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
