XXXV
Deem it not strange that men of deeper thought,
Retired to solitudes of woods and mountains,
Where, by a life of pray’r and contemplation,
They strove to find the soul’s complete salvation,
And drink of heaven’s unpolluted fountains,
And comprehend what God for man hath wrought.
The solitude, in which the hermit dwelt,
Was deep and undisturbed by human strife,
No sound was heard but nature’s matchless tones,
Its song, the cry, the sigh, the wandering moans,
Which lift the poet’s vision to a life,
That has no language, but alone is felt.
Such quiet is a balm for wretched minds,
A cooling water to the soul athirst;
Sordino drank it like the cup of grace,
In which you see the Saviour’s crownèd face,
God spoke to him, not as to Cain accurst,
But as a father, in the whispering winds.