The old hermit continues his story—
The voice then ceased, and I heard no more
Its hollow, beseeching tone;
Then I closed the grave, and left the old monk
To rest in his coffin alone.
My curragh sailed on the western main,
And I saw, as I viewed the sea,
A withered old man upon a wave;
And he fixed his eyes on me.
He spoke, and his voice my heart's blood froze,
And I shook with horror and fear:
'Twas the very voice of the dead old monk
That sounded in mine ear!
The dead monk speaks again—
Far from my grave the sinner's corse
In unhallowed clay lies deep;
And now in my coffin, undefiled,
For ever in peace I sleep.
Go, live and pray on the bare, brown rock,
Far out in the stormy sea;
A heavy penance for heavy crimes,
And heaven at last for thee!
The old hermit ends his story—
And here I live from age to age;
I pray and repent and fast;
An otter brings me food each day,
And I hope for heaven at last.
The tempests roar and the billows rage,
But God holds forth His hand,
And cold nor heat nor storm nor sleet,
Can harm me where I stand.