Henry The Hermit.

It was a little island where he dwelt,         Or rather a lone rock, barren and bleak,         Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots         Its gray stone surface. Never mariner         Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast,         Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark         Anchored beside its shore. It was a place         Befitting well a rigid anchoret,         Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys         And purposes of life; and he had dwelt         Many long years upon that lonely isle,         For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms,         Honours and friends and country and the world,         And had grown old in solitude. That isle         Some solitary man in other times         Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found         The little chapel that his toil had built         Now by the storms unroofed, his bed of leaves         Wind-scattered, and his grave o'ergrown with grass,         And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vain         Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost.         So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof,         Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone,         And underneath a rock that shelter'd him         From the sea blasts, he built his hermitage.         The peasants from the shore would bring him food         And beg his prayers; but human converse else         He knew not in that utter solitude,         Nor ever visited the haunts of men         Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed         Implored his blessing and his aid in death.         That summons he delayed not to obey,         Tho' the night tempest or autumnal wind.         Maddened the waves, and tho' the mariner,         Albeit relying on his saintly load,         Grew pale to see the peril. So he lived         A most austere and self-denying man,         Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness         Exhausted him, and it was pain at last         To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves         And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less         Tho' with reluctance of infirmity,         He rose at midnight from his bed of leaves         And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal         More self-condemning fervour rais'd his voice         For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin         Repented was a joy like a good deed.         One night upon the shore his chapel bell         Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds         Over the water came distinct and loud.         Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear         Its toll irregular, a monk arose.         The boatmen bore him willingly across         For well the hermit Henry was beloved.         He hastened to the chapel, on a stone         Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead,         The bell-rope in his band, and at his feet         The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light