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Title: The Hermit
Author: James Beattie [
More Titles by Beattie]
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove:
'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar,
A Hermit his song of the night thus began;
No more with himself, or with nature, at war,
He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man:
"Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe?
"Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?
"For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
"And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.
"Yet, if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay,
"Mourn, sweetest complainer! man calls thee to mourn:
"O sooth him, whose pleasures like thine pass away--
"Full quickly they pass--but they never return.
"Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,
"The moon, half-extinguished, her crescent displays:
"But lately I marked, when majestic on high,
"She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
"Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
"The path that conducts thee to splendour again:
"But man's faded glory no change shall renew--
"Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!
"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more:
"I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
"For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
"Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew.
"Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
"Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.--
"But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn?
"O, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?"
'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,
That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles, to blind;
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
"O pity, great Father of light," then I cried,
"Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee!
"Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
"From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free."
And darkness and doubt are now flying away:
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.
So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,
And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb!
[The end]
James Beattie's poem: Hermit
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