Part 2 — The HERMIT of MONT-BLANC.

High, on the Solitude of Alpine Hills,

O’er-topping the grand imag’ry of Nature,

Where one eternal winter seem’d to reign,

An Hermit’s threshold, carpetted with moss,

Diversified the Scene. Above the flakes

Of silv’ry snow, full many a modest flow’r

Peep’d through its icy veil, and blushing ope’d

Its variegated hues; The Orchis sweet,

The bloomy Cistus, and the fragrant branch

Of glossy Myrtle. In his rushy cell,

The lonely Anchoret consum’d his days,

Unnotic’d, and unblest. In early youth,

87Cross’d in the fond affections of his soul

By false Ambition, from his parent home

He, solitary, wander’d; while the Maid

Whose peerless beauty won his yielding heart

Pined in monastic horrors! Near his sill

A little cross he rear’d, where, prostrate low

At day’s pale glimpse, or when the setting Sun

Tissued the western sky with streamy gold,

His Orisons he pour’d, for her, whose hours

Were wasted in oblivion. Winters pass’d,

And Summers faded, slow, unchearly all

To the lone Hermit’s sorrows: For, still, Love

A dark, though unpolluted altar, rear’d

On the white waste of wonders!

From the peak

Which mark’d his neighb’ring Hut, his humid Eye

Oft wander’d o’er the rich expanse below;

Oft trac’d the glow of vegetating Spring,

The full-blown Summer splendours, and the hue

Of tawny scenes Autumnal: Vineyards vast,

88Clothing the upland scene, and spreading wide

The promised tide nectareous; while for him

The liquid lapse of the slow brook was seen

Flashing amid the trees, its silv’ry wave!

Far distant, the blue mist of waters rose

Veiling the ridgy outline, faintly grey,

Blended with clouds, and shutting out the Sun.

The Seasons still revolv’d, and still was he

By all forgotten, save by her, whose breast

Sigh’d in responsive sadness to the gale

That swept her prison turrets. Five long years,

Had seen his graces wither ere his Spring

Of life was wasted. From the social scenes

Of human energy an alien driv’n,

He almost had forgot the face of Man.—

No voice had met his ear, save, when perchance

The Pilgrim wand’rer, or the Goatherd Swain,

Bewilder’d in the starless midnight hour

Implored the Hermit’s aid, the Hermit’s pray’rs;

And nothing loath by pity or by pray’r

89Was he, to save the wretched. On the top

Of his low rushy Dome, a tinkling bell

Oft told the weary Trav’ller to approach

Fearless of danger. The small silver sound

In quick vibrations echo’d down the dell

To the dim valley’s quiet, while the breeze

Slept on the glassy Leman. Thus he past

His melancholy days, an alien Man

From all the joys of social intercourse,

Alone, unpitied, by the world forgot!

His Scrip each morning bore the day’s repast

Gather’d on summits, mingling with the clouds,

From whose bleak altitude the Eye look’d down

While fast the giddy brain was rock’d by fear.

Oft would he start from visionary rest

When roaming wolves their midnight chorus howl’d,

Or blasts infuriate shatter’d the white cliffs,

While the huge fragments, rifted by the storm,

Plung’d to the dell below. Oft would he sit

90In silent sadness on the jutting block

Of snow-encrusted ice, and, shudd’ring mark

(Amid the wonders of the frozen world)

Dissolving pyramids, and threatening peaks,

Hang o’er his hovel, terribly Sublime.

And oft, when Summer breath’d ambrosial gales,

Soft sailing o’er the waste of printless dew

Or twilight gossamer, his pensive gaze

Trac’d the swift storm advancing, whose broad wing

Blacken’d the rushy dome of his low Hut;

While the pale lightning smote the pathless top

Of tow’ring Cenis, scatt’ring high and wide

A mist of fleecy Snow. Then would he hear,

(While Mem’ry brought to view his happier days)

The tumbling torrent, bursting wildly forth

From its thaw’d prison, sweep the shaggy cliff

Vast and Stupendous! strength’ning as it fell,

And delving, ’mid the snow, a cavern rude!

91So liv’d the Hermit, like an hardy Tree

Plac’d on a mountain’s solitary brow,

And destin’d, thro’ the Seasons, to endure

Their wond’rous changes. To behold the face

Of ever-varying Nature, and to mark

In each grand lineament, the work of God!

And happier he, in total Solitude

Than the poor toil-worn wretch, whose ardent Soul

That God has nobly organiz’d, but taught,

For purposes unknown, to bear the scourge

Of sharp adversity, and vulgar pride.

Happier, O! happier far, than those who feel,

Yet live amongst the unfeeling! feeding still

The throbbing heart, with anguish, or with Scorn.

One dreary night when Winter’s icy breath

Half petrified the scene, when not a star

Gleam’d o’er the black infinity of space,

Sudden, the Hermit started from his couch

Fear-struck and trembling! Ev’ry limb was shook

92With painful agitation. On his cheek

The blanch’d interpreter of horror mute

Sat terribly impressive! In his breast

The ruddy fount of life convulsive flow’d

And his broad eyes, fix’d motionless as death,

Gaz’d vacantly aghast! His feeble lamp

Was wasting rapidly; the biting gale

Pierc’d the thin texture of his narrow cell;

And Silence, like a fearful centinel

Marking the peril which awaited near,

Conspir’d with sullen Night, to wrap the scene

In tenfold horrors. Thrice he rose; and thrice

His feet recoil’d; and still the livid flame

Lengthen’d and quiver’d as the moaning wind

Pass’d thro’ the rushy crevice, while his heart

Beat, like the death-watch, in his shudd’ring breast.

Like the pale Image of Despair he sat,

The cold drops pacing down his hollow cheek,

When a deep groan assail’d his startled ear,

93And rous’d him into action. To the sill

Of his low hovel he rush’d forth, (for fear

Will sometimes take the shape of fortitude,

And force men into bravery) and soon

The wicker bolt unfasten’d. The swift blast,

Now unrestrain’d, flew by; and in its course

The quiv’ring lamp extinguish’d, and again

His soul was thrill’d with terror. On he went,

E’en to the snow-fring’d margin of the cragg,

Which to his citadel a platform made

Slipp’ry and perilous! ’Twas darkness, all!

All, solitary gloom!—The concave vast

Of Heav’n frown’d chaos; for all varied things

Of air, and earth, and waters, blended, lost

Their forms, in blank oblivion! Yet not long

Did Nature wear her sable panoply,

For, while the Hermit listen’d, from below

A stream of light ascended, spreading round

A partial view of trackless solitudes;

And mingling voices seem’d, with busy hum,

94To break the spell of horrors. Down the steep

The Hermit hasten’d, when a shriek of death

Re-echoed to the valley. As he flew,

(The treach’rous pathway yielding to his speed,)

Half hoping, half despairing, to the scene

Of wonder-waking anguish, suddenly

The torches were extinct; and second night

Came doubly hideous, while the hollow tongues

Of cavern’d winds, with melancholy sound

Increas’d the Hermit’s fears. Four freezing hours

He watch’d and pray’d: and now the glimm’ring dawn

Peer’d on the Eastern Summits; (the blue light

Shedding cold lustre on the colder brows

Of Alpine desarts;) while the filmy wing

Of weeping Twilight, swept the naked plains

Of the Lombardian landscape.

On his knees

The Anchoret blest Heav’n, that he had ’scap’d

The many perilous and fearful falls

Of waters wild and foamy, tumbling fast

95From the shagg’d altitude. But, ere his pray’rs

Rose to their destin’d Heav’n, another sight,

Than all preceding far more terrible,

Palsied devotion’s ardour. On the Snow,

Dappled with ruby drops, a track was made

By steps precipitate; a rugged path

Down the steep frozen chasm had mark’d the fate

Of some night traveller, whose bleeding form

Had toppled from the Summit. Lower still

The Anchoret descended, ’till arrived

At the first ridge of silv’ry battlements,

Where, lifeless, ghastly, paler than the snow

On which her cheek repos’d, his darling Maid

Slept in the dream of Death! Frantic and wild

He clasp’d her stiff’ning form, and bath’d with tears

The lilies of her bosom,—icy cold—

Yet beautiful and spotless.

Now, afar

The wond’ring Hermit heard the clang of arms

Re-echoing from the valley: the white cliffs

96Trembled as though an Earthquake shook their base

With terrible concussion! Thund’ring peals

From warfare’s brazen throat, proclaim’d th’ approach

Of conquering legions: onward they extend

Their dauntless columns! In the foremost group

A Ruffian met the Hermit’s startled Eyes

Like Hell’s worst Demon! For his murd’rous hands

Were smear’d with gore; and on his daring breast

A golden cross, suspended, bore the name

Of his ill-fated Victim!—Anchoret!

Thy Vestal Saint, by his unhallow’d hands

Torn from Religion’s Altar, had been made

The sport of a dark Fiend, whose recreant Soul

Had sham’d the cause of Valour! To his cell

The Soul-struck Exile turn’d his trembling feet,

And after three lone weeks, of pain and pray’r,

Shrunk from the scene of Solitude—and DIED!

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