The Hermitage Poem by John Wilson

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!'