THE HERMITAGE.

Stranger! this lonely glen in ancient times

Was named the glen of blood; nor Christian feet

By night or day, from these o'er-arching cliffs

That haply now have to thy joyful shouts

Return'd a mellow music, ever brought

One trembling sound to break the depth of silence.

The village maiden, in this little stream,

Though then, as now, most clearly beautiful,

Ne'er steeped her simple garments, while she sang

Some native air of sadness or of mirth.

In these cold, shady pools, the fearless trout

Ne'er saw the shadow, but of sailing cloud,

Or kite that wheeling eyed the far-off lamb;

And on yon hazel bowers the ripen'd fruit

Hung clustering, moved but by the frequent swing

Of playful squirrel,— for no school-boy here

With crook and angle light on holiday

Came nutting, or to snare the sportive fry.

Even bolder spirits shunn'd the glen of blood!

These rocks, the abode of echo, never mock'd

In sportive din the huntsman's bugle horn;

And as the shepherd from the mountain-fold

Homewards return'd beneath the silent Moon,

A low unconscious prayer would agitate

His breathless heart, for here in unblest grave

Lay one for whom ne'er toll'd the passing-bell!

And thus was Nature by the impious guilt

Of one who scorn'd her gracious solitude,

Defrauded of her worshippers: though pure

This glen, as consecrated house of God,

Fit haunt of heaven-aspiring piety,

Or in whose dripping cells the poet's ear

Might list unearthly music, this sweet glen

With all its tender tints and pensive sounds,

Its balmy fragrance and romantic forms,

Lay lonely and unvisited, yea worse,

Peopled with fancied demons, and the brood

At enmity with man.

So was it once:

But now far other creed hath sanctified

This dim seclusion, and all human hearts

Unto its spirit deeply reconciled.

‘ Tis said, and I in truth believe the tale,

That many years ago an aged man,

Of a divine aspect and stately form,

Came to this glen, and took up his abode

In one of those wild caves so numerous

Among the hanging cliffs, though hid from view

By trailing ivy, or thick holly-bush,

Through the whole year so deeply, brightly green.

With evil eye the simple villagers

First look'd on him, and scarcely dared to tell

Each other, what dim fears were in their souls.

But there is something in the voice and eye

Of beautiful old age, with angel power

That charms away suspicion, and compels

The unwilling soul to reverence and love.

So was it with this mystical old man!

When first he came into the glen, the spring

Had just begun to tinge the sullen rocks

With transient smiles, and ere the leafy bowers

Of summer rustled, many a visitant

Had sat within his hospitable cave,

From his maple bowl the unpolluted spring

Drunk fearless, and with him partook the bread

That his pale lips most reverently had bless'd

With words becoming such a holy man!

Oft was he seen surrounded by a groupe

Of happy children, unto whom he spake

With more than a paternal tenderness;

And they who once had gazed with trembling fear

On the wild dweller in th’ unholy glen,

At last with airy trip and gladsome song

Would seek him there, and listen on his knee

To mournful ditties, and most touching tales!

One only book was in this hermit's cell,

The Book of Life; and when from it he read

With solemn voice devoutly musical,

His thoughtful eye still brightening as the words,

The words of Jesus, in that peaceful cave

Sounded more holily,— and his grey hair,

Betokening that e'er long in Jesus’ breast

Would be his blessed sleep,— on his calm brows

Spread quietly, like thin and snowy clouds

On the husht evening sky:— While thus he sate,

Ev'n like the Apostle whom our Saviour loved,

In his old age, in Patmos’ lonely isle

Musing on him that he had served in youth,—

Oh! then, I ween, the awe-struck villagers

Could scarce sustain his tones so deeply charged

With hope, and faith, and gratitude, and joy.

But when they gazed!— in the mild lineaments

Of his majestic visage, they beheld

How beautiful is holiness, and deem'd

That sure he was some spirit sent by God

To teach the way to Heaven!

And yet his voice

Was oft times sadder, than as they conceived

An Angel's voice would be, and though to sooth

The sorrows of all others ever seem'd

His only end in life, perhaps he had

Griefs of his own of which he nothing spake;

Else were his locks more grey, more pale his cheek,

Than one had thought who only saw his form

So stately and so tall.—

Once did they speak

To him of that most miserable man

Who here himself had slain,— and then his eye

Was glazed with stern compassion, and a tear,—

It was the first they e'er had seen him shed,

Though mercy was the attribute he loved

Dearest in God's own Son,— bedimm'd its light

For a short moment; yea, that hermit old

Wept,— and his sadden'd face angelical

Veil'd with his wither'd hands,— then on their knees

He bade his children ( so he loved to call

The villagers ) kneel down; and unto God

Pray for his brother's soul.—

Amid the dust

The hermit long hath slept,— and every one

That listen'd to the saint's delightful voice.

In yonder church-yard, near the eastern porch,

Close to the altar-wall, a little mound

As if by nature shaped, and strewn by her

With every tender flower that sorrow loves,

Tradition calls his grave. On Sabbath-day,

The hind oft hears the legendary tale

Rehearsed by village moralist austere

With many a pious phrase; and not a child,

Whose trembling feet have scarcely learnt to walk,

But will conduct thee to the hallow'd spot

And lisp the hermit's name.

Nor did the cave

That he long time from Nature tenanted

Remain unhonour'd.— Duly every spring,

Upon the day he died, thither repair'd

Many a pure spirit, to his memory

Chaunting a choral hymn, composed by one

Who on his death-bed sat and closed his eyes.

“I am the resurrection and the life,”

Some old man then would, with a solemn voice,

Read from that Bible that so oft had blest

The Hermit's solitude with heavenly chear.

This Book, sole relic of the sinless man,

Was from the dust kept sacred, and even now

Lies in yon box of undecaying yew,

And may it never fade!—

Stranger unknown!

Thou breath'st, at present, in the very cave

Where on the Hermit death most gently fell

Like a long wish'd-for slumber. The great Lord,

Whose castle stands amid the music wild

Breathed from the bosom of an hundred glens,

In youth by nature taught to venerate

Things truly venerable, hither came

One year to view the fair solemnity:

And that the forest-weeds might not obstruct

The entrance of the cave, or worm defile

The soft green beauty of its mossy walls,

This massive door was from a fallen oak

Shaped rudely, but all other ornament,

That porch of living rock with woodbines wreathed,

And outer roof with many a pensile shrub

Most delicate, he with wise feeling left

To Nature, and her patient servant, Time!

Stranger! I know thee not: yet since thy feet

Have wandered here, I deem that thou art one

Whose heart doth love in silent communings

To walk with Nature and from scenes like these

Of solemn sadness, to sublime thy soul

To high endurance of all earthly pains

Of mind or body; so that thou connect

With Nature's lovely and more lofty forms,

Congenial thoughts of grandeur or of grace

In moral being. All creation takes

The spirit of its character from him

Who looks thereon; and to a blameless heart,

Earth, air, and ocean, howsoe'er beheld,

Are pregnant with delight, while even the clouds,

Embath'd in dying sunshine, to the base

Possess no glory, and to the wicked lower

As with avenging thunder.

This sweet glen,

How sweet it is thou feel'st, with sylvan rocks

Excluding all but one blue glimpse of sky

Above, and from the world that lies around

All but the faint remembrance, tempted once

To most unnatural murder, once sublimed

To the high temper of the seraphim:

And thus, though its mild character remain'd

Immutable,— with pious dread was shunn'd

As an unholy spot, or visited

With reverence, as a consecrated shrine.

Farewell! and grave this moral on thy heart,

“That Nature smiles for ever on the good,—

But that all beauty dies with innocence!”