In this dim cave a druid sleeps,
Where stops the passing gale to moan;
The rock he hollow'd o'er him weeps,
And cold drops wear the fretted stone.
In this dim cave, of different creed,
An hermit's holy ashes rest;
The school-boy finds the frequent bead,
Which many a formal matin blest.
That truant-time full well I know,
When here I brought, in stolen hour,
The druid's magic Misletoe,
The holy hermit's Passion-flower.
The offerings on the mystic stone
Pensive I laid, in thought profound,
When from the cave a deepening groan
Issued, and froze me to the ground.
I hear it still—Dost thou not hear?
Does not thy haunted fancy start?
The sound still vibrates through mine ear—
The horror rushes on my heart.
Unlike to living sounds it came,
Unmix'd, unmelodiz'd with breath;
But grinding through some scrannel frame,
Creak'd from the bony lungs of Death.
I hear it still—‘Depart, (it cries;)
No tribute bear to shades unblest:
Know, here a bloody druid lies,
Who was not nurs'd at Nature's breast.
‘Associate he with demons dire,
O'er human victims held the knife,
And pleas'd to see the babe expire,
Smil'd grimly o'er its quivering life.
‘Behold his crimson-streaming hand
Erect;—his dark, fix'd, murderous eye;’
In the dim cave I saw him stand;
And my heart died—I felt it die.
I see him still—Dost thou not see
The haggard eye-ball's hollow glare?
And gleams of wild ferocity
Dart through the sable shade of hair;
What meagre form behind him moves,
With eye that rues the' invading day;
And wrinkled aspect wan, that proves
The mind to pale remorse a prey?
What wretched—Hark—the voice replies,
‘Boy, bear these idle honours hence!
For, here a guilty hermit lies,
Untrue to Nature, Virtue, Sense.
‘Though Nature lent him powers to aid
The moral cause, the mutual weal;
Those powers he sunk in this dim shade,
The desperate suicide of zeal.
‘Go, teach the drone of saintly haunts,
Whose cell's the sepulchre of time;
Though many a holy hymn he chaunts,
His life is one continued crime.
‘And bear them hence, the plant, the flower;
No symbols those of systems vain!
They have the duties of their hour;
Some bird, some insect to sustain,’
Where stops the passing gale to moan;
The rock he hollow'd o'er him weeps,
And cold drops wear the fretted stone.
In this dim cave, of different creed,
An hermit's holy ashes rest;
The school-boy finds the frequent bead,
Which many a formal matin blest.
That truant-time full well I know,
When here I brought, in stolen hour,
The druid's magic Misletoe,
The holy hermit's Passion-flower.
The offerings on the mystic stone
Pensive I laid, in thought profound,
When from the cave a deepening groan
Issued, and froze me to the ground.
I hear it still—Dost thou not hear?
Does not thy haunted fancy start?
The sound still vibrates through mine ear—
The horror rushes on my heart.
Unlike to living sounds it came,
Unmix'd, unmelodiz'd with breath;
But grinding through some scrannel frame,
Creak'd from the bony lungs of Death.
I hear it still—‘Depart, (it cries;)
No tribute bear to shades unblest:
Know, here a bloody druid lies,
Who was not nurs'd at Nature's breast.
‘Associate he with demons dire,
O'er human victims held the knife,
And pleas'd to see the babe expire,
Smil'd grimly o'er its quivering life.
‘Behold his crimson-streaming hand
Erect;—his dark, fix'd, murderous eye;’
In the dim cave I saw him stand;
And my heart died—I felt it die.
I see him still—Dost thou not see
The haggard eye-ball's hollow glare?
And gleams of wild ferocity
Dart through the sable shade of hair;
What meagre form behind him moves,
With eye that rues the' invading day;
And wrinkled aspect wan, that proves
The mind to pale remorse a prey?
What wretched—Hark—the voice replies,
‘Boy, bear these idle honours hence!
For, here a guilty hermit lies,
Untrue to Nature, Virtue, Sense.
‘Though Nature lent him powers to aid
The moral cause, the mutual weal;
Those powers he sunk in this dim shade,
The desperate suicide of zeal.
‘Go, teach the drone of saintly haunts,
Whose cell's the sepulchre of time;
Though many a holy hymn he chaunts,
His life is one continued crime.
‘And bear them hence, the plant, the flower;
No symbols those of systems vain!
They have the duties of their hour;
Some bird, some insect to sustain,’