Me bercera pareil au bruit des mers lointaines.
(Sully Prudhomme.)
Good or bad, the whole race (still surviving in the East) disappeared in England at the Reformation, leaving but a memory, and surviving only in poetry:
It is the Hermit good!
He singeth loud his godly hymns
That he makes in the wood.
He’ll shrive my soul, he’ll wash away
The Albatross’s blood.
