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.

Some solitary man in other times

That isle

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.
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.

2.

Long were the tale that told Moscera's pride, Its columns cluster'd strength and lofty state, How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptured side, What intersecting arches graced its gate;

Its towers how high, its massy walls how strong, These fairly to describe were sure a tedious song.

3.

Yet while the fane rose slowly from the ground, But little store of charity, I ween,

The passing pilgrim at Moscera found:

And often there the mendicant was seen Hopeless to turn him from the convent-door, Because this costly work still kept the brethren poor.

4.

Now all is finish'd, and from every side
They flock to view the fabric, young and old.
Who now can tell Rodulfo's secret pride,

When on the Sabbath-day his eyes behold
The multitudes that crowd his church's floor,
Some sure to serve their God, to see Moscera more.

5.

So chanced it that Gualberto pass'd that way,
Since sainted for a life of saintly deeds.

He paused the new-rear'd convent to survey,

And o'er the structure whilst his eye proceeds, Sorrowed, as one whose holier feelings deem

That ill so proud a pile did humble monks beseem.