184 NORWEGIAN MOUNTAINS. 



Are heard her sacred tones : the fitful sweep 



Of winds across the steep, 

 Through withered bents romantic note and clear, 



Meet for a hermit's ear, 



The wheeling kite's wild solitary cry, 



And, scarcely heard so high, 

 The dashing waters, when the air is still, 



From many a torrent rill 

 That winds unseen beneath the shaggy fell, 



Tracked by the blue mist well : 

 Such sounds as make deep silence in the heart, 



For thought to do her part. 



KEBLE, 



