“Get home young Sinner,” Old BARNARD said, “And your GRANDSIRE quickly see; “_Give him half your store_, “For he’s old, and poor, “And avert each evil “And cheat the Devil,— “By making him _rich as thee_.” The SQUIRE obey’d; and Old BARNARD now Is rescued from every evil: For he fears no wrong, From the weak or strong, And the Squire can snore, When the loud winds roar, For he dreams no more of THE DEVIL! _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, Cross’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, Clothing 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