His task accomplished to his mind,
The twain ere break of day
Creep forth, and through the forest wind 35
Their solitary way;
Few words they speak, nor dare to slack
Their pace from mile to mile,
Till they have crossed the quaking marsh,
And reached the lonely Isle. 40
The sun above the pine-trees showed
A bright and cheerful face;
And Ina looked for her abode,
The promised hiding-place;
She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled; 45
No threshold could be seen,
Nor roof, nor window;—all seemed wild
As it had ever been.
Advancing, you might guess an hour,
The front with such nice care 50
Is masked, "if house it be or bower,"
But in they entered are;
As shaggy as were wall and roof
With branches intertwined,
So smooth was all within, air-proof, 55
And delicately lined:
And hearth was there, and maple dish,
And cups in seemly rows,
And couch—all ready to a wish
For nurture or repose; 60
And Heaven doth to her virtue grant
That there[657] she may abide
In solitude, with every want
By cautious love supplied.
No queen, before a shouting crowd, 65
Led on in bridal state,
E'er struggled with a heart so proud,
Entering her palace gate;
Rejoiced to bid the world farewell,
No saintly anchoress 70
E'er took possession of her cell
With deeper thankfulness.
"Father of all, upon thy care
And mercy am I thrown;
Be thou my safeguard!"—such her prayer 75
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![658] 80
The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen,
Diffused through form and face,
Resolves devotedly serene;
That monumental grace
Of Faith, which doth[659] all passions tame 85
That Reason should control;
And shows in the untrembling frame
A statue of the soul.
Part III
Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy
That Phœbus wont to wear
The leaves of any pleasant tree
Around his golden hair;[660]
Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit 5
Of his imperious love,
At her own prayer transformed, took root,
A laurel in the grove.
Then did the Penitent adorn
His brow with laurel green; 10
And 'mid his bright locks never shorn
No meaner leaf was seen;
And poets sage, through every age,
About their temples wound
The bay; and conquerors thanked the Gods, 15
With laurel chaplets crowned.