They laid the pick-axe to the stones,

And they moved them soon asunder; They shovell'd away the hard-prest clay, And came to the coffin under.

They burst the patent coffin first,

And they cut through the lead;

And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud, Because they had got at the dead.

And they allow'd the Sexton the shroud,
And they put the coffin back;

And nose and knees they then did squeeze
The Surgeon in a sack.

The watchmen as they past along
Full four yards off could smell,
And a curse bestow'd upon the load
So disagreeable.

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.

Westbury, 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,

VOL. VI.

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.
Westbury, 1799.

*This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608.

ST. GUALBERTO.

ADDRESSED TO GEORGE BURNETT.

Milton has made the name of Vallumbrosa familiar to English readers; few of whom, unless they have visited the spot, know that it is the chief seat of a religious order founded by St. Gualberto. A passage in one of Miss Seward's early letters shows how well Milton had observed the peculiar feature of its autumnal scenery. "I have heard my father say, that when he was in Italy with Lord Charles Fitzroy, they travelled through Vallumbrosa in autumn, after the leaves had begun to fall; and that their guide was obliged to try what was land, and what water, by pushing a long pole before him, which he carried in his hand, the vale being so very irriguous, and the leaves so totally covering the surface of the streams."— Poetical Works of ANNE SEWARD, with Extracts from her Literary Correspondence, vol. i. p. lxxxvi.

1.

THE work is done, the fabric is complete;
Distinct the Traveller sees its distant tower,

Yet ere his steps attain the sacred seat,

Must toil for many a league and many an hour. Elate the Abbot sees the pile and knows, Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscera rose.