So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back, 1798. HENRY THE HERMIT. IT was a little island where he dwelt, A solitary islet, bleak and bare, Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots Dead to the hopes and vanities and joys, For in ripe manhood he abandon'd arms, And had grown old in solitude. That isle Some solitary man in other times Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found Now by the storms unroof'd, his bed of leaves The peasants from the shore would bring him food, Nor ever visited the haunts of men, Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed Though the night-tempest or autumnal wind Albeit relying on his saintly load, Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived Rose he at midnight from his bed of leaves And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal, Of that reluctance, till the atoning prayer And the repented fault became a joy. One night upon the shore his chapel-bell Over the water came, distinct and loud. Alarm'd at that unusual hour to hear Its toll irregular, a monk arose, |