Poems (E. L. F.)/The hermit: a fragment
POEMS.
THE HERMIT.
A FRAGMENT.
Written at the Age of Fifteen.
A lovely eve—the setting sunIts work of glory had begun,And, ere it parted from our gaze,Shed all around its beauteous rays,As if it would enclasp the sceneWhere 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 airSeemed 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 beThe 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 rollIn strange confusion round his soul;And then across his burning browWould 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 soulWith fierce and startling deep control,And scenes and actions long gone byWere hurled o'er his memory,As If his wondering eyes were castOn some bright mirror of the past;And all he ever did or saidWas 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 boyA playful child of mirth and joy;The scenes and visions that had shedTheir 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 joyUnfollowed by a deep alloy,Or knew not life must ever beA vision of uncertainty?. . .He knew and loved a being bright,Who was to him a star of light,Or seemed an angel lent to earthTo fix his soul on moral worth.Adela was the child of oneO'er whom the tides of Fate had runWith fearful force, and left her sireA 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 blightOf one whose frown was dark as night. Yet there was one who had the powerTo soothe the terrors of that hour,And quell the fury of the stormThat shook the tall and stately form,—His child, the idol of his soul,O'er these dark moments held controlA sound, a breath from her could chaseThe 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 traceThe shade depart from off that brow,Thus smiling on her brightness now;And then he felt there still was oneTo 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 treeClung not with more intensityUnto the dark and withered boughThan 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 is life, and smiles and tearsAlternately enfold the heart'Neath visions that ere long depart,Unveiling to the trusting mindThe world is not what it defined.Young Rudolph's history none could tell;There seemed a deep and mystic spellEncircling all that could relateTo his untoward, friendless state.None knew the tale of ages gone,Saving the dark and stern one, Who wrapt in shadows of the pastThe being on his bounty cast.He never felt a parent's careHis infant joys or sorrows share,He never felt the voice of loveO'er his young spirit gently move,Until he saw the bright Adel,And then the lightning of love's spellBroke 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 sceneMust cease to be what it had been,And that the day-dream of his soulWas but a visionary goal—A madd'ning hope, that chain'd his heartTo 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 stormConvulsive 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 wrestHer 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 oneWhose 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 goldHis 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 mindPass like the breathings of the wind?The thought was horror—yet she knewIt was reality—too true!Her fate was fixed by one who neverThe thought and action deigned to sever,And bent her soul in silent grief,To misery without relief.