The peasants from the shore would bring him fcod,
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,
Though the night tempest or autumnal wind
Maddened 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
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 hand, and at his feet
The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light.

THE CROSS ROADS.

THERE was an old man breaking stones
To mend the turnpike way;
He sate him down beside a brook
And out his bread and cheese he took,
For now it was mid-day.

He leant his back against a post,
His feet the brook ran by;

And there were water-cresses growing,
And pleasant was the water's flowing,
For he was hot and dry.

A soldier with his knapsack on,
Came travelling o'er the down;
The sun was strong and he was tired;
And he of the old man inquired
How far to Bristol town.

Half an hour's walk for a young man,
By lanes and fields and stiles;
But
you the foot-path do not know,
And if along the road you go,
Why then 'tis three good miles.

The soldier took his knapsack off,
For he was hot and dry;

And out his bread and cheese he took,
And he sat down beside the brook
To dine in company.

Old friend! in faith, the soldier says,
I envy you almost;

My shoulders have been sorely prest,
And I should like to sit and rest
My back against that post.

In such a sweltering day as this,
A knapsack is the devil!
And if on t'other side I sat,
It would not only spoil our chat,
But make me seem uncivil.

The old man laugh'd and moved-I wish
It were a great arm'd-chair!

But this may help a man at need!
And yet it was a cursed deed

That ever brought it there.

The soldier had but just leant back,
And now he half rose up.
There's sure no harm in dining here,
My friend? and yet to be sincere
I should not like to sup.

God rest her! she is still enough
Who sleeps beneath my feet!
The old man cried. No harm I trow
She ever did herself, though now
She lies where four roads meet.

I have past by about that hour
When men are not most brave;
It did not make my heart to fail,
And I have heard the nightingale
Sing sweetly on her grave.

I have past by about that hour
When ghosts their freedom have;
But there was nothing here to fright,
And I have seen the glow-worm's light
Shine on the poor girl's grave.

There's one who like a Christian lies
Beneath the church-tree's shade;
I'd rather go a long mile round
Than pass at evening through the ground
Wherein that man is laid.

There's one who in the churchyard lies
For whom the bell did toll;

He lies in consecrated ground,
But for all the wealth in Bristol town
I would not be with his soul!