LOVE'S VICTIMS: THE HERMIT's STORY, CANTO IV

Silent, in horror and dismay, Through the drear hours of night, I watch'd afar the doubtful ray Of slow-returning light.

With pangs more keen my soul to fill, Arose that cheerless ray; Appall'd I view'd the mighty ill, And curs'd the coming day.

What more ensued—how robb'd of sense, How prostrate on the plain, Or how awak'd—remembrance thence Attempts to trace in vain.

High Heav'n, to mercy still inclin'd, Beheld my abject plight, And deign'd upon my darken'd mind To shed redeeming light.

As breathe the plains, and smile anew Amid serener day, Where late the furious whirlwind flew, And scatter'd wild dismay;

Such calm my soul perceiv'd, when first Renew'd by Faith's pure beam, While ev'ry passion fled, disperst Before the bright'ning gleam.

At once each impious thought repress'd, That madden'd in despair, Devotion taught my alter'd breast The will supreme to bear.

With firm resolve, but fainting strength, The lifeless corse I bore, Nor void of hope to reach at length The distant, friendly shore.

Not long my toil; this close retreat, With grateful wonder view'd, (For holy purpose refuge meet) Heav'n's pitying guidance shew'd.

'Mid'st parching plains of barren sand, Severely spread around, This vale by Nature's bounteous hand With springs and woods is crown'd.

Beneath yon plane-tree's branchy shade The lightest turf I chose, And there her grave, with anguish made, My hands were doom'd to close:

There, while my tears fast-trickling fell, To Heav'n I rais'd my pray'r, And slowly bade a last farewell To all my earthly care!

Now daily, o'er that precious mound, HIS goodness I implore, Who knows my suff'ring's latest bound, And will my peace restore!

Mine was the guilt, by passion led, The virtuous heart to stain, For which Heav'n loads this weary head With years of ling'ring pain:

But may my penitence atone For innocence betray'd; Just vengeance punish me alone, And spare her injur'd shade!

Nine times the sun's revolving ray, Amid these wilds, I've view'd Illume with vainly-lavish'd day The dreary solitude:

Meanwhile of man the cheerful face, Or voice, 'till you appear'd, My longing eye hath ceas'd to trace, Mine ear hath never heard!

And, 'till in death these limbs are cold, My sacred vow I'll keep, Full oft, o'er yonder swelling mould, To pray, to fast, and weep.