He clasp'd her close and groan'd farewell, And side by side they there are laid, Yet every Murcian maid can tell HENRY THE HERMIT. It was a little island where he dwelt, Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys, Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found The peasants from the shore would bring him food, Nor ever visited the haunts of men, Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived Rose he at midnight from his bed of leaves, One night upon the shore his chapel bell THE CROSS ROADS. THERE was an old man breaking stones He sate him down beside a brook For now it was mid-day. He leant his back against a post, And there were water-cresses growing, A soldier with his knapsack on, But Half an hour's walk for a young man, The soldier took his knapsack off, And out his bread and cheese he took, Old friend! in faith, the soldier says, My shoulders have been sorely prest, In such a sweltering day as this, The old man laugh'd and moved-I wish But this may help a man at need! That ever brought it there. |