The HERMIT of MONT-BLANC.

High, on the Solitude of Alpine Hills,O’er-topping the grand imag’ry of Nature,Where one eternal winter seem’d to reign,AnHermit’s threshold, carpetted with moss,Diversified the Scene. Above the flakesOf silv’ry snow, full many a modest flow’rPeep’d through its icy veil, and blushing ope’dIts variegated hues; TheOrchissweet,The bloomyCistus, and the fragrant branchOf glossyMyrtle. In his rushy cell,The lonelyAnchoretconsum’d his days,Unnotic’d, and unblest. In early youth,Cross’d in the fond affections of his soulBy false Ambition, from his parent homeHe, solitary, wander’d; while the MaidWhose peerless beauty won his yielding heartPined in monastic horrors! Near his sillA little cross he rear’d, where, prostrate lowAt day’s pale glimpse, or when the setting SunTissued the western sky with streamy gold,His Orisons he pour’d, for her, whose hoursWere wasted in oblivion. Winters pass’d,And Summers faded, slow, unchearly allTo the loneHermit’s sorrows: For, still, LoveA dark, though unpolluted altar, rear’dOn the white waste of wonders!From the peakWhich mark’d his neighb’ring Hut, his humid EyeOft wander’d o’er the rich expanse below;Oft trac’d the glow of vegetating Spring,The full-blown Summer splendours, and the hueOf tawny scenes Autumnal: Vineyards vast,Clothing the upland scene, and spreading wideThe promised tide nectareous; while for himThe liquid lapse of the slow brook was seenFlashing amid the trees, its silv’ry wave!Far distant, the blue mist of waters roseVeiling the ridgy outline, faintly grey,Blended with clouds, and shutting out the Sun.The Seasons still revolv’d, and still was heBy all forgotten, save by her, whose breastSigh’d in responsive sadness to the galeThat swept her prison turrets. Five long years,Had seen his graces wither ere his SpringOf life was wasted. From the social scenesOf human energy an alien driv’n,He almost had forgot the face of Man.—No voice had met his ear, save, when perchanceThe Pilgrim wand’rer, or the Goatherd Swain,Bewilder’d in the starless midnight hourImplored theHermit’s aid, theHermit’s pray’rs;And nothing loath by pity or by pray’rWas he, to save the wretched. On the topOf his low rushy Dome, a tinkling bellOft told the weary Trav’ller to approachFearless of danger. The small silver soundIn quick vibrations echo’d down the dellTo the dim valley’s quiet, while the breezeSlept on the glassyLeman. Thus he pastHis melancholy days, an alien ManFrom all the joys of social intercourse,Alone, unpitied, by the world forgot!His Scrip each morning bore the day’s repastGather’d on summits, mingling with the clouds,From whose bleak altitude the Eye look’d downWhile fast the giddy brain was rock’d by fear.Oft would he start from visionary restWhen roaming wolves their midnight chorus howl’d,Or blasts infuriate shatter’d the white cliffs,While the huge fragments, rifted by the storm,Plung’d to the dell below. Oft would he sitIn silent sadness on the jutting blockOf snow-encrusted ice, and, shudd’ring mark(Amid the wonders of the frozen world)Dissolving pyramids, and threatening peaks,Hang o’er his hovel, terribly Sublime.And oft, when Summer breath’d ambrosial gales,Soft sailing o’er the waste of printless dewOr twilight gossamer, his pensive gazeTrac’d the swift storm advancing, whose broad wingBlacken’d the rushy dome of his low Hut;While the pale lightning smote the pathless topOf tow’ringCenis, scatt’ring high and wideA mist of fleecy Snow. Then would he hear,(WhileMem’rybrought to view his happier days)The tumbling torrent, bursting wildly forthFrom its thaw’d prison, sweep the shaggy cliffVast and Stupendous! strength’ning as it fell,And delving, ’mid the snow, a cavern rude!So liv’d theHermit, like an hardy TreePlac’d on a mountain’s solitary brow,And destin’d, thro’ the Seasons, to endureTheir wond’rous changes. To behold the faceOf ever-varying Nature, and to markIn each grand lineament, the work ofGod!And happier he, in total SolitudeThan the poor toil-worn wretch, whose ardent SoulThatGodhas nobly organiz’d, but taught,For purposes unknown, to bear the scourgeOf sharp adversity, and vulgar pride.Happier, O! happier far, than those who feel,Yet live amongst the unfeeling! feeding stillThe throbbing heart, with anguish, or with Scorn.One dreary night when Winter’s icy breathHalf petrified the scene, when not a starGleam’d o’er the black infinity of space,Sudden, theHermitstarted from his couchFear-struck and trembling! Ev’ry limb was shookWith painful agitation. On his cheekThe blanch’d interpreter of horror muteSat terribly impressive! In his breastThe ruddy fount of life convulsive flow’dAnd his broad eyes, fix’d motionless as death,Gaz’d vacantly aghast! His feeble lampWas wasting rapidly; the biting galePierc’d the thin texture of his narrow cell;And Silence, like a fearful centinelMarking the peril which awaited near,Conspir’d with sullen Night, to wrap the sceneIn tenfold horrors. Thrice he rose; and thriceHis feet recoil’d; and still the livid flameLengthen’d and quiver’d as the moaning windPass’d thro’ the rushy crevice, while his heartBeat, like the death-watch, in his shudd’ring breast.Like the pale Image of Despair he sat,The cold drops pacing down his hollow cheek,When a deep groan assail’d his startled ear,And rous’d him into action. To the sillOf his low hovel he rush’d forth, (for fearWill sometimes take the shape of fortitude,And force men into bravery) and soonThe wicker bolt unfasten’d. The swift blast,Now unrestrain’d, flew by; and in its courseThe quiv’ring lamp extinguish’d, and againHis soul was thrill’d with terror. On he went,E’en to the snow-fring’d margin of the cragg,Which to his citadel a platform madeSlipp’ry and perilous! ’Twas darkness, all!All, solitary gloom!—The concave vastOf Heav’n frown’d chaos; for all varied thingsOf air, and earth, and waters, blended, lostTheir forms, in blank oblivion! Yet not longDid Nature wear her sable panoply,For, while theHermitlisten’d, from belowA stream of light ascended, spreading roundA partial view of trackless solitudes;And mingling voices seem’d, with busy hum,To break the spell of horrors. Down the steepTheHermithasten’d, when a shriek of deathRe-echoed to the valley. As he flew,(The treach’rous pathway yielding to his speed,)Half hoping, half despairing, to the sceneOf wonder-waking anguish, suddenlyThe torches were extinct; and second nightCame doubly hideous, while the hollow tonguesOf cavern’d winds, with melancholy soundIncreas’d theHermit’s fears. Four freezing hoursHe watch’d and pray’d: and now the glimm’ring dawnPeer’d on the Eastern Summits; (the blue lightShedding cold lustre on the colder browsOf Alpine desarts;) while the filmy wingOf weeping Twilight, swept the naked plainsOf the Lombardian landscape.On his kneesTheAnchoretblest Heav’n, that he had ’scap’dThe many perilous and fearful fallsOf waters wild and foamy, tumbling fastFrom the shagg’d altitude. But, ere his pray’rsRose to their destin’d Heav’n, another sight,Than all preceding far more terrible,Palsied devotion’s ardour. On the Snow,Dappled with ruby drops, a track was madeBy steps precipitate; a rugged pathDown the steep frozen chasm had mark’d the fateOf some night traveller, whose bleeding formHad toppled from the Summit. Lower stillTheAnchoretdescended, ’till arrivedAt the first ridge of silv’ry battlements,Where, lifeless, ghastly, paler than the snowOn which her cheek repos’d, his darling MaidSlept in the dream of Death! Frantic and wildHe clasp’d her stiff’ning form, and bath’d with tearsThe lilies of her bosom,—icy cold—Yet beautiful and spotless.Now, afarThe wond’ringHermitheard the clang of armsRe-echoing from the valley: the white cliffsTrembled as though an Earthquake shook their baseWith terrible concussion! Thund’ring pealsFrom warfare’s brazen throat, proclaim’d th’ approachOf conquering legions: onward they extendTheir dauntless columns! In the foremost groupA Ruffian met theHermit’s startled EyesLike Hell’s worst Demon! For his murd’rous handsWere smear’d with gore; and on his daring breastA golden cross, suspended, bore the nameOf his ill-fated Victim!—Anchoret!ThyVestalSaint, by his unhallow’d handsTorn fromReligion’s Altar, had been madeThe sport of a dark Fiend, whose recreant SoulHad sham’d the cause of Valour! To his cellThe Soul-struck Exile turn’d his trembling feet,And after three lone weeks, of pain and pray’r,Shrunk from the scene of Solitude—andDIED!

High, on the Solitude of Alpine Hills,

O’er-topping the grand imag’ry of Nature,

Where one eternal winter seem’d to reign,

AnHermit’s threshold, carpetted with moss,

Diversified the Scene. Above the flakes

Of silv’ry snow, full many a modest flow’r

Peep’d through its icy veil, and blushing ope’d

Its variegated hues; TheOrchissweet,

The bloomyCistus, and the fragrant branch

Of glossyMyrtle. In his rushy cell,

The lonelyAnchoretconsum’d his days,

Unnotic’d, and unblest. In early youth,

Cross’d in the fond affections of his soul

By false Ambition, from his parent home

He, solitary, wander’d; while the Maid

Whose peerless beauty won his yielding heart

Pined in monastic horrors! Near his sill

A little cross he rear’d, where, prostrate low

At day’s pale glimpse, or when the setting Sun

Tissued the western sky with streamy gold,

His Orisons he pour’d, for her, whose hours

Were wasted in oblivion. Winters pass’d,

And Summers faded, slow, unchearly all

To the loneHermit’s sorrows: For, still, Love

A dark, though unpolluted altar, rear’d

On the white waste of wonders!

From the peak

Which mark’d his neighb’ring Hut, his humid Eye

Oft wander’d o’er the rich expanse below;

Oft trac’d the glow of vegetating Spring,

The full-blown Summer splendours, and the hue

Of tawny scenes Autumnal: Vineyards vast,

Clothing the upland scene, and spreading wide

The promised tide nectareous; while for him

The liquid lapse of the slow brook was seen

Flashing amid the trees, its silv’ry wave!

Far distant, the blue mist of waters rose

Veiling the ridgy outline, faintly grey,

Blended with clouds, and shutting out the Sun.

The Seasons still revolv’d, and still was he

By all forgotten, save by her, whose breast

Sigh’d in responsive sadness to the gale

That swept her prison turrets. Five long years,

Had seen his graces wither ere his Spring

Of life was wasted. From the social scenes

Of human energy an alien driv’n,

He almost had forgot the face of Man.—

No voice had met his ear, save, when perchance

The Pilgrim wand’rer, or the Goatherd Swain,

Bewilder’d in the starless midnight hour

Implored theHermit’s aid, theHermit’s pray’rs;

And nothing loath by pity or by pray’r

Was he, to save the wretched. On the top

Of his low rushy Dome, a tinkling bell

Oft told the weary Trav’ller to approach

Fearless of danger. The small silver sound

In quick vibrations echo’d down the dell

To the dim valley’s quiet, while the breeze

Slept on the glassyLeman. Thus he past

His melancholy days, an alien Man

From all the joys of social intercourse,

Alone, unpitied, by the world forgot!

His Scrip each morning bore the day’s repastGather’d on summits, mingling with the clouds,From whose bleak altitude the Eye look’d downWhile fast the giddy brain was rock’d by fear.Oft would he start from visionary restWhen roaming wolves their midnight chorus howl’d,Or blasts infuriate shatter’d the white cliffs,While the huge fragments, rifted by the storm,Plung’d to the dell below. Oft would he sitIn silent sadness on the jutting blockOf snow-encrusted ice, and, shudd’ring mark(Amid the wonders of the frozen world)Dissolving pyramids, and threatening peaks,Hang o’er his hovel, terribly Sublime.

His Scrip each morning bore the day’s repast

Gather’d on summits, mingling with the clouds,

From whose bleak altitude the Eye look’d down

While fast the giddy brain was rock’d by fear.

Oft would he start from visionary rest

When roaming wolves their midnight chorus howl’d,

Or blasts infuriate shatter’d the white cliffs,

While the huge fragments, rifted by the storm,

Plung’d to the dell below. Oft would he sit

In silent sadness on the jutting block

Of snow-encrusted ice, and, shudd’ring mark

(Amid the wonders of the frozen world)

Dissolving pyramids, and threatening peaks,

Hang o’er his hovel, terribly Sublime.

And oft, when Summer breath’d ambrosial gales,Soft sailing o’er the waste of printless dewOr twilight gossamer, his pensive gazeTrac’d the swift storm advancing, whose broad wingBlacken’d the rushy dome of his low Hut;While the pale lightning smote the pathless topOf tow’ringCenis, scatt’ring high and wideA mist of fleecy Snow. Then would he hear,(WhileMem’rybrought to view his happier days)The tumbling torrent, bursting wildly forthFrom its thaw’d prison, sweep the shaggy cliffVast and Stupendous! strength’ning as it fell,And delving, ’mid the snow, a cavern rude!

And oft, when Summer breath’d ambrosial gales,

Soft sailing o’er the waste of printless dew

Or twilight gossamer, his pensive gaze

Trac’d the swift storm advancing, whose broad wing

Blacken’d the rushy dome of his low Hut;

While the pale lightning smote the pathless top

Of tow’ringCenis, scatt’ring high and wide

A mist of fleecy Snow. Then would he hear,

(WhileMem’rybrought to view his happier days)

The tumbling torrent, bursting wildly forth

From its thaw’d prison, sweep the shaggy cliff

Vast and Stupendous! strength’ning as it fell,

And delving, ’mid the snow, a cavern rude!

So liv’d theHermit, like an hardy TreePlac’d on a mountain’s solitary brow,And destin’d, thro’ the Seasons, to endureTheir wond’rous changes. To behold the faceOf ever-varying Nature, and to markIn each grand lineament, the work ofGod!And happier he, in total SolitudeThan the poor toil-worn wretch, whose ardent SoulThatGodhas nobly organiz’d, but taught,For purposes unknown, to bear the scourgeOf sharp adversity, and vulgar pride.Happier, O! happier far, than those who feel,Yet live amongst the unfeeling! feeding stillThe throbbing heart, with anguish, or with Scorn.

So liv’d theHermit, like an hardy Tree

Plac’d on a mountain’s solitary brow,

And destin’d, thro’ the Seasons, to endure

Their wond’rous changes. To behold the face

Of ever-varying Nature, and to mark

In each grand lineament, the work ofGod!

And happier he, in total Solitude

Than the poor toil-worn wretch, whose ardent Soul

ThatGodhas nobly organiz’d, but taught,

For purposes unknown, to bear the scourge

Of sharp adversity, and vulgar pride.

Happier, O! happier far, than those who feel,

Yet live amongst the unfeeling! feeding still

The throbbing heart, with anguish, or with Scorn.

One dreary night when Winter’s icy breathHalf petrified the scene, when not a starGleam’d o’er the black infinity of space,Sudden, theHermitstarted from his couchFear-struck and trembling! Ev’ry limb was shookWith painful agitation. On his cheekThe blanch’d interpreter of horror muteSat terribly impressive! In his breastThe ruddy fount of life convulsive flow’dAnd his broad eyes, fix’d motionless as death,Gaz’d vacantly aghast! His feeble lampWas wasting rapidly; the biting galePierc’d the thin texture of his narrow cell;And Silence, like a fearful centinelMarking the peril which awaited near,Conspir’d with sullen Night, to wrap the sceneIn tenfold horrors. Thrice he rose; and thriceHis feet recoil’d; and still the livid flameLengthen’d and quiver’d as the moaning windPass’d thro’ the rushy crevice, while his heartBeat, like the death-watch, in his shudd’ring breast.

One dreary night when Winter’s icy breath

Half petrified the scene, when not a star

Gleam’d o’er the black infinity of space,

Sudden, theHermitstarted from his couch

Fear-struck and trembling! Ev’ry limb was shook

With painful agitation. On his cheek

The blanch’d interpreter of horror mute

Sat terribly impressive! In his breast

The ruddy fount of life convulsive flow’d

And his broad eyes, fix’d motionless as death,

Gaz’d vacantly aghast! His feeble lamp

Was wasting rapidly; the biting gale

Pierc’d the thin texture of his narrow cell;

And Silence, like a fearful centinel

Marking the peril which awaited near,

Conspir’d with sullen Night, to wrap the scene

In tenfold horrors. Thrice he rose; and thrice

His feet recoil’d; and still the livid flame

Lengthen’d and quiver’d as the moaning wind

Pass’d thro’ the rushy crevice, while his heart

Beat, like the death-watch, in his shudd’ring breast.

Like the pale Image of Despair he sat,The cold drops pacing down his hollow cheek,When a deep groan assail’d his startled ear,And rous’d him into action. To the sillOf his low hovel he rush’d forth, (for fearWill sometimes take the shape of fortitude,And force men into bravery) and soonThe wicker bolt unfasten’d. The swift blast,Now unrestrain’d, flew by; and in its courseThe quiv’ring lamp extinguish’d, and againHis soul was thrill’d with terror. On he went,E’en to the snow-fring’d margin of the cragg,Which to his citadel a platform madeSlipp’ry and perilous! ’Twas darkness, all!All, solitary gloom!—The concave vastOf Heav’n frown’d chaos; for all varied thingsOf air, and earth, and waters, blended, lostTheir forms, in blank oblivion! Yet not longDid Nature wear her sable panoply,For, while theHermitlisten’d, from belowA stream of light ascended, spreading roundA partial view of trackless solitudes;And mingling voices seem’d, with busy hum,To break the spell of horrors. Down the steepTheHermithasten’d, when a shriek of deathRe-echoed to the valley. As he flew,(The treach’rous pathway yielding to his speed,)Half hoping, half despairing, to the sceneOf wonder-waking anguish, suddenlyThe torches were extinct; and second nightCame doubly hideous, while the hollow tonguesOf cavern’d winds, with melancholy soundIncreas’d theHermit’s fears. Four freezing hoursHe watch’d and pray’d: and now the glimm’ring dawnPeer’d on the Eastern Summits; (the blue lightShedding cold lustre on the colder browsOf Alpine desarts;) while the filmy wingOf weeping Twilight, swept the naked plainsOf the Lombardian landscape.On his kneesTheAnchoretblest Heav’n, that he had ’scap’dThe many perilous and fearful fallsOf waters wild and foamy, tumbling fastFrom the shagg’d altitude. But, ere his pray’rsRose to their destin’d Heav’n, another sight,Than all preceding far more terrible,Palsied devotion’s ardour. On the Snow,Dappled with ruby drops, a track was madeBy steps precipitate; a rugged pathDown the steep frozen chasm had mark’d the fateOf some night traveller, whose bleeding formHad toppled from the Summit. Lower stillTheAnchoretdescended, ’till arrivedAt the first ridge of silv’ry battlements,Where, lifeless, ghastly, paler than the snowOn which her cheek repos’d, his darling MaidSlept in the dream of Death! Frantic and wildHe clasp’d her stiff’ning form, and bath’d with tearsThe lilies of her bosom,—icy cold—Yet beautiful and spotless.Now, afarThe wond’ringHermitheard the clang of armsRe-echoing from the valley: the white cliffsTrembled as though an Earthquake shook their baseWith terrible concussion! Thund’ring pealsFrom warfare’s brazen throat, proclaim’d th’ approachOf conquering legions: onward they extendTheir dauntless columns! In the foremost groupA Ruffian met theHermit’s startled EyesLike Hell’s worst Demon! For his murd’rous handsWere smear’d with gore; and on his daring breastA golden cross, suspended, bore the nameOf his ill-fated Victim!—Anchoret!ThyVestalSaint, by his unhallow’d handsTorn fromReligion’s Altar, had been madeThe sport of a dark Fiend, whose recreant SoulHad sham’d the cause of Valour! To his cellThe Soul-struck Exile turn’d his trembling feet,And after three lone weeks, of pain and pray’r,Shrunk from the scene of Solitude—andDIED!

Like the pale Image of Despair he sat,

The cold drops pacing down his hollow cheek,

When a deep groan assail’d his startled ear,

And rous’d him into action. To the sill

Of his low hovel he rush’d forth, (for fear

Will sometimes take the shape of fortitude,

And force men into bravery) and soon

The wicker bolt unfasten’d. The swift blast,

Now unrestrain’d, flew by; and in its course

The quiv’ring lamp extinguish’d, and again

His soul was thrill’d with terror. On he went,

E’en to the snow-fring’d margin of the cragg,

Which to his citadel a platform made

Slipp’ry and perilous! ’Twas darkness, all!

All, solitary gloom!—The concave vast

Of Heav’n frown’d chaos; for all varied things

Of air, and earth, and waters, blended, lost

Their forms, in blank oblivion! Yet not long

Did Nature wear her sable panoply,

For, while theHermitlisten’d, from below

A stream of light ascended, spreading round

A partial view of trackless solitudes;

And mingling voices seem’d, with busy hum,

To break the spell of horrors. Down the steep

TheHermithasten’d, when a shriek of death

Re-echoed to the valley. As he flew,

(The treach’rous pathway yielding to his speed,)

Half hoping, half despairing, to the scene

Of wonder-waking anguish, suddenly

The torches were extinct; and second night

Came doubly hideous, while the hollow tongues

Of cavern’d winds, with melancholy sound

Increas’d theHermit’s fears. Four freezing hours

He watch’d and pray’d: and now the glimm’ring dawn

Peer’d on the Eastern Summits; (the blue light

Shedding cold lustre on the colder brows

Of Alpine desarts;) while the filmy wing

Of weeping Twilight, swept the naked plains

Of the Lombardian landscape.

On his knees

TheAnchoretblest Heav’n, that he had ’scap’d

The many perilous and fearful falls

Of waters wild and foamy, tumbling fast

From the shagg’d altitude. But, ere his pray’rs

Rose to their destin’d Heav’n, another sight,

Than all preceding far more terrible,

Palsied devotion’s ardour. On the Snow,

Dappled with ruby drops, a track was made

By steps precipitate; a rugged path

Down the steep frozen chasm had mark’d the fate

Of some night traveller, whose bleeding form

Had toppled from the Summit. Lower still

TheAnchoretdescended, ’till arrived

At the first ridge of silv’ry battlements,

Where, lifeless, ghastly, paler than the snow

On which her cheek repos’d, his darling Maid

Slept in the dream of Death! Frantic and wild

He clasp’d her stiff’ning form, and bath’d with tears

The lilies of her bosom,—icy cold—

Yet beautiful and spotless.

Now, afar

The wond’ringHermitheard the clang of arms

Re-echoing from the valley: the white cliffs

Trembled as though an Earthquake shook their base

With terrible concussion! Thund’ring peals

From warfare’s brazen throat, proclaim’d th’ approach

Of conquering legions: onward they extend

Their dauntless columns! In the foremost group

A Ruffian met theHermit’s startled Eyes

Like Hell’s worst Demon! For his murd’rous hands

Were smear’d with gore; and on his daring breast

A golden cross, suspended, bore the name

Of his ill-fated Victim!—Anchoret!

ThyVestalSaint, by his unhallow’d hands

Torn fromReligion’s Altar, had been made

The sport of a dark Fiend, whose recreant Soul

Had sham’d the cause of Valour! To his cell

The Soul-struck Exile turn’d his trembling feet,

And after three lone weeks, of pain and pray’r,

Shrunk from the scene of Solitude—andDIED!

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