| |
| FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, | |
| From youth to age a reverend hermit grew; | |
| The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, | |
| His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well: | |
| Remote from man, with God he passed the days, | 5 |
| Pray’r all his business, all his pleasure praise. | |
| A life so sacred, such serene repose, | |
| Seemed heav’n itself till one suggestion rose; | |
| That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey, | |
| This sprung some doubt of Providence’s sway: | 10 |
| His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, | |
| And all the tenour of his soul is lost. | |
| So when a smooth expanse receives imprest | |
| Calm Nature’s image on its watery breast, | |
| Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, | 15 |
| And skies beneath with answ’ring colours glow; | |
| But if a stone the gentle scene divide, | |
| Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, | |
| And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, | |
| Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. | 20 |
| To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, | |
| To find if books, or swains, report it right | |
| (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, | |
| Whose feet came wand’ring o’er the nightly dew), | |
| He quits his cell: the pilgrim-staff he bore, | 25 |
| And fixed the scallop in his hat before; | |
| Then with the sun a rising journey went, | |
| Sedate to think and watching each event. | |
| The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, | |
| And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; | 30 |
| And when the southern sun had warmed the day, | |
| A youth came posting o’er a crossing way— | |
| His raiment decent, his complexion fair, | |
| And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. | |
| Then, near approaching, ‘Father, hail!’ he cried; | 35 |
| ‘And hail, my son!’ the reverend sire replied. | |
| Words followed words, from question answer flowed, | |
| And talk of various kind deceived the road; | |
| Till, each with other pleased, and loth to part, | |
| While in their age they differ, join in heart: | 40 |
| Thus stands an aged elm, in ivy bound; | |
| Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. | |
| Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day | |
| Came onward, mantled o’er with sober grey; | |
| Nature in silence bid the world repose; | 45 |
| When near the road a stately palace rose: | |
| There by the moon through ranks of trees they pass, | |
| Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides of grass. | |
| It chanced the noble master of the dome | |
| Still made his house the wand’ring stranger’s home; | 50 |
| Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, | |
| Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. | |
| The pair arrived: the liv’ried servants wait; | |
| Their lord receives them at the pompous gate; | |
| The table groans with costly piles of food, | 55 |
| And all is more than hospitably good; | |
| Then, led to rest, the day’s long toil they drown, | |
| Deep sunk in sleep and silk and heaps of down. | |
| At length ’tis morn, and at the dawn of day | |
| Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; | 60 |
| Fresh o’er the gay parterres the breezes creep, | |
| And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep. | |
| Up rise the guests, obedient to the call: | |
| An early banquet decked the splendid hall; | |
| Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, | 65 |
| Which the kind master forced the guests to taste; | |
| Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go, | |
| And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe— | |
| His cup was vanished, for in secret guise | |
| The younger guest purloined the glittering prize. | 70 |
| As one who ’spies a serpent in his way, | |
| Glist’ning and basking in the summer ray, | |
| Disordered stops to shun the danger near, | |
| Then walks with faintness on and looks with fear; | |
| So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road, | 75 |
| The shining spoil his wily partner showed: | |
| He stopped with silence, walked with trembling heart, | |
| And much he wished, but durst not ask, to part; | |
| Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard | |
| That generous actions meet a base reward. | 80 |
| While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds; | |
| The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; | |
| A sound in air presaged approaching rain, | |
| And beasts to covert scud across the plain. | |
| Warned by the signs, the wand’ring pair retreat, | 85 |
| To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. | |
| ’Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, | |
| And strong, and large, and unimproved around; | |
| Its owner’s temper, tim’rous and severe, | |
| Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. | 90 |
| As near the miser’s heavy doors they drew, | |
| Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew; | |
| The nimble lightning, mixed with show’rs, began, | |
| And o’er their heads loud-rolling thunders ran. | |
| Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, | 95 |
| Driv’n by the wind and battered by the rain. | |
| At length some pity warmed the master’s breast | |
| (’Twas then his threshold first received a guest): | |
| Slow creaking, turns the door with jealous care, | |
| And half he welcomes in the shivering pair; | 100 |
| One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, | |
| And nature’s fervour through their limbs recalls; | |
| Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine, | |
| Each hardly granted, served them both to dine; | |
| And when the tempest first appeared to cease, | 105 |
| A ready warning bid them part in peace. | |
| With still remark the pond’ring hermit viewed | |
| In one so rich a life so poor and rude; | |
| ‘And why should such,’ within himself he cried, | |
| ‘Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside?’ | 110 |
| But what new marks of wonder soon took place | |
| In ev’ry settling feature of his face, | |
| When from his vest the young companion bore | |
| That cup the gen’rous landlord owned before, | |
| And paid profusely, with the precious bowl, | 115 |
| The stinted kindness of this churlish soul! | |
| But now the clouds in airy tumult fly; | |
| The sun, emerging, opes an azure sky; | |
| A fresher green the smelling leaves display, | |
| And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day: | 120 |
| The weather courts them from the poor retreat, | |
| And the glad master bolts the wary gate. | |
| While hence they walk, the pilgrim’s bosom wrought | |
| With all the travail of uncertain thought: | |
| His partner’s acts without their cause appear; | 125 |
| ’Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here; | |
| Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, | |
| Lost and confounded with the various shows. | |
| Now night’s dim shades again involve the sky; | |
| Again the wanderers want a place to lie; | 130 |
| Again they search, and find a lodging nigh: | |
| The soil improved around, the mansion neat, | |
| And neither poorly low nor idly great; | |
| It seemed to speak its master’s turn of mind— | |
| Content, and not for praise, but virtue kind. | 135 |
| Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, | |
| Then bless the mansion and the master greet. | |
| Their greeting, fair bestowed, with modest guise | |
| The courteous master hears, and thus replies: | |
| ‘Without a vain, without a grudging heart, | 140 |
| To Him who gives us all I yield a part; | |
| From Him you come, for Him accept it here, | |
| A frank and sober, more than costly cheer.’ | |
| He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, | |
| Then talked of virtue till the time of bed, | 145 |
| When the grave household round his hall repair, | |
| Warned by a bell, and close the hours with pray’r. | |
| At length the world, renewed by calm repose, | |
| Was strong for toil; the dappled morn arose. | |
| Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept | 150 |
| Near the closed cradle where an infant slept, | |
| And writhed his neck: the landlord’s little pride | |
| (O strange return!) grew black and gasped and died! | |
| Horror of horrors! what! his only son! | |
| How looked our hermit when the act was done? | 155 |
| Not hell, though hell’s black jaws in sunder part | |
| And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. | |
| Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, | |
| He flies, but, trembling, fails to fly with speed; | |
| His steps the youth pursues. The country lay | 160 |
| Perplexed with roads; a servant showed the way. | |
| A river crossed the path; the passage o’er | |
| Was nice to find; the servant trod before; | |
| Long arms of oak an open bridge supplied, | |
| And deep the waves beneath the bending glide: | 165 |
| The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin, | |
| Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in; | |
| Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, | |
| Then flashing turns and sinks among the dead. | |
| Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father’s eyes; | 170 |
| He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, | |
| ‘Detested wretch!’—but scarce his speech began, | |
| When the strange partner seemed no longer man: | |
| His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; | |
| His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet; | 175 |
| Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; | |
| Celestial odours breathe through purpled air; | |
| And wings, whose colours glittered on the day, | |
| Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. | |
| The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, | 180 |
| And moves in all the majesty of light. | |
| Though loud at first the pilgrim’s passion grew, | |
| Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do; | |
| Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, | |
| And in a calm his settling temper ends. | 185 |
| But silence here the beauteous angel broke; | |
| The voice of music ravished as he spoke: | |
| ‘Thy pray’r, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, | |
| In sweet memorial rise before the throne: | |
| These charms success in our bright region find, | 190 |
| And force an angel down to calm thy mind; | |
| For this commissioned, I forsook the sky— | |
| Nay, cease to kneel! thy fellow-servant I. | |
| ‘Then know the truth of government divine, | |
| And let these scruples be no longer thine. | 195 |
| The Maker justly claims that world He made; | |
| In this the right of Providence is laid; | |
| Its sacred majesty through all depends | |
| On using second means to work His ends: | |
| ’Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, | 200 |
| The Pow’r exerts His attributes on high, | |
| Your actions uses, not controls your will, | |
| And bids the doubting sons of men be still. | |
| What strange events can strike with more surprise | |
| Than those which lately struck thy wond’ring eyes? | 205 |
| Yet, taught by these, confess th’ Almighty just, | |
| And where you can’t unriddle, learn to trust! | |
| ‘The great vain man, who fared on costly food, | |
| Whose life was too luxurious to be good, | |
| Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, | 210 |
| And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine, | |
| Has, with cup, the graceless custom lost, | |
| And still he welcomes but with less of cost. | |
| The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door | |
| Ne’er moved in duty to the wand’ring poor, | 215 |
| With him I left the cup, to teach his mind | |
| That Heav’n can bless if mortals will be kind. | |
| Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, | |
| And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. | |
| Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead | 220 |
| With heaping coals of fire upon its head; | |
| In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, | |
| And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. | |
| Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, | |
| But now the child half weaned his heart from God; | 225 |
| Child of his age, for him he lived in pain, | |
| And measured back his steps to earth again. | |
| To what excesses had his dotage run! | |
| But God, to save the father, took the son. | |
| To all but thee in fits he seemed to go, | 230 |
| And ’twas my ministry to deal the blow. | |
| The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, | |
| Now owns in tears the punishment was just. | |
| But how had all his fortune felt a wrack | |
| Had that false servant sped in safety back! | 235 |
| This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, | |
| And what a fund of charity would fail! | |
| ‘Thus Heav’n instructs thy mind: this trial o’er, | |
| Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more!’ | |
| On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew; | 240 |
| The sage stood wond’ring as the seraph flew: | |
| Thus looked Elisha, when, to mount on high, | |
| His master took the chariot of the sky; | |
| The fiery pomp ascending left the view; | |
| The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. | 245 |
| The bending hermit here a pray’r begun: | |
| ‘Lord, as in heaven, on earth Thy will be done!’ | |
| Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, | |
| And passed a life of piety and peace. | |
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