'Twas well nigh forty years, since on that stone The goodly friar had fixed his quiet seat;
Which, there to live a holy life, alone, For him the Saviour chose, as harbourage meet.
Pure water was his drink, and, plucked from one, Or the other plant, wild berries were his meat;
And hearty and robust, of ailments clear, The holy man had reached his eightieth year.
