'Then let us wait that hour,' and laid him down

With those kine-tending and harp-mastering hands
Crossed on his breast, and slept.

Meanwhile the monks,

The lights removed in reverence of his sleep,
Sat mute nor stirred such time as in the Mass
Between Orate Fratres' glides away,

And 'Hoc est Corpus Meum. Northward far
The great deep, seldom heard so distant, roared
Round those wild rocks half way to Bamborough

Head ;

For now the mightiest spring-tide of the year,

Following the magic of a maiden moon,

Approached its height. Nearer, that sea which sobbed

In many a cave by Whitby's winding coast,
Or died in peace on many a sandy bar
From river-mouth to river-mouth outspread,
They heard, and mused upon eternity
That circles human life. Gradual arose

A softer strain and sweeter, making way
O'er that sea-murmur hoarse; and they were ware
That in the black far-shadowing church whose bulk
Up-towered between them and the moon, the monks
Their matins had begun. A little sigh

That moment reached them from the central gloom
Guarding the sleeper's bed; a second sigh

Succeeded: neither seemed the sigh of pain :

And some one said, ' He wakens.' Large and bright
Over the church-roof sudden rushed the moon,
And smote the cross above that sleeper's couch,
And smote that sleeper's face. The smile thereon
Was calmer than the smile of life. Thus died
Ceadmon, the earliest bard of English song.

142

KING OSWY OF NORTHUMBRIA, OR
THE WIFE'S VICTORY.

Oswy, King of Bernicia, being at war with his kinsman Oswin, slays him unarmed. He refuses to repent of this sin; yet at last, subdued by the penitence, humility, and charity of Eanfleda, his wife, repents likewise, and builds a monastery over the grave of Oswin. Afterwards he becomes a great warrior and dies a saint.

YOUNG, beauteous, brave-the bravest of the brave-
Who loved not Oswin? All that saw him loved :
Aidan loved most, monk of Iona's Isle,
Northumbria's bishop next, from Lindisfarne
Ruling in things divine. One inorn it chanced
That Oswin, noting how with staff in hand
Old Aidan roamed his spiritual realm, footbare,
Wading deep stream, and piercing thorny brake,
Sent him a horse-his best. The Saint was pleased;
But, onward while he rode, and, musing, smiled
To think of these his honours in old age,

A beggar claimed his alms. 'Gold have I none,'

Aidan replied; this horse be thine!' The King,

Hearing the tale, was grieved.

Keep I, my lord,

No meaner horses fit for beggar's use

That thus my best should seem a thing of naught?' The Saint made answer: 'Beggar's use, my King! What was that horse? The foal of some poor mare! The least of men-the sinner-is God's child!'

Then dropped the King on both his knees, and cried : 'Father, forgive me!' As they sat at meat

Oswin was mirthful, and at jest and tale

His hungry thanes laughed loud. But great, slow

tears

In silence trickled down old Aidan's face :

These all men marked; yet no man question made.
At last to one beside him Aidan spake

In Irish tongue, unknown to all save them,
'God will not leave such meekness long on earth.'

Who loved not Oswin? Not alone his realm,
Deira, loved him, but Bernician lords
Whose monarch, Oswy, was a man of storms,
Fierce King albeit in youth baptized to Christ;
At heart half pagan. Swift as northern cloud
Through summer skies, he swept with all his host
Down on the rival kingdom. Face to face

'The armies stood. But Oswin, when he marked

His own a little flock 'mid countless wolves,

Addressed them thus: Why perish, friends, for me?

From exile came I: for my people's sake

To exile I return, or gladlier die :

Depart in peace.' He rode to Gilling Tower;
And waited there his fate. Thither next day
King Oswy marched, and slew him.

Twelve days passed ;

Then Aidan, while through green Northumbria's woods
Pensive he paced, steadying his doubtful steps,
Felt death approaching. Giving thanks to God,
The old man laid him by a church half raised
Amid great oaks and yews, and, leaning there
His head against the buttress, passed to God.
They made their bishop's grave at Lindisfarne ;
But Oswin rested at the mouth of Tyne
Within a wave-girt, granite promontory
Where sea and river meet. For many an age

The pilgrim from far countries came in faith
To that still shrine-they called it 'Oswin's Peace,'-
Thither the outcast fled for sanctuary:

The sick man there found health.

Thus Oswin lived,

Though dead, a benediction in the land.

What gentlest form kneels on the rain-washed

ground