The Pilgrim of Love

Orynthia, my beloved!
I call in vain!
Orynthia! Orynthia!
Echo hears and calls again.
A mimic voice repeats the name around!
And with Orynthia all the rocks re-sound!

A Hermit who dwells in these solitudes, cross'd me,
As way worn and faint up the mountain I press'd,
The aged man paus'd on his staff to accost me,
And proffer'd his cell, as my mansion of rest.
Ah! nay, courteous Father, right onward I rove;
No rest but the grave for the Pilgrim of Love!

'Yet tarry, my son, till the burning noon passes,
Let boughs of the Lemon tree shelter thy head;
The juice of ripe Muscadel flows in my glasses,
And rushes, fresh pull'd, for Siesta are spread!'
Ah! nay, courteous Father, right onward I rove,
No rest but the grave for the Pilgrim of Love!