Like another rock in the peaceful nook.

Mosses and lichen had veiled the wall,

Till it hardly seemed like a dwelling at all.

'T was a peaceful home when the days were soft,

And spring in her sweetness crept aloft

From the plains below where her work was done,

And the hills grew green in the warming sun.

And in summer the cell of the hermit seemed

Like part of that heaven of which he dreamed:

For the turf behind those walls of flint

Was sprinkled with flowers of rainbow tint;

And never a sound but the bees' low hum,

As over the blossoms they go and come;

Or—when one listened—the fainter tones

Of a spring that bubbled between the stones.

But dreary it was on a winter's night,

When the snow fell heavy and soft and white.

And at times, when the morn was cold and keen,

The footprints of wolves at his door were seen.

But cold or hunger he hardly felt,

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