We observed near the Pont Crabe, i.e. Pont des Chèvres, on the opposite side of the ravine, a desolate-looking mill, placed in so wild and rugged a position, that one could not but pity those whose fortune might have condemned them to a residence there all the year round: a story attached to the cottage made it still more sad.
It appears that a young girl, the very flower of maidens in the Vallée d'Ossau, had been deceived and deserted by her lover, and on the point of becoming a mother, when she consulted the priest of her parish, confessing to him her weakness, and entreating his aid to enable her to propitiate offended Heaven. The virtuous and holy man, shocked at the infirmity and want of propriety exhibited by the unfortunate girl, was very severe in his censures, and informed her that there was no way left for her but by penance and mortification to endeavour to wipe away her sin. He condemned her, therefore, to take up her abode in that solitary cottage, far away from all human habitation, to spend her life in prayer and lamentation, and to endeavour, by voluntary affliction, to win her way to heaven.
She did so; and she and her child lived for ten years in that secluded spot, where the constant sound of murmuring waters drowned her sighs, and where no intruding foot came to disturb her solitude, except when the good priest, from time to time, visited her, to afford the consolation of his pious prayers. At the end of that time her spirit departed, and her little son was received into the convent, of which he became a member.
the recluse of the vallée d'ossau.
"Say, ye waters raging round,
Say, ye mountains, bleak and hoar,
Is there quiet to be found,
Where the world can vex no more?
May I hope that peace can be
Granted to a wretch like me!
"Hark! the vulture's savage shriek—
Hark! the grim wolf scares the night,—
Thunder peals from peak to peak,
Ghastly snows shroud ev'ry height.
Hark! the torrent has a tone,
Dismal—threat'ning—cold—alone!
"Was I form'd for scenes like this,
Flattered, trusting, vain and gay—
In whose smile he said was bliss,
Who to hear was to obey?—
Yes! weak idol! 'tis thy doom,
This thy guerdon—this thy tomb!
"When I from my heart have torn
All the mem'ries cherish'd long;
When my early thought at morn,
And my sigh at even-song,
Have not all the self-same theme,
Peace upon my soul may gleam!
"When no more I paint his eyes,
When his smile no more I see,
And his tone's soft melodies
Wake not in each sound to me;
When I can efface the past,
I may look for calm—at last.
"When resentment is at rest,
Scorn and sorrow, rage and shame,
Can be still'd within my breast—
And I start not at his name;
When I weep, nor faint, nor feel,
Then my heart's deep wounds may heal.