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Literary Gazette, 24th September, 1831, Page 620
ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE HERMIT'S GRAVE.
The days are gone when pilgrims knelt
By sacred spot or shrine;
The cells where saints have lived or died
No more are held divine:
The bough of palm, the scallop-shell,
Are signs of faith no more;
The common grave is holy held,
As that on Salem's shore.
Yet, when I knew that human knee
Had worn the rock away,
And that here, even at my feet,
Earth hid the righteous clay;
I felt this was no common spot
For any common thought—
The place's own calm sanctity
Within my spirit wrought.
The cave was dark and damp—it spoke
Of penance and of prayer:
Remorse that scarcely dared to hope,
And heavy grief, were there.
But at the entrance was a scene,
Which seemed expressly given
To bring the heart again to earth,
Yet win it back to heaven.
For so benign an influence
Was falling from the sky,
And, like a blessing on the land,
The sunshine seemed to lie.
