the hermit
As o'er his darkly-troubled breast,
That never knew one hour of rest,
Dim visions of the past would roll
In strange confusion round his soul;
And then across his burning brow
Would 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 soul
With fierce and startling deep control,
And scenes and actions long gone by
Were hurled o'er his memory,
As If his wondering eyes were cast
On some bright mirror of the past;
And all he ever did or said
Was 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 boy
A playful child of mirth and joy;
The scenes and visions that had shed
Their light and shadow o'er his head,
That never knew one hour of rest,
Dim visions of the past would roll
In strange confusion round his soul;
And then across his burning brow
Would 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 soul
With fierce and startling deep control,
And scenes and actions long gone by
Were hurled o'er his memory,
As If his wondering eyes were cast
On some bright mirror of the past;
And all he ever did or said
Was 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 boy
A playful child of mirth and joy;
The scenes and visions that had shed
Their light and shadow o'er his head,
3
