perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one of the banks lay a man in a melancholy posture. His head was supported upon his arm, and he seemed lost in meditation. The monk drew nearer, and recognised Rosario: he watched him in silence, and entered not the hermitage. After some minutes the youth raised his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the opposite wall.
“Yes,” said he, with a deep and plaintive sigh, “I feel all the happiness of thy situation, all the misery of my own. Happy were I, could I think like thee! Could I look like thee with disgust upon mankind, could bury myself for ever in some impenetrable solitude, and forget that the world holds beings deserving to be loved! O God! what a blessing would misanthropy be to me!”
“That is a singular thought, Rosario,” said the abbot, entering the grotto.
“You here, reverend father?” cried the novice.
At the same time starting from his place in confusion, he drew his cowl hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated himself upon the bank, and obliged the youth to place himself by him.
“You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy,” said he: “What can possibly have made you view in so desirable a light, misanthropy, of all sentiments the most hateful?”
“The perusal of these verses, father, which till now had escaped my observation. The brightness of the moon-beams permitted my reading them; and, oh! how I envy the feelings of the writer!”
As he said this, he pointed to a marble tablet fixed against the opposite wall: on it were engraved the following lines:
I NSCRIPTION IN AN H ERMITAGE .
Whoe’er thou art these lines now reading,
Think not, though from the world receding,
I joy my lonely days to lead in
This desert drear,
That with remorse a conscience bleeding
Hath led me here.
No thought of guilt my bosom sours:
Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;
For well I saw in halls and towers,
That Lust and Pride,
The Arch-fiend’s dearest darkest powers,
In state preside.
I saw mankind with vice incrusted;
I saw that Honour’s sword was rusted;
That few for aught but folly lusted;
That he was still deceiv’d, who trusted
In love or friend;
And hither came, with men disgusted,
My life to end.
In this lone cave, in garments lowly,
Alike a foe to noisy folly
And brow-bent gloomy melancholy,
I wear away
My life, and in my office holy
Consume the day.
Content and comfort bless me more in
This grot, than e’er I felt before in
A palace; and with thoughts still soaring
To God on high,
Each night and morn with voice imploring
This wish I sigh:
“Let me, O Lord! from life retire,
Unknown each guilty worldly fire,
Remorseful throb, or loose desire;
And when I die,
Let me in this belief expire,
To God I fly!”
Stranger, if, full of youth and riot,
As yet no grief has marred thy quiet,
Thou haply throw’st a scornful eye at
The Hermit’s prayer:
But if thou hast a cause to sigh at
Thy fault, or care;
If thou hast known false love’s vexation,
Or hast been exil’d from thy nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,
And makes thee pine;
Oh! how must thou lament thy station,
And envy mine!
“Were it possible,” said the friar, “for man to be so totally wrapped up in himself as to live in absolute seclusion from human nature,
“Yes,” said he, with a deep and plaintive sigh, “I feel all the happiness of thy situation, all the misery of my own. Happy were I, could I think like thee! Could I look like thee with disgust upon mankind, could bury myself for ever in some impenetrable solitude, and forget that the world holds beings deserving to be loved! O God! what a blessing would misanthropy be to me!”
“That is a singular thought, Rosario,” said the abbot, entering the grotto.
“You here, reverend father?” cried the novice.
At the same time starting from his place in confusion, he drew his cowl hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated himself upon the bank, and obliged the youth to place himself by him.
“You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy,” said he: “What can possibly have made you view in so desirable a light, misanthropy, of all sentiments the most hateful?”
“The perusal of these verses, father, which till now had escaped my observation. The brightness of the moon-beams permitted my reading them; and, oh! how I envy the feelings of the writer!”
As he said this, he pointed to a marble tablet fixed against the opposite wall: on it were engraved the following lines:
I NSCRIPTION IN AN H ERMITAGE .
Whoe’er thou art these lines now reading,
Think not, though from the world receding,
I joy my lonely days to lead in
This desert drear,
That with remorse a conscience bleeding
Hath led me here.
No thought of guilt my bosom sours:
Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;
For well I saw in halls and towers,
That Lust and Pride,
The Arch-fiend’s dearest darkest powers,
In state preside.
I saw mankind with vice incrusted;
I saw that Honour’s sword was rusted;
That few for aught but folly lusted;
That he was still deceiv’d, who trusted
In love or friend;
And hither came, with men disgusted,
My life to end.
In this lone cave, in garments lowly,
Alike a foe to noisy folly
And brow-bent gloomy melancholy,
I wear away
My life, and in my office holy
Consume the day.
Content and comfort bless me more in
This grot, than e’er I felt before in
A palace; and with thoughts still soaring
To God on high,
Each night and morn with voice imploring
This wish I sigh:
“Let me, O Lord! from life retire,
Unknown each guilty worldly fire,
Remorseful throb, or loose desire;
And when I die,
Let me in this belief expire,
To God I fly!”
Stranger, if, full of youth and riot,
As yet no grief has marred thy quiet,
Thou haply throw’st a scornful eye at
The Hermit’s prayer:
But if thou hast a cause to sigh at
Thy fault, or care;
If thou hast known false love’s vexation,
Or hast been exil’d from thy nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,
And makes thee pine;
Oh! how must thou lament thy station,
And envy mine!
“Were it possible,” said the friar, “for man to be so totally wrapped up in himself as to live in absolute seclusion from human nature,
Similar Books
