Oft, the bold Youth, in question intricate, Would seek to know the story of his birth; Oft ask, who bore him: and with curious skill Enquire, why he, and only one beside, Peopled the desart mountain? Still his Sire Was slow of answer, and, in words obscure, Varied the conversation. Still the mind Of HENRY ponder’d; for, in their lone hut, A daily journal would Saint HUBERT make Of his long banishment: and sometimes speak Of Friends forsaken, Kindred, massacred;— Proud mansions, rich domains, and joyous scenes For ever faded,—lost! One winter time, ’Twas on the Eve of Christmas, the shrill blast Swept o’er the stormy main. The boiling foam Rose to an altitude so fierce and strong That their low hovel totter’d. Oft they stole To the rock’s margin, and with fearful eyes Mark’d the vex’d deep, as the slow rising moon Gleam’d on the world of waters. ’Twas a scene Would make a Stoic shudder! For, amid The wavy mountains, they beheld, _alone_, A LITTLE BOAT, now scarcely visible; And now not seen at all; or, like a buoy, Bounding, and buffetting, to reach the shore! Now the full Moon, in crimson lustre shone Upon the outstretch’d Ocean. The black clouds Flew swiftly on, the wild blast following, And, as they flew, dimming the angry main With shadows horrible! Still, the small boat Struggled amid the waves, a sombre speck Upon the wide domain of howling Death! Saint HUBERT sigh’d! while HENRY’s speaking eye Alternately the stormy scene survey’d And his low hovel’s safety. So past on The hour of midnight,—and, since first they knew The solitary scene, no midnight hour E’er seem’d so long and dreary. While they stood, Their hands fast link’d together, and their eyes Fix’d on the troublous Ocean, suddenly The breakers, bounding on the rocky shore, Left the small wreck; and crawling on the side Of the rude crag,—a HUMAN FORM was seen! And now he climb’d the foam-wash’d precipice, And now the slip’ry weeds gave way, while he Descended to the sands: The moon rose high— The wild blast paus’d, and the poor shipwreck’d Man Look’d round aghast, when on the frowning steep He marked the lonely exiles. Now he call’d But he was feeble, and his voice was lost Amid the din of mingling sounds that rose From the wild scene of clamour. Down the steep Saint HUBERT hurried, boldly venturous,