So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back,
And they carved him bone from bone,
But what became of the Surgeon's soul
Was never to mortal known.

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
Its grey stone surface. Never mariner
Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast,
Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark
Anchor'd 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 abandon'd 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 which his toil had built

Now by the storms unroof'd, his bed of leaves
Wind-scatter'd; and his grave o'ergrown with grass,
And thistles, whose white seeds, there wing'd in vain,
Wither'd on rocks, or in the waves were lost.
So he repair'd the chapel's ruin'd roof,
Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone,
And underneath a rock that shelter'd him
From the sea-blast, 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 delay'd not to obey,

Though the night-tempest or autumnal wind
Madden'd the waves; and though the mariner,

Albeit relying on his saintly load,

Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived
A most austere and self-denying man,
Till abstinence and age and watchfulness
Had worn him down, 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,
Though with reluctance of infirmity,

Rose he at midnight from his bed of leaves

And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal,
More self-condemning fervour, raised his voice
Imploring pardon for the natural sin

Of that reluctance, till the atoning prayer
Had satisfied his heart, and given it peace,

And the repented fault became a joy.

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.

Alarm'd at that unusual hour to hear

Its toll irregular, a monk arose,

And crost to the island-chapel. On a stone
Henry was sitting there, dead, cold, and stiff,
The bell-rope in his hand, and at his feet

*

The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light.

1799.

This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608.