In this dim cave a druid sleeps, Where stops the passing gale to moan; The rock he hollowed o'er him weeps, And cold drops wear the fretted stone. In this dim cave, of different creed, A hermit's holy ashes rest: The school-boy finds the frequent bead, That truant-time full well I know, The holy hermit's Passion-flower. The offerings on the mystic stone I hear it still-Dost thou not hear? Unlike to living sounds it came, Unmixed, unmelodised with breath; But, grinding through some scrannel frame, Creaked from the bony lungs of death. I hear it still" Depart," it cries; "No tribute bear to shades unblest: 66 Know, here a bloody Druid lies, "Who was not nursed at Nature's breast. "Associate he with demons dire, "O'er human victims held the knife, "And pleased to see the babe expire, "Smiled grimly o'er its quivering life. "Behold his crimson-streaming hand "Erect!-his dark, fixed, murderous eye!" In the dim cave I saw him stand; And my heart died-I felt it die. 153853 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, 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. |