All that thou art in their lives displayed."

Before the hermit an answer made,

The angel back to the skies had flown;

He stood in the rocky path alone.

Along the broken and winding way

Between the heath and the boulders gray;

Through lonely pastures that led him down

To oaken woods in their autumn brown;

And o'er the stones of a rippling stream,

The hermit passed, like one in a dream!

As though the vision, had made him strong:

He hardly knew that the way was long.

'T was almost noon when he came in sight

Of the little farmhouse, low and white:

A sheltered lane by the orchard led,

Where mountain ash, with its berries red,

Rose high above him; and brambles, grown

All over the rough, low wall of stone,

And tangled brier with thorny spray,

And feathered clematis, edged the way.

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