Неизвестный автор ( Anonymous)

The Hermitage

THE LONELY cavern, like a chapel carved,
Is situate amid the lonely hills;
The scutcheon, cross, and altar hewn in rock,
And by the altar is a cenotaph.
In marble there a lovely lady lies;
An angel, with a welcome at her side,
A welcome to the soul he beareth heaven.
And near a warrior stands,—the desolate!
The wide earth only holds one tomb for him.
Such must have been his history, who first
Cut this sad hermitage within the rock:
Some spirit-broken and world-weary man,
Whose love was in the grave, whose hope in heaven.
Yet a fine nature must have been his own;
A sense of beauty, and a strong delight	
In the brave seeming of the visible world,
Whose loveliness is like a sympathy.
Winds the fair river through the vale below,
With sunshine on its waters. Green the woods
Hang the far summits with their changeful shade.
In the soft summer fields are many flowers,
Which breathe at evening on the scented wind.
Still the wild cherry-trees are growing round,
Which first he planted;—yet he loved the world,—
The bright, the beautiful, the glorious world,—	
But loved it as those love who love on earth,
Only the hope that looketh up to heaven.

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