A poem on the HERMIT – WILLIAM OF LINDHOLME by Rev. Abraham de la Pryme, F.R.S. :

Within an humble lonesome cell
He free from care and noise does dwell,
No pomp, no pride, no cursed strife.
Disturbs the quiet of his life.
A truss or two of straw's his bed,
His arms, the pillow for his head,
His hunger makes his bread go down,
Altho' it be both stale and brown.
A purling brook that runs hard by
Affords him drink when'eer he's dry
In short, a Garden and a Spring,
Does all life's necessaries bring.
What is't the foolish world calls poor?
He has enough ; he needs no more,
No anxious thoughts corrode his breast^
No passions interrupt his rest.
No chilling fear, no hot desire,
Freezes or sets his blood on fire,
No tempest is engender'd there.
All does serene and calm appear.
And 'tis his comfort when alone,
Seeing no ill, to think of none.
And spends each moment of his breath
In preparations for his death.
And patiently expects his doom,
When fate shall order it to come.
He sees the winged lightning fly
Thro' the tempestuous angry sky,
And unconcerned its thunder hears.
Who knows no guilt can feel no fears.
Source: The Gentleman's Magazine vol. xvii, p. 23, 1747.