Poems (Hoffman)/The Hermit
For works with similar titles, see The Hermit.
THE HERMIT
Oh, to abide in some sylvan shadeRemoved from life's competition,Exempt from her hollow and mean paradeAnd her false and fickle ambition;Where the tongue of flattery shall be dumbWith her smiling goblet, brimming;Where the witch of slander may never come,Her honeyed poison bringing;Where deceit and rumor of war and strifeShall trouble no more forever;Where peace shall be the ambrosia of lifeAnd duty her one endeavor.Oh, for the hermit's breezeless calm,When the world with guilt is groaning;Tranquil and sweet is his isle of balm,Untouched by the storm's wild moaning.Crushed lie the blossoms of innocenceThe spoil of the siren's story;Blighted the tender buds of trustBy the frost-king old and hoary.The tyrant stalks in his dauntless pride,The plea of the helpless scorning;But oh, in some cloistered spot to abideSet only with Truth's adorning;Embalmed with the scent of clover-fieldsAnd lulled by the pines' low sighing,Where nature her lavish fruitage yieldsNor whispers that Time is dying.Society, charmed is thy friendly face'Till revealed is thy hidden slander.Solitude, thine is a three-fold grace,Where falsehood is lost in candor.When the bow of promise, embossed with goldIs dipped in our cup of pleasure,We wonder that famous bards of old Could count thee a priceless treasure;But we sigh for the hermit's breezeless calmWhen the rainbow fades in the gloaming,Tranquil and sweet is his isle of balmWhen the angry sea is foaming.