So 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 With 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.