Poems (E. L. F.)/The hermit: a fragment
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POEMS.
THE HERMIT.
A FRAGMENT.
Written at the Age of Fifteen.
A lovely eve—the setting sun
Its work of glory had begun,
And, ere it parted from our gaze,
Shed all around its beauteous rays,
As if 1t would enclasp the scene
Where it had reigned in beauty's sheen.
The glow had pierced a valley deep,
Where Nature's beauty seemed to sleep—
So calmly still, the dewy air
Seemed but to breathe in slumber there.
High rocks encircled that lone vale,
Where dwelt the hero of our tale.
A man, by age and sorrow bent,
Had years of loneliness here spent—
In this lone valley, far removed'
From all he ever knew or loved.
But deem not that he friendless dwelt,
Or that all feeling was unfelt:
The tow'ring rocks that fiercely flung
Their giant fragments o'er the vale—
The feeble flowers that closely clung
To those rude tenements of the dale—
The sweeping wind, the murmuring breeze,
The shadowed foliage of the trees,—
All things in nature seemed to be
The friends of his adversity.
Its work of glory had begun,
And, ere it parted from our gaze,
Shed all around its beauteous rays,
As if 1t would enclasp the scene
Where it had reigned in beauty's sheen.
The glow had pierced a valley deep,
Where Nature's beauty seemed to sleep—
So calmly still, the dewy air
Seemed but to breathe in slumber there.
High rocks encircled that lone vale,
Where dwelt the hero of our tale.
A man, by age and sorrow bent,
Had years of loneliness here spent—
In this lone valley, far removed'
From all he ever knew or loved.
But deem not that he friendless dwelt,
Or that all feeling was unfelt:
The tow'ring rocks that fiercely flung
Their giant fragments o'er the vale—
The feeble flowers that closely clung
To those rude tenements of the dale—
The sweeping wind, the murmuring breeze,
The shadowed foliage of the trees,—
All things in nature seemed to be
The friends of his adversity.
Long years had faded life's young bloom,
And wrapt his soul in shades of gloom,
As o'er his darkly-troubled breast,
That never knew one hour of rest,
Dim visions of the past would roll
In strange confusion round his soul;
And then across his burning brow
Would rush the thought, What am I now?
A being lonely, wild, and rude—
A man of earth, in solitude.
. . . One night a vision (Wrapt his soul
With fierce and startling deep control,
And scenes and actions long gone by
Were hurled o'er his memory,
As 1f his wondering eyes were cast
On some bright mirror of the past;
And all he ever did or said
Was in that fearful moment read:—
His infant hours of laughing grace,
When all the soul shone in his face;
And those bright years, that knew the boy
A playful child of mirth and joy;
The scenes and visions that had shed
Their light and shadow o'er his head,
And left the child a noble youth,
With heart of love, and soul of truth—
A being formed to grace the earth,
A monument of beauty's worth!
But ere those days of sunshine past,
His young heart's promise was o'ercast.
Who ever felt a moment's joy
Unfollowed by a deep alloy,
Or knew not life must ever be
A vision of uncertainty?
. . .He knew and loved a being bright,
Who was to him a star of light,
Or seemed an angel lent to earth
To fix his soul on moral worth.
Adela was the child of one
O'er whom the tides of Fate had run
With fearful force, and left her sire
A man of deep and gloomy ire:
And fits of passion, wild and deep,
Would o'er his frenzied spirit sweep;
While men would tremble neath the blight
Of one whose frown was dark as night.
Yet there was one who had the power
To soothe the terrors of that hour,
And quell the fury of the storm
That shook the tall and stately form,—
His child, the idol of his soul,
O'er these dark moments held control
A sound, a breath from her could chase
The demon from its lurking-place;
Her sweet low voice, her fairy foot,
The music of her magic lute,—
A glance from her deep swimming eye,
Would quell his fiercest agony.
Then he would gaze on that dear face,
Intently bent on his, to trace
The shade depart from off that brow,
Thus smiling on her brightness now;
And then he felt there still was one
To whom his spirit fondly clung;
The last of his proud race was she,
The lode-star of his destiny.
Adela loved him—loved, 'tis true,
But then she feared and dreaded too;
Alternate shadows crossed her mind,
With feelings deep, though undefined;
Obedience marked her inmost soul,
She knew no law save his control:
The last leaf of the fading tree
Clung not with more intensity
Unto the dark and withered bough
Than she clung to her father now.
. . . She knew young Rudolph—I loved him too,
With feelings deep, intensely true:
He was the friend of those bright years,
When hope 1s life, and smiles and tears
Alternately enfold the heart
'Neath visions that ere long depart,
Unveiling to the trusting mind
The world is not what 1t defined.
Young Rudolph's history none could tell;
There seemed a deep and mystic spell
Encircling all that could relate
To his untoward, friendless state.
None knew the tale of ages gone,
Saving the dark and stern one,
Who wrapt in shadows of the past
The being on his bounty cast.
He never felt a parent's care
His infant joys or sorrows share,
He never felt the voice of love
O'er his young spirit gently move,
Until he saw the bright Adel,
And then the lightning of love's spell
Broke o'er the spirit of life's dream,
As sunshine o'er the darkened stream.
But as he loved, hope, withering, fled,
Like the pale memory of the dead.
He knew and felt each childish scene
Must cease to be what it had been,
And that the day-dream of his soul
Was but a visionary goal—
A 11iadd'ning hope, that chain'd his heart
To one from whom he must depart.
. . . Adela grew in beauty's light,
A thing of earth, yet passing bright,
And like the wild and blooming flower,
That bent but to the fragrant shower,
She ne'er had felt the breath of storm
Convulsive shake her fragile form.
She knew her father's dreaded mood,
His fierce-toned passion, wild and rude;
And could his child, his own Adel,
On whom his fondest day-dreams dwell—
Could she, the only thing he loved,
Behold that spirit deeply moved,
And feel the deep-toned anger wrest
Her image from his frenzied breast,
Nor quail beneath the storm's frown,
That bent her young heart's promise down?
. . . She knew that in her infant years
She was the promised bride of one
Whose image haunted her with fears
And terrors she in vain would shun:—
A man of noble, far descent,
O'er whom the shades of time had bent—
An agèd Count, whose treasured gold
His heart's best virtues did enfold—
A man her inmost soul would shun,
Must he, the hated, dreaded one,
Be doomed for her benighted heart,
Her brightest hopes for ever part,
The fairest visions of her mind
Pass like the breathings of the wind?
The thought was horror—yet she knew
It was reality—too true!
Her fate was fixed by one who never
The thought and action deigned to sever,
And bent her soul in silent grief,
To misery without relief.
And wrapt his soul in shades of gloom,
As o'er his darkly-troubled breast,
That never knew one hour of rest,
Dim visions of the past would roll
In strange confusion round his soul;
And then across his burning brow
Would rush the thought, What am I now?
A being lonely, wild, and rude—
A man of earth, in solitude.
. . . One night a vision (Wrapt his soul
With fierce and startling deep control,
And scenes and actions long gone by
Were hurled o'er his memory,
As 1f his wondering eyes were cast
On some bright mirror of the past;
And all he ever did or said
Was in that fearful moment read:—
His infant hours of laughing grace,
When all the soul shone in his face;
And those bright years, that knew the boy
A playful child of mirth and joy;
The scenes and visions that had shed
Their light and shadow o'er his head,
And left the child a noble youth,
With heart of love, and soul of truth—
A being formed to grace the earth,
A monument of beauty's worth!
But ere those days of sunshine past,
His young heart's promise was o'ercast.
Who ever felt a moment's joy
Unfollowed by a deep alloy,
Or knew not life must ever be
A vision of uncertainty?
. . .He knew and loved a being bright,
Who was to him a star of light,
Or seemed an angel lent to earth
To fix his soul on moral worth.
Adela was the child of one
O'er whom the tides of Fate had run
With fearful force, and left her sire
A man of deep and gloomy ire:
And fits of passion, wild and deep,
Would o'er his frenzied spirit sweep;
While men would tremble neath the blight
Of one whose frown was dark as night.
Yet there was one who had the power
To soothe the terrors of that hour,
And quell the fury of the storm
That shook the tall and stately form,—
His child, the idol of his soul,
O'er these dark moments held control
A sound, a breath from her could chase
The demon from its lurking-place;
Her sweet low voice, her fairy foot,
The music of her magic lute,—
A glance from her deep swimming eye,
Would quell his fiercest agony.
Then he would gaze on that dear face,
Intently bent on his, to trace
The shade depart from off that brow,
Thus smiling on her brightness now;
And then he felt there still was one
To whom his spirit fondly clung;
The last of his proud race was she,
The lode-star of his destiny.
Adela loved him—loved, 'tis true,
But then she feared and dreaded too;
Alternate shadows crossed her mind,
With feelings deep, though undefined;
Obedience marked her inmost soul,
She knew no law save his control:
The last leaf of the fading tree
Clung not with more intensity
Unto the dark and withered bough
Than she clung to her father now.
. . . She knew young Rudolph—I loved him too,
With feelings deep, intensely true:
He was the friend of those bright years,
When hope 1s life, and smiles and tears
Alternately enfold the heart
'Neath visions that ere long depart,
Unveiling to the trusting mind
The world is not what 1t defined.
Young Rudolph's history none could tell;
There seemed a deep and mystic spell
Encircling all that could relate
To his untoward, friendless state.
None knew the tale of ages gone,
Saving the dark and stern one,
Who wrapt in shadows of the past
The being on his bounty cast.
He never felt a parent's care
His infant joys or sorrows share,
He never felt the voice of love
O'er his young spirit gently move,
Until he saw the bright Adel,
And then the lightning of love's spell
Broke o'er the spirit of life's dream,
As sunshine o'er the darkened stream.
But as he loved, hope, withering, fled,
Like the pale memory of the dead.
He knew and felt each childish scene
Must cease to be what it had been,
And that the day-dream of his soul
Was but a visionary goal—
A 11iadd'ning hope, that chain'd his heart
To one from whom he must depart.
. . . Adela grew in beauty's light,
A thing of earth, yet passing bright,
And like the wild and blooming flower,
That bent but to the fragrant shower,
She ne'er had felt the breath of storm
Convulsive shake her fragile form.
She knew her father's dreaded mood,
His fierce-toned passion, wild and rude;
And could his child, his own Adel,
On whom his fondest day-dreams dwell—
Could she, the only thing he loved,
Behold that spirit deeply moved,
And feel the deep-toned anger wrest
Her image from his frenzied breast,
Nor quail beneath the storm's frown,
That bent her young heart's promise down?
. . . She knew that in her infant years
She was the promised bride of one
Whose image haunted her with fears
And terrors she in vain would shun:—
A man of noble, far descent,
O'er whom the shades of time had bent—
An agèd Count, whose treasured gold
His heart's best virtues did enfold—
A man her inmost soul would shun,
Must he, the hated, dreaded one,
Be doomed for her benighted heart,
Her brightest hopes for ever part,
The fairest visions of her mind
Pass like the breathings of the wind?
The thought was horror—yet she knew
It was reality—too true!
Her fate was fixed by one who never
The thought and action deigned to sever,
And bent her soul in silent grief,
To misery without relief.