pine,
A Temple stands; which holds an awful shrine,
By an uncertain light revealed, that falls
On the mute Image and the troubled walls:
Pale, dreadful faces round the Shrine appear,
Abortive Joy, and Hope that works in fear;
While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd,
Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud.
Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain
That views undimmed Ensiedlen's[1] wretched fane.
Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet,
Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet;
While loud and dull ascends the weeping cry,
Surely in other thoughts contempt may die.
If the sad grave of human ignorance bear
One flower of hope—Oh, pass and leave it there.
- ↑ This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by multitudes, from every corner of the Catholic world, labouring under mental or bodily afflictions.
