Douglas's Account of the Manner in Which He Learned the Art of War

Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote And inaccessible by shepherds trod, In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man, Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains. Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, Did they report him; the cold earth his bed, Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms. I went to see him, and my heart was touch'd With reverence and with pity. Mild he spake. And, entering on discourse, such stories told, As made me oft revisit his sad cell. For he had been a soldier in his youth; And fought in famous battles, when the peers Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led, Against the usurping infidel display'd The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land. Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire His speech struck from me, the old man would shake His years away, and act his young encounters. Then, having shewn his wounds, he'd sit him down, And, all the live long day, discourse of war. To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts; Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use, Of the deep column, and the lengthen'd line, The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm: For, all that Saracen or Christian knew Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known.

Unhappy man! Returning homewards by Messina's port, Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won, A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea Fasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought; The stranger fell, and with his dying breath Declar'd his name and lineage! Mighty God! The soldier cry'd, my brother! Oh! my brother!

They exchang'd forgiveness: And happy, in my mind, was he that died: For many deaths has the survivor suffer'd. In the wild desart on a rock he sits, Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks, And ruminates all day his dreadful fate. At times, alas! not in his perfect mind! Holds dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghost; And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch, To make sad orisons for him he flew.