The Hermit

IT was a cold and bitter winter night.The keen winds howled around like beasts of preySeeking for victims. A white shroud of snowCovered the desolate and lonely moorOn which a cottage stood. A single lampShone through the window, shedding faintly roundA melancholy light. Within those wallsDwelt the lone Hermit of the moor, and nowUpon the hard and stony floor he kneltIn fervent prayer to Heaven.

Beside him layThe rosary, the missal, and the scourge;No fire was on his cold and cheerless hearth;The bread and water on his table stoodUntasted; his thin, bloodless hands were claspedUpon his breast; his blue, beseeching eye,Tearless as if its orb were seared with flame,Looked earnestly to Heaven; the corded veins,That lay upon his brow and temples pale,Throbbed visibly as if a living fireWere burning in their currents; his thin lip,Of ashen hue, was quivering; purple dropsWere on his naked shoulders, and his frameStill writhed and trembled from the blood-stained lashOf his fierce penance; and, as there he turnedUpward his suffering face to Heaven, his wordsOf penitence and supplication seemedTo steal up from the caverns of his soulLike moans of keenest agony.

That nightThe hermit passed in meditation, prayer,And fierce and bitter penance for the sinsOf early youth. But her dear image still,The image of the sweet and gentle oneThat he had loved so passionately, rose'Mid all his maddening tortures and his prayersBetween him and his God.

The hours wore on,And when at length the first gray light of mornDawned in the orient sky, laid his chillAnd trembling form upon his couch to checkIn sleep forbidden memories. In vain!The dear, the loved one, pale, and beautiful,Came softly stealing to his side in dreams,And bent above him, and her sweet blue eyeGazed mournfully in his, her tender lipWas pressed upon his forehead, and her voice,In tones of more than earthly melody,Was wildly breathing in his ear againLove's unforgotten words.

The sun arose,And then the hermit's sleep was dreamless; brightThe beam lay on the rigid brow of death.But on his breast, beneath the sackcloth robe,Was found the picture of his early lovePressed o'er his throbless heart. They buried himUpon that dismal moor, and when the SpringSmiled sweetly on the earth, a stranger come,A gentle lady, deeply bowed with grief,And planted flowers upon his lonely grave!

Louisville, Ky.