Poems (Griffith)/The Hermit

For works with similar titles, see The Hermit.
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The Hermit.
IT was a cold and bitter winter night.The keen winds howled around like beasts of prey Seeking for victims. A white shroud of snow Covered the desolate and lonely moor On which a cottage stood. A single lamp Shone through the window, shedding faintly round A melancholy light. Within those walls Dwelt the lone Hermit of the moor, and now Upon the hard and stony floor he knelt In fervent prayer to Heaven.
               Beside him lay The rosary, the missal, and the scourge; No fire was on his cold and cheerless hearth; ​The bread and water on his table stood Untasted; his thin, bloodless hands were clasped Upon 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 fire Were burning in their currents; his thin lip, Of ashen hue, was quivering; purple drops Were on his naked shoulders, and his frame Still writhed and trembled from the blood-stained lash Of his fierce penance; and, as there he turned Upward his suffering face to Heaven, his words Of penitence and supplication seemed To steal up from the caverns of his soul Like moans of keenest agony.
                That night The hermit passed in meditation, prayer, And fierce and bitter penance for the sins Of early youth. But her dear image still, ​The image of the sweet and gentle one That 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 morn Dawned in the orient sky, laid his chill And trembling form upon his couch to check In 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 eye Gazed mournfully in his, her tender lip Was pressed upon his forehead, and her voice, In tones of more than earthly melody, Was wildly breathing in his ear again Love's unforgotten words.
              The sun arose, And then the hermit's sleep was dreamless; bright ​The beam lay on the rigid brow of death. But on his breast, beneath the sackcloth robe, Was found the picture of his early love Pressed o'er his throbless heart. They buried him Upon that dismal moor, and when the Spring Smiled sweetly on the earth, a stranger come, A gentle lady, deeply bowed with grief,And planted flowers upon his lonely grave!
Louisville, Ky.
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