Page:Hermit of Warkworth.pdf/21

 For me, I loath’d my wretched life

And long to end it thought;

Till time, and books, and holy men

Had better counsels taught.

They rais’d my heart to that pure source

Whence heavenly comfort flows:

They taught me to despise the world,

And calmly bear its woes.

No more the slave of human pride,

Vain hope, and sordid care;

I meekly vowed to spend my life

In penitence and prayer.

The bold Sir Bertram now no more,

Impetuous, haughty, wild;

But poor and humble Benedict,

Now lowly, patient, mild.

My lands I gave to feed the poor,

And sacred altars raise;

And here a lonely Anchorite,

I came to end my days.

This sweet sequester’d vale I chose,

These rocks and hanging grove,

For oft beside that murm’ring stream

My love was wont to rove.

My noble friend approv’d my choice;

This blest retreat he gave;

And here I carv’d her beauteous form,

And scoop’d this holy cave.

Full fifty winters, all forlorn

My life I’ve linger’d here;

And daily o’er this sculptur’d saint

I drop the pensive tear.

And thou, dear brother of my heart,

So faithful and so true,

The sad remembrance of thy fate

Still makes my bosom rue!

Yet not unpitied pass’d my life,

Forsaken or forgot,

The Percy and his noble sons

Would grace my lowly cot.

Oft the great Earl from toils of state,

And cumbrous pomp of power,

Would gladly seek my little cell

To spend the tranquil hour.