Page:Poems - Southey (1799) volume 2.djvu/192

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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
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