Legends of the Saxon Saints Part 5

Because ye willed not peace, behold the sword!

Because ye grudged your foe the Faith of Christ, Nor holp to lead him on the ways of life, For that cause from you by the Saxon hand Your country shall be taken!'

Edwin slain, Far off in exile dwelt his nephews long, Oswald and Oswy. Alba gave them rest, Alba, not yet called Scotland. Ireland's sons, Then Scoti named, had warred on Alba's Picts: Columba's Gospel vanquished either race; Won both to G.o.d. It won not less those youths, In boyhood Oswald, Oswy still a child.

That child was wild and hot, and had his moods, Despotic now, now mirthful. Mild as Spring Was Oswald's soul, majestic and benign; Thoughtful his azure eyes, serene his front; He of his ravished sceptre little recked; The shepherds were his friends; the mountain deer Would pluck the ivy fearless from his hand: In gladness walked he till Northumbria's cry Smote on his heart. 'Why rest I here in peace,'

Thus mused he, 'while my brethren groan afar?'

By night he fled with twelve companion youths, Christians like him, and reached his native land.

Too fallen it seemed to aid him. On he pa.s.sed; The ways were desolate, yet evermore A slender band around his footsteps drew, Less seeking victory than an honest death.

Oft gazed their King upon them; murmured oft, 'Few hands--true hearts!' Sudden aloud he cried, 'Plant here the royal Standard, friends, and hence Let sound the royal trumpet.'

Stern response Reached him ere long: not Mercia's realm alone; Cambria that heard the challenge joined the war: Cambria, upon whose heart the ancestral woe, For ever with the years, like letters graved On growing pines, grew larger and more large;-- To Penda forth she stretched a hand blood-red; Christian with Pagan joined, an unblest bond, A league accursed. The indomitable hate Compelled that league. Still from his cave the Seer Admonished, 'Set the foe against the foe; Slay last the conqueror!' and from rock and hill The Bard cried, 'Vengeance!' In the bardic clan That hatred of their country's ancient bane Lived like a faith. One night it chanced a tarn, Secreted high 'mid cold and moonless hills, Bursting its bank down burst. That valley's Bard Clomb to the church-roof from his buried house: Thence rang his song,--'twas 'Vengeance!--Vengeance' still!

That torrent reached the roof: he clomb the tower: The torrent mounted: on the bleak hill-side All night the dalesmen, wailing o'er their drowned, Amid the roar of winds and downward rocks, Still heard that war-song, 'Vengeance! Blood for blood!'

At last the tower fell flat, and winter morn Shone on the waters only.

Three short weeks Dinned with alarums pa.s.sed; in Mercia still Lay Penda, sickness-struck, when, face to face, The Cambrian host and Oswald's little band Exulting met at sunset near a height Then 'Heaven-Field' named, but later 'Oswald's Field,'

Backed by that Wall the Roman built of old His fence from sea to sea. There Oswald stood: There raised with hands outstretched a mighty Cross, Strong-based, and deep in earth: his comrades twelve Around it heaped the soil, while priests white-stoled Chanted 'Vexilla Regis.' Work and rite Complete, the King knelt down and made his prayer: 'True G.o.d Eternal, look upon this Cross, The sole now standing on Northumbria's breast, And help Thine own, though few, who trust in Thee!'

That night before his tent the wanderer sate Listening the circling sentinel, or bay Of wakeful hound remote, or downward course Of streams from moorland hills. Before his view His whole life rose: his father's angry brow; The eyes all-wondrous, and all-tender hand Of her, his mother, striving evermore To keep betwixt her husband and her sire Unbroken bond: his exiled days returned, The kind that pitied them, the rude that jeered; Lastly, that monk whose boast was evermore Columba of Iona, Columkille; That monk who made him Christian. 'Come what may,'

Thus Oswald mused, 'I have not lived in vain: Lose I or win, a kingdom there remains; Though not on earth!' A tear the vision dimmed As thus he closed, 'My mother will be there!'

Then sank his lids in slumber.

On his sleep-- Was this indeed but dream?--a glory brake: Columba, dear to Oswald from his youth, Columba, clad in glory as the sun, Beside him stood, and spake: 'Be strong! On earth There lives not who can guess the might of prayer: What then is prayer on high?' The saintly Shape Heavenward his hands upraised, while rose to heaven His stature, towering ever high and higher, Warlike and priestly both. As morning cloud Blown by a mighty wind his robe ran forth, Then stood, a golden wall that severance made 'Twixt Oswald's band and that unnumbered host.

Again he spake, 'Put on thee heart of man And fight: though few, thy warriors shall not die In darkness of an unbelieving land, But live, and live to G.o.d.' The vision pa.s.sed: By Oswald's seat his warriors stood and cried, 'The Bull-horn! Hark!' The monarch told them all: They answered, 'Let thy G.o.d sustain thy throne:-- Thenceforth our G.o.d is He.'

The sun uprose: Ere long the battle joined. Three dreadful hours Doubtful the issue hung. Fierce Cambria's sons With chief and clan, with harper and with harp, Though terrible yet mirthful in their mood, Rushed to their sport. Who mocked their hope that day?

Did Angels help the just? Their falling blood, Say, leaped it up once more, each drop a man Their phalanx to replenish? Backward driven, Again that mult.i.tudinous foe returned With clangour dire; futile, again fell back Down dashed, like hailstone showers from palace halls Where princes feast secure. Astonishment Smote them at last. Through all those serried ranks, Compact so late, sudden confusions ran Like lines divergent through a film of ice Stamped on by armed heel, or rifts on plains Prescient of earthquake underground. Their chiefs Sounded the charge;--in vain: Distrust, Dismay, Ill G.o.ds, the darkness lorded of that hour: Panic to madness turned. Cadwallon sole From squadron on to squadron speeding still As on a winged steed--his snow-white hair Behind him blown--a mace in either hand-- Stayed while he might the inevitable rout; Then sought his death, and found. Some fated Power Mightier than man's that hour dragged back his hosts Against their will and his; as when the moon, Shrouded herself, drags back the great sea-tides That needs must follow her receding wheels Though wind and wave gainsay them, breakers wan Thundering indignant down nocturnal sh.o.r.es, And city-br.i.m.m.i.n.g floods against their will Down drawn to river-mouths.

In after days Who scaped made oath that in the midmost fight The green earth sickened with a brazen glare While darkness held the skies. They saw besides On Heaven-Field height a Cross, and, at its foot, A sworded warrior vested like a priest, Who still in stature high and higher towered As raged the battle. Higher far that Cross Above him rose, barring with black the stars That bickered through the eclipse's noonday night, And ever from its bleeding arms sent forth Thick-volleyed lightnings, azure fork and flame, Through all that headlong host.

At eventide, Where thickest fight had mingled, Oswald stood With raiment red as his who treads alone The wine-vat when the grapes are all pressed out, Yet scathless and untouched. His mother's smile Was radiant on his pure and youthful face, Joyous, but not exulting. At his foot Cadwallon lay, with four-score winters white, A threatening corse: not death itself could shake The mace from either rigid hand close-clenched, Or smooth his brow. Above him Oswald bent, Then spake: 'He also loved his native land: Bear him with honour hence to hills of Wales, And lay him with his Fathers.'

Thus was raised In righteousness King Oswald's throne. But he, Mindful in victory of Columba's word, Thus mused, 'The Master is as he that serves: How shall I serve this people?' O'er the waves Then sent he of his Twelve the eldest three: They to Iona sailed, and standing there In full a.s.sembly of Iona's saints Addressed them: 'To Columba Oswald thus: Let him that propped the King on Heaven-Field's height, That held the battle-balance high that day, Unite my realm to Christ!' The monks replied, 'Such mission should be Aidan's.' Aidan went.

With gladness Oswald met him, and with gifts: But Aidan said, 'Entreat me not to dwell There where Paulinus dwelt, the man of G.o.d, In thy chief city, York. Thy race is fierce; And meekness only can subdue the proud: Thy people first I want;--through them the great.

Grant me some island 'mid the raging main, Humble and low, not cheered by smiling meads, Where with my brethren I may watch with G.o.d, Henceforth my only aid.' Oswald replied, 'Let Lindisfarne be thine. That rock-based keep Built by my grandsire Ida o'er it peers: I shall be near thee though I see thee not.'

Then Aidan on the Isle of Lindisfarne Upreared that monastery which ruled in Christ So long the Northern realm. A plain rock-girt Level it lies and low: nor flower nor fruit Gladdens its margin: thin its sod, and bleak: Twice, day by day, the salt sea hems it round: And twice a day the melancholy sands, O'er-wailed by sea-bird, and with sea-weed strewn, Replace the lonely ocean. Sacred Isles That westward, eastward, guard the imperial realm, Iona! Lindisfarne! With you compared How poor that lilied Delos of old Greece, For all its laurel bowers and nightingales!

England's great hands were ye to G.o.d forth stretched Through adverse climes, beneath the Boreal star, That took His Stigmata. In sanct.i.ty Were her foundations laid. Her later crowns Of Freedom first, of Science, and of Song She owes them all to you!

In Lindisfarne Aidan, and his, rejoicing dwelt with G.o.d: Amid the winter storm their anthems rose; And from their sanctuary lamp the gleam Far shone from wave to wave. On starless nights From Bamborough's turret Oswald watched it long, Before his cas.e.m.e.nt kneeling--first alone, Companioned later. Kineburga there Beside him knelt ere long, his tender bride, Young, beauteous, modest, n.o.ble. 'Not for them,'

Thus spake the newly wedded, 'not for them, For man's sake severed from the world of men, In ceaseless vigil warring upon sin, Ah, not for them the flower of life, the harp, High feast, or bridal torch!' Purer perchance _Their_ bridal torch burned on because from far That sacred lamp had met its earliest beam!

There Aidan lived, and wafted, issuing thence, O'er wilds Bernician and fierce battle-fields The strength majestic of his still retreat, The puissance of a soul whose home was G.o.d.

'What man is this,' the warriors asked, 'that moves Unarmed among us; lifts his crucifix, And says, "Ye swords, lie p.r.o.ne"?' The revelling crew Rose from their cups: 'He preaches abstinence: Behold, the man is mortified himself: The moonlight of his watchings and his fasts He carries on his face.' When Princes forced Largess upon him, he replied, 'I want Not yours but you;' and with their gifts redeemed The orphan slave. The poor were as his children: He to the beggar stinted not his hand Nor, giving, said 'Be brief.' Such seed bare fruit:-- G.o.d in the dark, primeval woods had reared A race whose fierceness had its touch of ruth; Brave, cordial, chaste, and simple. Reverence That race preserved: Reverence advanced to Love: The ties of life it honoured: lit from heaven They wore a meaning new. The Faith of Christ Banished the b.e.s.t.i.a.l from the heart of man; Restored the Hope divine.

In all his toils Oswald with Aidan walked. Impartial law, Not licence, not despotic favour, stands To Truth auxiliar true. Such laws were his: Yet not through such alone he worked for Truth; Function he claimed more high. When Aidan preached; In forest depths when thousands girt him round; When countless eyes, a clinging weight, were bent Upon his lips--all knew they spake from G.o.d,-- The King, with monks from Ireland knit of old, Beside the Bishop stood; each word he spake Changed to the Saxon tongue.

Earth were not earth, If reign like Oswald's lasted. Penda lived; Nor e'er from Oswald turned for eight long years An eye like some swart planet feared of man, Omen of wars or plague. Cadwallon's fate, Ally ill-starred, that fought without his aid, O'er-flushed old hatred with a fiery shame: Cadwallon nightly frowned above his dreams.

The tyrant watched his time. At Maserfield The armies met. There on Northumbria's day Settled what seemed, yet was not, endless night There Faith and Virtue, deathless, seemed to die: There holy Oswald fell. For G.o.d he fought, Fought for his country. Walled with lances round, A sheaf of arrows quivering in his breast, One moment yet he stood. 'Preserve,' he cried, 'My country, G.o.d!' then added, gazing round, 'And these my soldiers: make their spirits thine!'

Thus perished good King Oswald, King and Saint; Saint by acclaim of nations canonised Ere yet the Church had spoken. Year by year The Hexham monks to Heaven-Field, where of old Had stood that 'Cross which conquered,' made repair, With chanted psalm; and pilgrims daily prayed Where died the just and true. Not vain their vows: In righteousness foundations had been laid: The earthquake reached them not. The Dane pa.s.sed by High up the Norman glittered: but beneath, On Faith profounder based, and gentler Law The Saxon realm lived on.

But never more From Heaven-Field's wreck the Briton raised his head Britain thenceforth was England. His the right; The land was his of old; and in G.o.d's House His of the island races stood first-born: Not less he sinned through hate, esteeming more Memories of wrong than forward-looking hopes And triumphs of the Truth. For that cause G.o.d His face in blessing to the younger turned, More honouring Pagans who in ignorance erred, Than those who, taught of G.o.d, concealed their gift, Divorcing Faith from Love. Natheless they clung, That remnant spared, to rocky hills of Wales With eagle clutch, whoe'er in England ruled, From Horsa's day to Edward's. Centuries eight In gorge or vale sea-lulled they held their own, By native monarchs swayed, while native harps Rang out from native cliffs defiant song Wild as their singing pines. Heroic Land!

Freedom was thine; the torrent's plunge; the peak; The pale mist past it borne! Heroic Race!

Caractacus was thine, and Galgacus, And Boadicea, greater by her wrongs Than by her lineage. Battle-axe of thine Rang loud and long on Roman helms ere yet Hengist had trod the island. Thine that King World-famed, who led to fifty war-fields forth 'Gainst Saxon hosts his sinewy, long-haired race Unmailed, yet victory-crowned; that King who left Tintagel, Camelot, and Lyonnesse, Immortal names, though wild as elfin notes From phantom rocks echoed in fairy land-- Great Arthur! Year by year his deeds were sung, While he in Glas...o...b..ry's cloister slept, First by the race he died for, next by those Their children, exiles in Armoric Gaul, By Europe's minstrels then, from age to age; But ne'er by ampler voice, or richlier toned Than England lists to-day. Race once of Saints!

Thine were they, Ninian thine and Kentigern, Iltud and Beino, yea and David's self, Thy crown of Saints, and Winifred, their flower, Who fills her well with healing virtue still.

Cadoc was thine, who to his Cambrian throne Preferred that western convent at Lismore, Yet taught the British Princes thus to sing: 'None loveth Song that loves not Light and Truth: None loveth Light and Truth that loves not Justice: None loveth Justice if he loves not G.o.d: None loveth G.o.d that lives not blest and great.'

_CEADMON THE COWHERD, THE FIRST ENGLISH POET._

Ceadmon, a cowherd, being at a feast, declares when the harp reaches him, that he cannot sing. As he sleeps, a divine Voice commands him to sing. He obeys, and the gift of song is imparted to him. Hilda, Abbess of Whitby, enrolls him among her monks; and in later years he sings the revolt of the Fallen Angels, and many Christian mysteries, thus becoming the first English poet.

Alone upon the pleasant bank of Esk Ceadmon the Cowherd stood. The sinking sun Reddened the bay, and fired the river-bank, And flamed upon the ruddy herds that strayed Along the marge, clear-imaged. None was nigh: For that cause spake the Cowherd, 'Praise to G.o.d!

He made the worlds; and now, by Hilda's hand Planteth a crown on Whitby's holy crest: Daily her convent towers more high aspire: Daily ascend her Vespers. Hark that strain!

He stood and listened. Soon the flame-touched herds Sent forth their lowings, and the cliffs replied, And Ceadmon thus resumed: 'The music note Rings through their lowings dull, though heard by few!

Poor kine, ye do your best! Ye know not G.o.d, Yet man, his likeness, unto you is G.o.d, And him ye worship with obedience sage, A grateful, sober, much-enduring race That o'er the vernal clover sigh for joy, With winter snows contend not. Patient kine, What thought is yours, deep-musing? Haply this, "G.o.d's help! how narrow are our thoughts, and few!

Not so the thoughts of that slight human child Who daily drives us with her blossomed rod From lowland valleys to the pails long-ranged!"

Take comfort, kine! G.o.d also made your race!

If praise from man surceased, from your broad chests That G.o.d would perfect praise, and, when ye died, Resound it from yon rocks that gird the bay: G.o.d knoweth all things. Let that thought suffice!'

Thus spake the ruler of the deep-mouthed kine: They were not his; the man and they alike A neighbour's wealth. He was contented thus: Humble he was in station, meek of soul, Unlettered, yet heart-wise. His face was pale; Stately his frame, though slightly bent by age: Slow were his eyes, and slow his speech, and slow His musing step; and slow his hand to wrath; A ma.s.sive hand, but soft, that many a time Had succoured man and woman, child and beast, And yet could fiercely grasp the sword. At times As mightily it clutched his ashen goad When like an eagle on him swooped some thought: Then stood he as in dream, his pallid front Brightening like eastern sea-cliffs when a moon Unrisen is near its rising.

Round the bay Meantime, as twilight deepened, many a fire Up-sprang, and horns were heard. Around the steep With bannered pomp and many a tossing plume Advancing slow a cavalcade made way.

Oswy, Northumbria's king, the foremost rode, Oswy triumphant o'er the Mercian host, Invoking favour on his sceptre new; With him an Anglian prince, student long time In Bangor of the Irish, and a monk Of Frankish race far wandering from the Marne: They came to look on Hilda, hear her words Of far-famed wisdom on the Interior Life; For Hilda thus discoursed: 'True life of man Is life within: inward immeasurably The being winds of all who walk the earth; But he whom sense hath blinded nothing knows Of that wide greatness: like a boy is he, A boy that clambers round some castle's wall In search of nests, the outward wall of seven, Yet nothing knows of those great courts within, The hall where princes banquet, or the bower Where royal maids discourse with lyre and lute, Much less its central church, and sacred shrine Wherein G.o.d dwells alone.' Thus Hilda spake; And they that gazed upon her widening eyes Low whispered, each to each, 'She speaks of things Which she hath seen and known.'

On Whitby's height The royal feast was holden: far below, A noisier revel dinned the sh.o.r.e; therein The humbler guests made banquet. Many a tent Gleamed on the yellow sands by ripples kissed; And many a savoury dish sent up its steam; The farmer from the field had brought his calf; Fishers that increase scaled which green-gulfed seas From womb crystalline, teeming, yield to man; And Jock, the woodsman, from his oaken glades The tall stag, arrow-pierced. In gay attire Now green, now crimson, matron sat and maid: Each had her due: the elder, reverence most, The lovelier that and love. Beside the board The beggar lacked not place.

When hunger's rage, Sharpened by fresh sea-air, was quelled, the jest Succeeded, and the tale of foreign lands; Yet, boast who might of distant chief renowned, His battle-axe, or fist that felled an ox, The Anglian's answer was 'our Hilda' still: 'Is not her prayer trenchant as sworded hosts?

Her insight more than wisdom of the seers?

What birth like hers ill.u.s.trious? Edwin's self, Deira's exile, next Northumbria's king, Her kinsman was. Together bowed they not When he of holy hand, missioned from Rome, Paulinus, o'er them poured the absolving wave And joined to Christ? Kingliest was she, that maid Who spurned earth-crowns!' More late the miller rose-- He ruled the feast, the miller old, yet blithe-- And cried, 'A song!' So song succeeded song, For each man knew that time to chant his stave, But no man yet sang n.o.bly. Last the harp Made way to Ceadmon, lowest at the board: He pushed it back, answering, 'I cannot sing:'

The rest around him flocked with clamour, 'Sing!'

And one among them, voluble and small, Shot out a splenetic speech: 'This lord of kine, Our herdsman, grows to ox! Behold, his eyes Move slow, like eyes of oxen!'

Slowly rose Ceadmon, and spake: 'I note full oft young men Quick-eyed, but small-eyed, darting glances round Now here, now there, like glance of some poor bird, That light on all things and can rest on none: As ready are they with their tongues as eyes; But all their songs are chirpings backward blown On winds that sing G.o.d's song, by them unheard: My oxen wait my service: I depart.'

Then strode he to his cow-house in the mead, Displeased though meek, and muttered, 'Slow of eye!

My kine are slow: if rapid I, my hand Might tend them worse.' Hearing his step, the kine Turned round their horned fronts; and angry thoughts Went from him as a vapour. Straw he brought, And strewed their beds; and they, contented well, Laid down ere long their great bulks, breathing deep Amid the glimmering moonlight. He, with head Propped on a favourite heifer's snowy flank, Rested, his deer-skin o'er him drawn. Hard days Bring slumber soon. His latest thought was this: 'Though witless things we are, my kine and I, Yet G.o.d it was who made us.'

As he slept, Beside him stood a Man Divine, and spake: 'Ceadmon, arise, and sing,' Ceadmon replied, 'My Lord, I cannot sing, and for that cause Forth from the revel came I. Once, in youth, I willed to sing the bright face of a maid, And failed, and once a gold-faced harvest-field, And failed, and once the flame-eyed face of war, And failed again.' To him the Man Divine, 'Those themes were earthly. Sing!' And Ceadmon said, 'What shall I sing, my Lord?' Then answer came, 'Ceadmon, stand up, and sing thy song of G.o.d.'

At once obedient, Ceadmon rose, and sang; And help was with him from great thoughts of old Yearly within his silent nature stored, That swelled, collecting like a flood which bursts In spring its icy bar. The Lord of all He sang; that G.o.d beneath whose hand eterne, Then when He willed forth-stretched athwart the abyss, Creation like a fiery chariot ran, Forth-borne on wheels of ever-living stars: Him first he sang. The builder, here below, From fair foundations rears at last the roof; But Song, a child of heaven, begins with heaven, The archetype divine, and end of all; More late descends to earth. He sang that hymn, 'Let there be light, and there was light;' and lo!

On the void deep came down the seal of G.o.d And stamped immortal form. Clear laughed the skies; From circ.u.mambient deeps the strong earth brake, Both continent and isle; while downward rolled The sea-surge summoned to his home remote.

Then came a second vision to the man There standing 'mid his oxen. Darkness sweet, He sang, of pleasant frondage clothed the vales, And purple glooms ambrosial cast from hills Now by the sun deserted, which the moon, A glory new-created in her place, Silvered with virgin beam, while sang the bird Her first of love-songs on the branch first-flower'd-- Not yet the lion stalked. And Ceadmon sang O'er-awed, the Father of all humankind Standing in garden planted by G.o.d's hand, And girt by murmurs of the rivers four, Between the trees of Knowledge and of Life, With eastward face. In worship mute of G.o.d, Eden's Contemplative he stood that hour, Not her Ascetic, since, where sin is none, No need for spirit severe.

And Ceadmon sang G.o.d's Daughter, Adam's Sister, Child, and Bride, Our Mother Eve. Lit by the matin star, That nearer drew to earth and brighter flashed To meet her gaze, that snowy Innocence Stood up with queenly port: she turned; she saw Earth's King, mankind's great Father: taught by G.o.d, Immaculate, unastonished, undismayed, In love and reverence to her Lord she drew, And, kneeling, kissed his hand: and Adam laid That hand, made holier, on that kneeler's head, And spake; 'For this shall man his parents leave, And to his wife cleave fast.'

When Ceadmon ceased, Thus spake the Man Divine: 'At break of day Seek out some prudent man, and say that G.o.d Hath loosed thy tongue; nor hide henceforth thy gift.'

Then Ceadmon turned, and slept among his kine Dreamless. Ere dawn he stood upon the sh.o.r.e In doubt: but when at last o'er eastern seas The sun, long wished for, like a G.o.d upsprang, Once more he found G.o.d's song upon his mouth Murmuring high joy; and sought an ancient friend, And told him all the vision. At the word He to the Abbess with the tidings sped, And she made answer, 'Bring me Ceadmon here.'

Then clomb the pair that sea-beat mount of G.o.d Fanned by sea-gale, nor trod, as others used, The curving way, but faced the abrupt ascent, And halted not, so worked in both her will, Till now between the unfinished towers they stood Panting and spent. The portals open stood: Ceadmon pa.s.sed in alone. Nor ivory decked, Nor gold, the walls. That convent was a keep Strong 'gainst invading storm or demon hosts, And naked as the rock whereon it stood, Yet, as a church, august. Dark, high-arched roofs Slowly let go the distant hymn. Each cell Cinctured its statued saint, the peace of G.o.d On every stony face. Like caverned grot Far off the western window frowned: beyond, Close by, there shook an autumn-blazoned tree: No need for gems beside of storied gla.s.s.

He entered last that hall where Hilda sat Begirt with a great company, the chiefs Far ranged from end to end. Three stalls, cross-crowned, Stood side by side, the midmost hers. The years Had laid upon her brows a hand serene; There left alone a blessing. Levelled eyes Sable, and keen, with meditative might Conjoined the instinct and the claim to rule: Firm were her lips and rigid. At her right Sat Finan, Aidan's successor, with head Snow-white, and beard that rolled adown a breast Never by mortal pa.s.sion heaved in storm, A cloister of majestic thoughts that walked, Humbly with G.o.d. High in the left-hand stall Oswy was throned, a man in prime, with brow Less youthful than his years. Exile long past, Or deepening thought of one disastrous deed, Had left a shadow in his eyes. The strength Of pa.s.sion held in check looked lordly forth From head and hand: tawny his beard; his hair Thick-curled and dense. Alert the monarch sat Half turned, like one on horseback set that hears, And he alone, the advancing trump of war.

Down the long gallery strangers thronged in ma.s.s, Dane or Norwegian, huge of arm through weight Of billows oar-subdued, with stormy looks Wild as their waves and crags; Southerns keen-browed; Pure Saxon youths, fair-fronted, with mild eyes, These less than others strove for n.o.bler place, And Pilgrim travel-worn. Behind the rest, And higher-ranged in marble-arched arcade, Sat Hilda's sisterhood. Cl.u.s.tering they shone, White-veiled, and pale of face, and still and meek, An inly-bending curve, like some young moon Whose crescent glitters o'er a dusky strait.

In front were monks dark-stoled: for Hilda ruled, Though feminine, two houses, one of men: Upon two chasm-divided rocks they stood, To various service vowed, though single Faith:-- Not ever, save at rarest festival, Their holy inmates met.

'Is this the man Favoured, though late, with gift of song?' thus spake Hilda with gracious smile. Severer then She added: 'Son, the commonest gifts of G.o.d He counts His best, and oft temptation blends With ampler boon. Yet sing! That G.o.d who lifts The violet from the gra.s.s could draw not less Song from the stone hard by. That strain thou sang'st, Once more rehea.r.s.e it.'

Ceadmon from his knees Arose and stood. With princely instinct first The strong man to the Abbess bowed, and next To that great twain, the bishop and the king, Last to that stately concourse each side ranged Down the long hall; then, dubious, answered thus: 'Great Mother, if that G.o.d who sent the song Vouchsafe me to recall it, I will sing; But I mis...o...b.. it lost.' Slowly his face Down-drooped, and all his body forward bent While brooding memory, step by step, retraced Its backward way. Vainly long time it sought The starting-point. Then Ceadmon's large, soft hands Opening and closing worked; for wont were they, In musings when he stood, to clasp his goad, And plant its point far from him, thereupon Propping his stalwart weight. Customed support Now finding not, unwittingly those hands Reached forth, and on Saint Finan's crosier-staff Settling, withdrew it from the old bishop's grasp; And Ceadmon leant thereon, while pa.s.sed a smile From chief to chief to see earth's meekest man The spiritual sceptre claim of Lindisfarne.

They smiled; he triumphed: soon the Cowherd found That first fair corner-stone of all his song; Thence rose the fabric heavenward. Lifting hands, Once more his lordly music he rehea.r.s.ed, The void abyss at G.o.d's command forth-flinging Creation like a Thought: where night had reigned, The universe of G.o.d.

The singing stars Which with the Angels sang when earth was made Sang in his song. From highest shrill of lark To ocean's moaning under cliffs low-browed, And roar of pine-woods on the storm-swept hills, No tone was wanting; while to them that heard Strange images looked forth of worlds new-born, Fair, phantom mountains, and, with forests plumed Heaven-topping headlands, for the first time gla.s.sed In waters ever calm. O'er sapphire seas Green islands laughed. Fairer, the wide earth's flower, Eden, on airs unshaken yet by sighs From bosom still inviolate forth poured Immortal sweets that sense to spirit turned.

In part those n.o.ble listeners _made_ that song!

Their flashing eyes, their hands, their heaving b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Tumult self-stilled, and mute, expectant trance, 'Twas these that gave their bard his twofold might-- That might denied to poets later born Who, singing to soft brains and hearts ice-hard, Applauded or contemned, alike roll round A vainly-seeking eye, and, famished, drop A hand clay-cold upon the unechoing sh.e.l.l, Missing their inspiration's human half.

Thus Ceadmon sang, and ceased. Silent awhile The concourse stood, for all had risen, as though Waiting from heaven its echo. Each on each Gazed hard and caught his hands. Fiercely ere long Their gratulating shout aloft had leaped But Hilda laid her finger on her lip, Or provident lest praise might stain the pure, Or deeming song a gift too high for praise.

She spake: 'Through help of G.o.d thy song is sound: Now hear His Holy Word, and shape therefrom A second hymn, and worthier than the first.'

She spake, and Finan standing bent his head Above the sacred tome in reverence stayed Upon his kneeling deacon's hands and brow, And sweetly sang five verses, thus beginning, '_c.u.m esset desponsata_,' and was still; And next rehea.r.s.ed them in the Anglian tongue: Then Ceadmon took G.o.d's Word into his heart, And ruminating stood, as when the kine, Their flowery pasture ended, ruminate; And was a man in thought. At last the light Shone from his dubious countenance, and he spake: 'Great Mother, lo! I saw a second Song!

T'wards me it sailed; but with averted face, And borne on shifting winds. A man am I Sluggish and slow, that needs must muse and brood; Therefore those verses till the sun goes down Will I revolve. If song from G.o.d be mine Expect me here at morn.'

The morrow morn In that high presence Ceadmon stood and sang A second song, and worthier than his first; And Hilda said, 'From G.o.d it came, not man; Thou therefore live a monk among my monks, And sing to G.o.d.' Doubtful he stood--'From youth My place hath been with kine; their ways I know, And how to cure their griefs,' Smiling she spake, 'Our convent hath its meads, and kine; with these Consort each morn: at noon to us return.'

Then Ceadmon knelt, and bowed, and said, 'So be it:'