Poems (Hoffman)/The Hermit

by Martha Lavinia Hoffman

For works with similar titles, see The Hermit.

THE HERMIT

Oh, to abide in some sylvan shade
Removed from life's competition,
Exempt from her hollow and mean parade
And her false and fickle ambition;
Where the tongue of flattery shall be dumb
With her smiling goblet, brimming;
Where the witch of slander may never come,
Her honeyed poison bringing;
Where deceit and rumor of war and strife
Shall trouble no more forever;
Where peace shall be the ambrosia of life
And duty her one endeavor.
Oh, for the hermit's breezeless calm,
When the world with guilt is groaning;
Tranquil and sweet is his isle of balm,
Untouched by the storm's wild moaning.
Crushed lie the blossoms of innocence
The spoil of the siren's story;
Blighted the tender buds of trust
By the frost-king old and hoary.
The tyrant stalks in his dauntless pride,
The plea of the helpless scorning;
But oh, in some cloistered spot to abide
Set only with Truth's adorning;
Embalmed with the scent of clover-fields
And lulled by the pines' low sighing,
Where nature her lavish fruitage yields
Nor whispers that Time is dying.
Society, charmed is thy friendly face
'Till revealed is thy hidden slander.
Solitude, thine is a three-fold grace,
Where falsehood is lost in candor.
When the bow of promise, embossed with gold
Is dipped in our cup of pleasure,
We wonder that famous bards of old
Could count thee a priceless treasure;
But we sigh for the hermit's breezeless calm
When the rainbow fades in the gloaming,
Tranquil and sweet is his isle of balm
When the angry sea is foaming.