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"'Tis strange," observed the Solitary, "strange
It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful
That in a Land where Charity provides
For all who can no longer feed themselves,
A Man like this should choose to bring his shame
To the parental door; and with his sighs
Infect the air which he had freely breathed
In happy infancy. He could not pine,
Whencee'er rejected howsoe'er forlorn,
Through lack of converse, no, he must have found
Abundant exercise for thought and speech
In his dividual Being, self-reviewed,
Self-catechized, self-punished.—Some there are
Who, drawing near their final Home, and much
And daily longing that the same were reached,
Would rather shun than seek the fellowship
Of kindred mold.—Such haply here are laid."
"Yes," said the Priest, "the Genius of our Hills
Who seems, by these stupendous barriers cast
Round his Domain, desirous not alone
To keep his own, but also to exclude
