THE OLD HERMIT'S STORY.
The storms may roar and the seas may rage,
But here, on this bare, brown rock,
I pray and repent and I tell my beads,
Secure from the hurricane's shock.
For the good, kind God, in pity to me,
Holds out His protecting hand;
And cold nor heat nor storm nor sleet,
Can molest me where I stand.
I robbed the churches and wronged the poor,
And grew richer day by day;
But now on this bare, brown ocean rock,
A heavy penance I pay.
A bloated sinner died unshrived,
And they brought his corse to me—
"Go, dig the grave and bury the dead,
And pray for the soul set free."
I dug the grave, but my hands were stayed
By a solemn and fearful sound,
For the feeble tones of a dead man's voice
Came up from the hollow ground!
The dead monk speaks up from the grave—
Place not that pampered corse on mine,
For my bones are weak and thin;
I cannot bear the heavy weight
Of a body defiled by sin.
I was a meek and holy man;
I fasted and watched and prayed;
A sinner's corse would defile the clay
Where my wasted body is laid.