Stranger! this lonely glen in ancient times Was named the glen of blood; nor Christian feet By night or day, from these o'er-arching cliffs That haply now have to thy joyful shouts
Return'd a mellow music, ever brought One trembling sound to break the depth of silence. The village maiden, in this little stream, Though then, as now, most clearly beautiful,
Ne'er steeped her simple garments, while she sang Some native air of sadness or of mirth. In these cold, shady pools, the fearless trout Ne'er saw the shadow, but of sailing cloud,
Or kite that wheeling eyed the far-off lamb; And on yon hazel bowers the ripen'd fruit Hung clustering, moved but by the frequent swing Of playful squirrel,— for no school-boy here
With crook and angle light on holiday Came nutting, or to snare the sportive fry. Even bolder spirits shunn'd the glen of blood! These rocks, the abode of echo, never mock'd
In sportive din the huntsman's bugle horn; And as the shepherd from the mountain-fold Homewards return'd beneath the silent Moon, A low unconscious prayer would agitate
His breathless heart, for here in unblest grave Lay one for whom ne'er toll'd the passing-bell! And thus was Nature by the impious guilt Of one who scorn'd her gracious solitude,
Defrauded of her worshippers: though pure This glen, as consecrated house of God, Fit haunt of heaven-aspiring piety, Or in whose dripping cells the poet's ear
Might list unearthly music, this sweet glen With all its tender tints and pensive sounds, Its balmy fragrance and romantic forms, Lay lonely and unvisited, yea worse,
Peopled with fancied demons, and the brood At enmity with man. So was it once: But now far other creed hath sanctified
This dim seclusion, and all human hearts Unto its spirit deeply reconciled. ‘ Tis said, and I in truth believe the tale, That many years ago an aged man,
Of a divine aspect and stately form, Came to this glen, and took up his abode In one of those wild caves so numerous Among the hanging cliffs, though hid from view
By trailing ivy, or thick holly-bush, Through the whole year so deeply, brightly green. With evil eye the simple villagers First look'd on him, and scarcely dared to tell
Each other, what dim fears were in their souls. But there is something in the voice and eye Of beautiful old age, with angel power That charms away suspicion, and compels
The unwilling soul to reverence and love. So was it with this mystical old man! When first he came into the glen, the spring Had just begun to tinge the sullen rocks
With transient smiles, and ere the leafy bowers Of summer rustled, many a visitant Had sat within his hospitable cave, From his maple bowl the unpolluted spring
Drunk fearless, and with him partook the bread That his pale lips most reverently had bless'd With words becoming such a holy man! Oft was he seen surrounded by a groupe
Of happy children, unto whom he spake With more than a paternal tenderness; And they who once had gazed with trembling fear On the wild dweller in th’ unholy glen,
At last with airy trip and gladsome song Would seek him there, and listen on his knee To mournful ditties, and most touching tales! One only book was in this hermit's cell,
The Book of Life; and when from it he read With solemn voice devoutly musical, His thoughtful eye still brightening as the words, The words of Jesus, in that peaceful cave
Sounded more holily,— and his grey hair, Betokening that e'er long in Jesus’ breast Would be his blessed sleep,— on his calm brows Spread quietly, like thin and snowy clouds
On the husht evening sky:— While thus he sate, Ev'n like the Apostle whom our Saviour loved, In his old age, in Patmos’ lonely isle Musing on him that he had served in youth,—
Oh! then, I ween, the awe-struck villagers Could scarce sustain his tones so deeply charged With hope, and faith, and gratitude, and joy. But when they gazed!— in the mild lineaments
Of his majestic visage, they beheld How beautiful is holiness, and deem'd That sure he was some spirit sent by God To teach the way to Heaven!
And yet his voice Was oft times sadder, than as they conceived An Angel's voice would be, and though to sooth The sorrows of all others ever seem'd
His only end in life, perhaps he had Griefs of his own of which he nothing spake; Else were his locks more grey, more pale his cheek, Than one had thought who only saw his form
So stately and so tall.— Once did they speak To him of that most miserable man Who here himself had slain,— and then his eye
Was glazed with stern compassion, and a tear,— It was the first they e'er had seen him shed, Though mercy was the attribute he loved Dearest in God's own Son,— bedimm'd its light
For a short moment; yea, that hermit old Wept,— and his sadden'd face angelical Veil'd with his wither'd hands,— then on their knees He bade his children ( so he loved to call
The villagers ) kneel down; and unto God Pray for his brother's soul.— Amid the dust The hermit long hath slept,— and every one
That listen'd to the saint's delightful voice. In yonder church-yard, near the eastern porch, Close to the altar-wall, a little mound As if by nature shaped, and strewn by her
With every tender flower that sorrow loves, Tradition calls his grave. On Sabbath-day, The hind oft hears the legendary tale Rehearsed by village moralist austere
With many a pious phrase; and not a child, Whose trembling feet have scarcely learnt to walk, But will conduct thee to the hallow'd spot And lisp the hermit's name.
Nor did the cave That he long time from Nature tenanted Remain unhonour'd.— Duly every spring, Upon the day he died, thither repair'd
Many a pure spirit, to his memory Chaunting a choral hymn, composed by one Who on his death-bed sat and closed his eyes. “I am the resurrection and the life,”
Some old man then would, with a solemn voice, Read from that Bible that so oft had blest The Hermit's solitude with heavenly chear. This Book, sole relic of the sinless man,
Was from the dust kept sacred, and even now Lies in yon box of undecaying yew, And may it never fade!— Stranger unknown!
Thou breath'st, at present, in the very cave Where on the Hermit death most gently fell Like a long wish'd-for slumber. The great Lord, Whose castle stands amid the music wild
Breathed from the bosom of an hundred glens, In youth by nature taught to venerate Things truly venerable, hither came One year to view the fair solemnity:
And that the forest-weeds might not obstruct The entrance of the cave, or worm defile The soft green beauty of its mossy walls, This massive door was from a fallen oak
Shaped rudely, but all other ornament, That porch of living rock with woodbines wreathed, And outer roof with many a pensile shrub Most delicate, he with wise feeling left
To Nature, and her patient servant, Time! Stranger! I know thee not: yet since thy feet Have wandered here, I deem that thou art one Whose heart doth love in silent communings
To walk with Nature and from scenes like these Of solemn sadness, to sublime thy soul To high endurance of all earthly pains Of mind or body; so that thou connect
With Nature's lovely and more lofty forms, Congenial thoughts of grandeur or of grace In moral being. All creation takes The spirit of its character from him
Who looks thereon; and to a blameless heart, Earth, air, and ocean, howsoe'er beheld, Are pregnant with delight, while even the clouds, Embath'd in dying sunshine, to the base
Possess no glory, and to the wicked lower As with avenging thunder. This sweet glen, How sweet it is thou feel'st, with sylvan rocks
Excluding all but one blue glimpse of sky Above, and from the world that lies around All but the faint remembrance, tempted once To most unnatural murder, once sublimed
To the high temper of the seraphim: And thus, though its mild character remain'd Immutable,— with pious dread was shunn'd As an unholy spot, or visited
With reverence, as a consecrated shrine. Farewell! and grave this moral on thy heart, “That Nature smiles for ever on the good,— But that all beauty dies with innocence!”
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