Poems (Griffith)/The Hermit

by Mattie Griffith

For works with similar titles, see The Hermit.

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 prayers
Between 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.