Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/Henry the Hermit
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 spotsIts gray stone surface. Never marinerApproach'd that rude and uninviting coast,Nor ever fisherman his lonely barkAnchored beside its shore. It was a placeBefitting well a rigid anchoret,Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joysAnd purposes of life; and he had dweltMany 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 timesHad made his dwelling-place; and Henry foundThe little chapel that his toil had builtNow by the storms unroofed, his bed of leavesWind-scattered, and his grave o'ergrown with grass,And thistles, whose white seeds winged in vainWithered 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 himFrom the sea blasts, he built his hermitage.
The peasants from the shore would bring him foodAnd beg his prayers; but human converse elseHe knew not in that utter solitude,Nor ever visited the haunts of menSave when some sinful wretch on a sick bedImplored 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 livedA most austere and self-denying man,Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulnessExhausted him, and it was pain at lastTo rise at midnight from his bed of leavesAnd bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the lessTho' with reluctance of infirmity,He rose at midnight from his bed of leavesAnd bent his knees in prayer; but with more zealMore self-condemning fervour rais'd his voiceFor pardon for that sin, 'till that the sinRepented was a joy like a good deed.
One night upon the shore his chapel bellWas heard; the air was calm, and its far soundsOver the water came distinct and loud.Alarmed at that unusual hour to hearIts toll irregular, a monk arose. The boatmen bore him willingly acrossFor well the hermit Henry was beloved.He hastened to the chapel, on a stoneHenry was sitting there, cold, stiff and dead,The bell-rope in his band, and at his feetThe lamp[1] that stream'd a long unsteady light.
- ↑ This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1603.