“The perusal of these verses, Father, which till now had escaped my observation. The brightness of the moonbeams permitted my reading them; and oh! how I envy the feelings of the writer!”

As he said this, he pointed to a marble tablet fixed against the opposite wall: on it were engraved the following lines.

Inscription in an Hermitage

Whoe’er thou art these lines now reading,

Think not, though from the world receding

I joy my lonely days to lead in

This desert drear,

That with remorse a conscience bleeding

Hath led me here.

No thought of guilt my bosom sours: