Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/154

Nor lacked the hermit's humble shed
    Such comforts as our natures ask
    To fit them for their daily task,
The cheering fire, the peaceful bed,
The simple meal in season spread:—
While by the lone lamp's trembling light,
As blazed the hearth-stone clear and bright,
    O'er Homer's page he hung,
Or Maro's martial, numbers scanned,
For classic lore of many a land
    Flowed smoothly o'er his tongue.
Oft with rapt eye, and skill profound,
He woke the entrancing viol's sound,
    Or touched the sweet guitar,
Since heavenly music deigned to dwell
An inmate in his cloistered cell,
    As beams the solemn star
All night, with meditative eyes,
Where some lone rock-bound fountain lies.

As through the groves with quiet tread,
On his accustomed haunts he sped,
The mother-thrush unstartled sung
Her descant to her callow young,
And fearless o'er his threshold prest
The wanderer from the sparrow's nest;
The squirrel raised a sparkling eye,
Nor from his kernel cared to fly
As passed that gentle hermit by;