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'erarching cliffs That haply now have to thy joyful shouts Returned 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 ripened fruit Hung clustering, moved but by the frequent swing Of playful squirrel,—for no schoolboy here With crook and angle light on holiday Came nutting, or to snare the sportive fry. Even bolder spirits shunned the glen of blood! These rocks, the abode of echo, never mocked In sportive din the huntsman's bugle-horn; And as the shepherd from the mountain-fold Homewards returned beneath the silent Moon, A low unconscious prayer would agitate His breathless heart, for here in unblest grave Lay one for whom ne'er tolled the passing bell! And thus was Nature by the impious guilt Of one who scorned 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 looked 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 blessed With words becoming such a holy man! Oft was he seen surrounded by a group 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 the 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 ere long in Jesus' breast Would be his blessed sleep,—on his calm brows Spread quietly, like thin and snowy clouds On the hushed evening sky:—While thus he sate, Even 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 awestruck 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 deemed That sure he was some spirit sent by God To teach the way to Heaven! And yet his voice Was ofttimes sadder, than as they conceived An Angel's voice would be, and though to soothe The sorrows of all others ever seemed 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,—- bedimmed its light For a short moment; yea, that hermit old Wept,—- and his saddened face angelical Veiled with his withered 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 listened to the saint's delightful voice. In yonder churchyard, 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 hallowed spot And lisp the hermit's name. Nor did the cave That he long time from Nature tenanted Remain unhonoured.—Duly every spring, Upon the day he died, thither repaired Many a pure spirit, to his memory Chanting a choral hymn, composed by one Who on his deathbed 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 cheer. 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-wished-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, Embathed 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 remained Immutable, —- with pious dread was shunned 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!'