"But whither would you, could you, flee? A poor Man's counsel take; The Holy Virgin gives to me A thought for your dear sake; PART II. THE dwelling of this faithful pair With thickets rough and blind; And there, sequestered from the sight, And midway in the unsafe morass, A single Island rose Of firm dry ground, with healthful grass 85 90 95 100 The Woodman knew, for such the craft. 105 That never fowler's gun, nor shaft A sanctuary seemed the spot And there he planned an artful Cot IJO With earnest pains unchecked by dread She moulds her sight-eluding den His task accomplished to his mind, Creep forth, and through the forest wind Few words they speak, nor dare to slack Till they have crossed the quaking marsh, The sun above the pine-trees showed And Ina looked for her abode, 115 120 125 130 She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled; Nor roof, nor window ;-all seemed wild 135 Advancing, you might guess an hour, Is masked, "if house it be or bower," As shaggy as were wall and roof With branches intertwined, So smooth was all within, air-proof, 140 And hearth was there, and maple dish, 145 And cups in seemly rows, And couch-all ready to a wish For nurture or repose; And Heaven doth to her virtue grant That there she may abide In solitude, with every want 150 “Father of all, upon thy care And mercy am I thrown; Be thou my safeguard!"-such her prayer When she was left alone, Kneeling amid the wilderness When joy had passed away, And smiles, fond efforts of distress To hide what they betray! The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen, Diffused through form and face, Resolves devotedly serene; That monumental grace Of Faith, which doth all passions tame That Reason should control ; And shows in the untrembling frame 160 165 170 175 PART III. "TIs sung in ancient minstrelsy Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit Of his imperious love, At her own prayer transformed, took root, Then did the Penitent adorn His brow with laurel green; And 'mid his bright locks never shorn No meaner leaf was seen; And poets sage, through every age, 180 The bay; and conquerors thanked the Gods, With laurel chaplets crowned. Into the mists of fabling Time So far runs back the praise Of Beauty, that disdains to climb Along forbidden ways; That scorns temptation; power defies Where mutual love is not; And to the tomb for rescue flies 185 190 195 When life would be a blot. To this fair Votaress a fate More mild doth Heaven ordain 200 Upon her Island desolate ; And words, not breathed in vain, Might tell what intercourse she found, Her silence to endear ; 205 What birds she tamed, what flowers the ground Sent forth her peace to cheer. To one mute Presence, above all, By Russian usage hung 210 The Mother-maid, whose countenance bright · With love abridged the day; And, communed with by taper light, Chased spectral fears away. And oft, as either Guardian came, Might any common friendship shame, 215 220 But when she of her Parents thought, 22.5 And, if with all things not enwrought, That trouble still is near. |