Bede issues forth from Jarrow, and visiting certain villagers in a wood, expounds to them the Beatitudes of Our Lord. Wherever he goes he seeks records of past times, and promises in return that he will bequeath to his fellow-countrymen translations from divers Sacred Scriptures, and likewise a history of God's Church in their land. Having returned to his monastery, he dies a most happy death on the feast of the Ascension, while finishing his translation of St. John's gospel.
Bede issues forth from Jarrow, and visiting certain villagers in a wood, expounds to them the Beatitudes of Our Lord. Wherever he goes he seeks records of past times, and promises in return that he will bequeath to his fellow-countrymen translations from divers Sacred Scriptures, and likewise a history of God's Church in their land. Having returned to his monastery, he dies a most happy death on the feast of the Ascension, while finishing his translation of St. John's gospel.
The ending of the Book of Saxon Saints.With one lay-brother only blessed Bede,In after times 'The Venerable' named,Passed from his convent, Jarrow. Where the TyneBlends with the sea, all beautiful it stood,Bathed in the sunrise. At the mouth of WearA second convent, Wearmouth, rose. That hourThe self-same matin splendour gilt them both;And in some speech of mingling lights, not words,Both sisters praised their God.'Apart, yet joined'—So mused the old man gazing on the twain:Then onward paced, with head above his book,Murmuring his office. Algar walked behind,A youth of twenty years, with tonsured head,And face, though young, forlorn. An hour had passed;They reached a craggy height; and looking back,Beheld once more beyond the forest roofThose two fair convents glittering—at their feetThose two clear rivers winding! Bound by rule,Again the monk addressed him to his book;Lection and psalm recited, thus he spake:'Why placed our holy Founder thus so nearHis convents? Why, albeit a single rule,At last a single hand, had sway o'er both,Placed them at distance? Hard it were to guess:I know but this, that severance here on earthIs strangely linked with union of the heart,Union with severance. Thou hast lost, young friend,But lately lost thy boyhood's dearest mate,Thine earliest friend, a brother of thy heart,True Christian soul though dwelling in the world;Fear not such severance can extinguish loveHere, or hereafter! He whom most I lovedWas severed from me by the tract of years:A child of nine years old was I, when firstJarrow received me: pestilence ere longSwept from that house her monks, save one alone,Ceolfrid, then its abbot. Man and child,We two the lonely cloisters paced; we twoTogether chaunted in the desolate church:I could not guess his thoughts; to him my waysWere doubtless as the ways of some sick birdWatched by a child. Not less I loved him well:Me too he somewhat loved. Beneath one roofWe dwelt—and yet how severed! Save in God,What know men, one of other? Here on earth,Perhaps 'tis wiser to be kind to allIn large goodwill of helpful love, yet free,Than link to one our heart—Poor youth! that love which walks in narrow waysIs tragic love, be sure.'With gentle faceThe novice spake his gratitude. Once more,His hand upon the shoulder of the youth,(For now they mounted slow a bosky dell)The old man spake—yet not to him—in voiceScarce louder than the murmuring pines close by;For, by his being's law he seemed, like them,At times when pensive memories in him stirred,Vocal not less than visible: 'How greatWas he, our Founder! In that ample brow,What brooding weight of genius! In his eye,How strangely was the pathos edged with light!How oft, his churches roaming, flashed its beamFrom pillar on to pillar, resting longOn carven imagery of flower or fruit,Or deep-dyed window whence the heavenly choirsGave joy to men below! With what a zealHe drew the cunningest craftsmen from all climesTo express his thoughts in form; while yet his hand,Like meanest hand among us, patient toiledIn garden and in bakehouse, threshed the corn,Or drave the calves to milk-pail! Earthly ruleHad proved to him a weight intolerable;In spiritual beauty, there and there alone,Our Bennett Biscop found his native haunt,The lucent planet of his soul's repose:And yet—O wondrous might of human love—One was there, one, to whom his heart was knit,Siegfried, in all unlike him save in worth.His was plain purpose, rectitude unwarped,Industry, foresight. On his friend's behalfHe ruled long years those beauteous convents twain,Yet knew not they were beauteous! An abyssSevered in spirit those in heart so near:More late exterior severance came: three yearsIn cells remote they dwelt, by sickness chained:But once they met—to die. I see them still:The monks had laid them on a single bed;Weeping, they turned them later each to each:I saw the snowy tresses softly mix;I saw the faded lips draw near and meet;Thus gently interwreathed I saw them die—Strange strength of human love!'Still walked they on:As high the sun ascended, woodlands greenShivered all golden; and the old man's heartBrightened like them. His ever active mindInquisitive took note of all it saw;And as some youth enamoured lifts a tressOf her he loves, and wonders, so the monk,Well loving Nature, loved her in detail,Now pleased with nestling bird, anon with flower,Now noting how the beech from dewy sheathPushed forth its silken leaflets fringed with down,Exulting next because from sprays of limeThe little fledgeling leaves, like creatures winged,Brake from their ruddy shells. Jesting, he cried:'Algar! but hear those birds! Men say they singTo fire their young, night-bound, with gladsome news,And bid them seek the sun!' Sadly the youthWith downward front, replied: 'My friend is dead;For me to gladden were to break a troth.'Upon the brow of Bede a shadow fell;Silent he paced, then stopped: 'Forgive me, Algar!Old men grow hard. Yet boys and girls saluteThe May: like them the old must have their maying;This is perchance my last.'As thus he spakeThey reached the summit of a grassy hill;Beneath there wound a stream, upon its margeA hamlet nestling lonely in the woods:Its inmates saw the Saint, and t'wards him spedEager as birds that, when the grain is flungIn fountained cloister-court of Eastern church,From all sides flock, with sudden rush of wings,Darkening the pavement. Youths and maids came first;Their elders followed: some his garments kissed,And some his hands. The venerable manStretched forth his arms, as though to clasp them all:Above them next he signed his Master's cross;Then, while the tears ran down his aged face,Brake forth in grateful joy; 'To God the praise!When, forty years ago, I roamed this valeA haunt it was of rapine and of wars;Now see I pleasant pastures, peaceful homes,And faces peacefuller yet. That God Who walkedWith His disciples 'mid the sabbath fieldsWhile they the wheat-ears bruised, His sabbath keepsWithin your hearts this day! His harvest ye!Once more a-hungered are His holy priests;They hunger for your souls; with reverent palmsDaily the chaff they separate from the grain;Daily His Church within her heart receives you,Yea, with her heavenly substance makes you one;Ye grow to be her eyes that see His truth;Her ears that hear His voice; her hands that pluckHis tree of life; her feet that walk His ways.Honouring God's priests ye err not, O my friends,Since thus ye honour God. In Him rejoice!'So spake he, and his gladness kindled theirs;With it their courage. One her infant broughtAnd sued for him a blessing. One, bereaved,Cried out: 'Your promised peace has come at last;No more I wish him back to earth!' AgainOld foes shook hands; while now, their fears forgot,Children that lately nestled at his feetClomb to his knees. Then called from out that crowdA blind man; 'Read once more that Book of God!For, after you had left us, many a monthI, who can neither see the sun nor moon,Saw oft the God-Man walking farms and fieldsOf that fair Eastern land!' He spake, and lo!All those around that heard him clamoured, 'Read!'Then Bede, the Sacred Scriptures opening, litUpon the 'Sermon on the Mount,' and read:'The Saviour lifted up His holy eyesOn His disciples, saying, Blessed they;'Expounding next the sense. 'Why fixed the LordHis eyes on them that listened? Friends, His eyesGo down through all things, searching out the heart;He sees if heart be sound to hold His WordAnd bring forth fruit in season, or as rockNaked to bird that plucks the random seed.Friends, with the heart alone we understand;Who doth His will shall of the doctrine knowIf His it be indeed. When Jesus speaksFix first your eyes upon His eyes divine,There reading what He sees within your heart:If sin He sees, repent!'With hands upheldA woman raised her voice, and cried aloud,'Could we but look into the eyes of ChristNought should we see but love!' And Bede replied:'From babe and suckling God shall perfect praise!Yea, from His eyes looks forth the Eternal Love,Though oft, through sin of ours, in sadness veiled;But when He rests them on disciples true,Not on the stranger, love is love alone!O great, true hearts that love so well your Lord!That heard so trustingly His tidings good,So long, by trial proved, have kept His Faith,To you He cometh—cometh with rewardIn heaven, and here on earth.'With brightening face,As one who flingeth largess far abroad,Once more he raised the sacred tome, and read,Read loud the Eight Beatitudes of Christ;Then ceased, but later spake: 'In ampler phraseThose Blessings ye shall hear once more rehearsed,And deeplier understand them. Blessed theyThe poor in spirit; for to humble heartsBelongs the kingdom of their God in heaven;Blessed the meek—nor gold they boast, nor power;Yet theirs alone the sweetness of this earth;Blessed are they who mourn, for on their heartsThe consolation of their God shall fall;Blessed are they who hunger and who thirstFor righteousness; they shall be satisfied;Blessed the merciful, for unto themThe God of mercy mercy shall accord;Blessed are they, the pure in heart; their eyesShall see their God: Blessed the peacemakers;This title man shall give them—Sons of God;Blessed are they who suffer for the causeRighteous and just: a throne is theirs on high:Blessed are ye when sinners cast you forth,And brand your name with falsehood for my sake;Rejoice, for great is your reward in heaven.'Once more the venerable man made pause,Giving his Master's Blessings time to sinkThrough hearts of those who heard. Anon with speechThough fervent, grave, he shewed the glory and graceOf those majestic Virtues crowned by Christ,While virtues praised by worldlings passed unnamed;How wondrously consentient each with each,Like flowers well sorted, or like notes well joined:Then changed the man to deeper theme; he shewedHow these high virtues, ere to man consigned,Were warmed and moulded in the God-Man's heart;Thence born, and in its sacred blood baptized.'What are these virtues but the life of Christ?The poor in spirit; must not they be lowlyWhose God is One that stooped to wear our flesh?The meek; was He not meek Whom sinners mocked?The mourners; sent not He the Comforter?Zeal for the good; was He not militant?The merciful; He came to bring us mercy;The pure in heart; was He not virgin-born?Peacemakers; is not He the Prince of Peace?Sufferers for God; He suffered first for man.O Virtues blest by Christ, high doctrines ye!Dread mysteries; royal records; standards redWrapped by the warrior King, His warfare past,Around His soldiers' bosoms! Recognise,O man, that majesty in lowness hid!Put on Christ's garments. Fools shall call them rags—Heed not their scoff! A prince's child is man,Born in the purple; but his royal robesNone other are than those the Saviour dyed,Treading His Passion's wine-press all alone:Of such alone be proud!'The old man paused;Then stretched his arms abroad, and said: 'This day,Like eight great angels making way from Heaven,Each following each, those Eight Beatitudes,Missioned to earth by Him who made the earth,Have sought you out! What welcome shall be theirs?'In silence long he stood; in silence watched,With faded cheek now flushed and widening eyes,The advance of those high tidings. As a manWho, when the sluice is cut, with beaming gazePursues the on-rolling flood from fall to fall,Green branch adown it swept, and showery spraySilvering the berried copse, so followed BedeThe progress of those high BeatitudesBrightening, with visible beams of faith and love,That host in ampler circles, speechless someAnd some in passionate converse. Saddest browsMost quickly caught, that hour, the glory-touch,Reflected it the best.In such discourse,Peaceful and glad the hours went by, though BedeHad sought that valley less to preach the WordThan see once more his children. Evening nighHe shared their feast; and heard with joy like theirsTheir village harp; and smote that harp himself.In turn become their scholar, hour by hourForth dragged he records of their chiefs and kings,Untangling ravelled evidence, and stillTracking traditions upward to their source,Like him, that Halicarnassean sage,Of antique history sire. 'I trust, my friends,To leave your sons, for lore by you bestowedFair recompense, large measure well pressed down,Recording still God's kingdom in this land,History which all may read, and gentle heartsLoving, may grow in grace. Long centuries passed,If wealth should make this nation's heart too fat,And things of earth obscure the things of heaven,Haply such chronicle may prompt high heartsWearied with shining nothings, back to castRemorseful gaze through mists of time, and noteThat rock whence they were hewn. From youth to ageInmate of yonder convent on the Tyne,I question every pilgrim, priest, or prince,Or peasant grey, and glean from each his sheaf:Likewise the Bishops here and Abbots thereStill send me deed of gift, or chronicleOr missive from the Apostolic See:Praise be to God Who fitteth for his placeNot only high but mean! With wisdom's strengthHe filled our mitred Wilfred, born to rule;To saintly Cuthbert gave the spirit of prayer;On me, as one late born, He lays a chargeSlender, yet helpful still.'Then spake a manBurly and big, that last at banquet sat,'Father, is history true?' and Bede replied;'The man who seeks for Truth like hidden gold,And shrinks from falsehood as a leper's touchShall write true history; not the truth unmixedWith fancies, base or high; not truth entire;Yet truth beneficent to man below.One Book there is that errs not: ye this dayHave learned therefrom your Lord's Beatitudes:That Book contains its histories—like them none,Since written none from standing point so high,With insight so inspired, such measure justOf good and ill; high fruit of aid divine.The slothful spurn that Book; the erroneous warp:But they who read its page, or hear it read,Their guide, God's Spirit, and the Church of God,Shall hear the voice of Truth for ever nigh,Shall see the Truth, now sunlike, and anonLike dagger-point of light from dewy grassFlashed up, a word that yet confutes a life,Pierces, perchance a nation's heart: shall seeFar more—the Truth Himself in human form,Walking not farms and fields of Eastern landsAlone, but these our English fields and farms;Shall see Him on the dusky mount at prayer;Shall see Him in the street and by the bier;Shall see Him at the feast, and at the grave;Now from the boat discoursing, and anonStaying the storm, or walking on its waves;Thus shall our land become a holy landAnd holy those who tread her!' Lifting thenHeavenward that tome, he said, 'The Book of God!As stands God's Church, 'mid kingdoms of this worldHoly alone, so stands, 'mid books, this Book!Within the "Upper Chamber" once that ChurchLived in small space; to-day she fills the world:—This Book which seems so narrow is a world:It is an Eden of mankind restored;It is a heavenly city lit with God:From it the Spirit and the Bride say "Come:"Blessed who reads this Book!'Above the woodsMeantime the stars shone forth; and came that hourWhen to the wanderer and the toiling manRepose is sweet. Upon a leaf-strewn bedThe venerable man slept well that night:Next morning young and old pursued his stepsAs southward he departed. From a hillO'er-looking far that sea-like forest tractAnd many a church far-kenned through smokeless air,He blessed that kneeling concourse, adding thus,'Pray still, O friends, for me, since spiritual foesThreat most the priesthood:—pray that holy death,Due warning given, may close a life too blest!Pray well, since I for you have laboured well,Yea, and will labour till my latest sigh;Not only seeking you in wilds and woodsYear after year, but in my cell at nightChanging to accents of your native tongueGod's Book Divine. Farewell, my friends, farewell!'He left them; in his heart this thought, 'How likeThe great death-parting every parting seems!'But deathless hopes were with him; and the May;His grief went by.So passed a day of Bede's;And many a studious year were stored with such;Enough but one for sample. Two glad weeksHe and his comrade onward roved. At eveConvent or hamlet, known long since and loved,Gladly received them. Bede with heart as gladRenewed with them the memory of old times,Recounted benefits by him received,Then strong in youth, from just men passed away,And preached his Master still with power so sweetThe listeners ne'er forgat him. Evermore,Parting, he planted in the ground a cross,And bade the neighbours till their church was builtRound it to pray. Meanwhile his youthful mateChanged by degrees. The ever varying scene,The biting breath and balmy breast of spring,And most of all that old man's valiant heartTriumphed above his sadness, fancies gayPushing beyond it like those sunnier shootsThat gild the dark vest of the vernal pine.He took account of all things as they passed;He laughed; he told his tale. With quiet joyHis friend remarked that change. The second weekThey passed to Durham; next to Walsingham;To Gilling then; to stately Richmond soonHigh throned above her Ouse; to Ripon last:Then Bede made pause, and spake; 'Not far is York;Egbert who fills Paulinus' saintly seatWould see me gladly: such was mine intent,But something in my bosom whispers, "Nay,Return to that fair river crossed by night,The Tees, the fairest in this Northern land:Beside its restless wave thine eye shall restOn vision lovelier far and more benignThan all it yet hath seen."' Northward once moreThey faced, and, three days travelling, reached at eveAgain those ivied cliffs that guard the Tees:There as they stood a homeward dove, with flightSofter for contrast with that turbulent stream,Sailed through the crimson eve. 'No sight like that!'Thus murmured Bede; 'ever to me it seemsA Christian soul returning to its rest.'A shade came o'er his countenance as he mused;Algar remarked that shade, though what it meantHe knew not yet. The old man from that hourSeemed mirthful less, less buoyant, beaming less,Yet not less glad.At dead of night, while hungThe sacred stars upon their course half way,He left his couch, and thus to Egbert wrote,Meek man—too meek—the brother of the king,With brow low bent, and onward sweeping hand,Great words, world-famed: 'Remember thine account!The Lord's Apostles are the salt of earth;Let salt not lose its savour! Flail and fanAre given thee. Purge thou well thy threshing floor!Repel the tyrant; hurl the hireling forth;That so from thy true priests true hearts may learnTrue faith, true love, and nothing but the truth!'Before the lark he rose the morrow morn,And stood by Algar's bed, and spake: 'Arise!Playtime is past; the great, good work returns;To Jarrow speed we!' Homeward, day by day,Thenceforth they sped with foot that lagged no more,That youth, at first so mournful, joyous now,That old man oft in thought. Next day, while eveDescended dim, and clung to Hexham's groves,He passed its abbey, silent. Wonder-struckAlgar demanded, 'Father, pass you thusThat church where holy John[26]ordained you priest?Pass you its Bishop, Acca, long your friend?Yearly he woos your visit; tells you talesOf Hexham's saintly Wilfred; shows you stillChalice or cross new-won from distant shores:Nor these alone:—glancing from such last yearA page he read you of some Pagan bardWith smiles; yet ended with a sigh, and said:"Where is he now?"' The man of God replied:'Desire was mine to see mine ancient friend;For that cause came I hither:—time runs short':—Then, Algar sighing, thus he added mild,'Let go that theme; thy mourning time is past:Thy gladsome time is now.' As on they walked,Later he spake: 'It may be I was wrong;Old friends should part in hope.'On Jarrow's towers,Bright as that sunrise while that pair went forthThe sunset glittered when, their wanderings past,Bede and his comrade by the bank of TyneOnce more approached the gates. Six hundred monksFlocked forth to meet them. 'They had grieved, I know,'Thus spake, low-voiced, the venerable man,'If I had died remote. To spare that griefBefore the time intended I returned.'Sadly that comrade looked upon his face,Yet saw there nought of sadness. Silent eachAdvanced they till they met that cowlèd host:But three weeks later on his bed the boyRemembered well those words.Within a cellTo Algar's near that later night a youthWrote thus to one far off, his earliest friend:'O blessed man! was e'er a death so sweet!He sang that verse, "A dreadful thing it isTo fall into the hands of God, All-Just;"Yet awe in him seemed swallowed up by love;And ofttimes with the Prophets and the PsalmsHe mixed glad minstrelsies of English speech,Songs to his childhood dear!'O blessed man!The Ascension Feast of Christ our Lord drew nigh;He watched that splendour's advent; sang its hymn:"All-glorious King, Who, triumphing this day,Into the heaven of heavens didst make ascent,Forsake us not, poor orphans! Send Thy Spirit,The Spirit of Truth, the Father's promised Gift,To comfort us, His children: Hallelujah."And when he reached that word, "Forsake us not,"He wept—not tears of grief. With him we wept;Alternate wept; alternate read our rite;Yea, while we wept we read. So passed that day,The sufferer thanking God with labouring breath,"God scourges still the son whom He receives."'Undaunted, unamazed, daily he wroughtHis daily task; instruction daily gaveTo us his scholars round him ranged, and said,"I will not have my pupils learn a lie,Nor, fruitless, toil therein when I am gone."Full well he kept an earlier promise, madeOfttimes to humble folk, in English tongueRendering the Gospels of the Lord. On these,The last of these, the Gospel of Saint John,He laboured till the close. The days went by,And still he toiled, and panted, and gave thanksTo God with hands uplifted; yea, in sleepHe made thanksgiving still. When Tuesday cameSuffering increased; he said, "My time is short;How short it is I know not." Yet we deemedHe knew the time of his departure well.'On Wednesday morn once more he bade us write:We wrote till the third hour, and left him thenTo pace, in reverence of that Feast all-blest,Our cloister court with hymns. Meantime a youth,Algar by name, there was who left him never;The same that hour beside him sat and wrote:More late he questioned: "Father well-beloved,One chapter yet remaineth; have you strengthTo dictate more?" He answered: "I have strength;Make ready, son, thy pen, and swiftly write."When noon had come he turned him round and said,"I have some little gifts for those I love;Call in the Brethren;" adding with a smile,"The rich man makes bequests, and why not I?"Then gifts he gave, incense or altar-cloth,To each, commanding, "Pray ye for my soul;Be strong in prayer and offering of the Mass,For ye shall see my face no more on earth:Blessed hath been my life; and time it isThat unto God God's creature should return;Yea, I desire to die, and be with Christ."Thus speaking, he rejoiced till evening's shadesDarkened around us. That disciple youngOnce more addressed him, "Still one verse remains;"The master answered, "Write, and write with speed;"And dictated. The young man wrote; then said,"'Tis finished now." The man of God replied:"Well say'st thou, son, ''tis finished.' In thy handsReceive my head, and move it gently round,For comfort great it is, and joy in death,Thus, on this pavement of my little cell,Facing that happy spot whereon so oftIn prayer I knelt, to sit once more in prayer,Thanking my Father." "Glory," then he sang,"To God, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost;"And with that latest Name upon his lipsPassed to the Heavenly Kingdom.'Thus with joyDied holy Bede upon Ascension DayIn Jarrow Convent. May he pray for us,And all who read his annals of God's ChurchIn England housed, his great bequest to man!
The ending of the Book of Saxon Saints.With one lay-brother only blessed Bede,In after times 'The Venerable' named,Passed from his convent, Jarrow. Where the TyneBlends with the sea, all beautiful it stood,Bathed in the sunrise. At the mouth of WearA second convent, Wearmouth, rose. That hourThe self-same matin splendour gilt them both;And in some speech of mingling lights, not words,Both sisters praised their God.'Apart, yet joined'—So mused the old man gazing on the twain:Then onward paced, with head above his book,Murmuring his office. Algar walked behind,A youth of twenty years, with tonsured head,And face, though young, forlorn. An hour had passed;They reached a craggy height; and looking back,Beheld once more beyond the forest roofThose two fair convents glittering—at their feetThose two clear rivers winding! Bound by rule,Again the monk addressed him to his book;Lection and psalm recited, thus he spake:
'Why placed our holy Founder thus so nearHis convents? Why, albeit a single rule,At last a single hand, had sway o'er both,Placed them at distance? Hard it were to guess:I know but this, that severance here on earthIs strangely linked with union of the heart,Union with severance. Thou hast lost, young friend,But lately lost thy boyhood's dearest mate,Thine earliest friend, a brother of thy heart,True Christian soul though dwelling in the world;Fear not such severance can extinguish loveHere, or hereafter! He whom most I lovedWas severed from me by the tract of years:A child of nine years old was I, when firstJarrow received me: pestilence ere longSwept from that house her monks, save one alone,Ceolfrid, then its abbot. Man and child,We two the lonely cloisters paced; we twoTogether chaunted in the desolate church:I could not guess his thoughts; to him my waysWere doubtless as the ways of some sick birdWatched by a child. Not less I loved him well:Me too he somewhat loved. Beneath one roofWe dwelt—and yet how severed! Save in God,What know men, one of other? Here on earth,Perhaps 'tis wiser to be kind to allIn large goodwill of helpful love, yet free,Than link to one our heart—Poor youth! that love which walks in narrow waysIs tragic love, be sure.'With gentle faceThe novice spake his gratitude. Once more,His hand upon the shoulder of the youth,(For now they mounted slow a bosky dell)The old man spake—yet not to him—in voiceScarce louder than the murmuring pines close by;For, by his being's law he seemed, like them,At times when pensive memories in him stirred,Vocal not less than visible: 'How greatWas he, our Founder! In that ample brow,What brooding weight of genius! In his eye,How strangely was the pathos edged with light!How oft, his churches roaming, flashed its beamFrom pillar on to pillar, resting longOn carven imagery of flower or fruit,Or deep-dyed window whence the heavenly choirsGave joy to men below! With what a zealHe drew the cunningest craftsmen from all climesTo express his thoughts in form; while yet his hand,Like meanest hand among us, patient toiledIn garden and in bakehouse, threshed the corn,Or drave the calves to milk-pail! Earthly ruleHad proved to him a weight intolerable;In spiritual beauty, there and there alone,Our Bennett Biscop found his native haunt,The lucent planet of his soul's repose:And yet—O wondrous might of human love—One was there, one, to whom his heart was knit,Siegfried, in all unlike him save in worth.His was plain purpose, rectitude unwarped,Industry, foresight. On his friend's behalfHe ruled long years those beauteous convents twain,Yet knew not they were beauteous! An abyssSevered in spirit those in heart so near:More late exterior severance came: three yearsIn cells remote they dwelt, by sickness chained:But once they met—to die. I see them still:The monks had laid them on a single bed;Weeping, they turned them later each to each:I saw the snowy tresses softly mix;I saw the faded lips draw near and meet;Thus gently interwreathed I saw them die—Strange strength of human love!'Still walked they on:As high the sun ascended, woodlands greenShivered all golden; and the old man's heartBrightened like them. His ever active mindInquisitive took note of all it saw;And as some youth enamoured lifts a tressOf her he loves, and wonders, so the monk,Well loving Nature, loved her in detail,Now pleased with nestling bird, anon with flower,Now noting how the beech from dewy sheathPushed forth its silken leaflets fringed with down,Exulting next because from sprays of limeThe little fledgeling leaves, like creatures winged,Brake from their ruddy shells. Jesting, he cried:'Algar! but hear those birds! Men say they singTo fire their young, night-bound, with gladsome news,And bid them seek the sun!' Sadly the youthWith downward front, replied: 'My friend is dead;For me to gladden were to break a troth.'Upon the brow of Bede a shadow fell;Silent he paced, then stopped: 'Forgive me, Algar!Old men grow hard. Yet boys and girls saluteThe May: like them the old must have their maying;This is perchance my last.'As thus he spakeThey reached the summit of a grassy hill;Beneath there wound a stream, upon its margeA hamlet nestling lonely in the woods:Its inmates saw the Saint, and t'wards him spedEager as birds that, when the grain is flungIn fountained cloister-court of Eastern church,From all sides flock, with sudden rush of wings,Darkening the pavement. Youths and maids came first;Their elders followed: some his garments kissed,And some his hands. The venerable manStretched forth his arms, as though to clasp them all:Above them next he signed his Master's cross;Then, while the tears ran down his aged face,Brake forth in grateful joy; 'To God the praise!When, forty years ago, I roamed this valeA haunt it was of rapine and of wars;Now see I pleasant pastures, peaceful homes,And faces peacefuller yet. That God Who walkedWith His disciples 'mid the sabbath fieldsWhile they the wheat-ears bruised, His sabbath keepsWithin your hearts this day! His harvest ye!Once more a-hungered are His holy priests;They hunger for your souls; with reverent palmsDaily the chaff they separate from the grain;Daily His Church within her heart receives you,Yea, with her heavenly substance makes you one;Ye grow to be her eyes that see His truth;Her ears that hear His voice; her hands that pluckHis tree of life; her feet that walk His ways.Honouring God's priests ye err not, O my friends,Since thus ye honour God. In Him rejoice!'
So spake he, and his gladness kindled theirs;With it their courage. One her infant broughtAnd sued for him a blessing. One, bereaved,Cried out: 'Your promised peace has come at last;No more I wish him back to earth!' AgainOld foes shook hands; while now, their fears forgot,Children that lately nestled at his feetClomb to his knees. Then called from out that crowdA blind man; 'Read once more that Book of God!For, after you had left us, many a monthI, who can neither see the sun nor moon,Saw oft the God-Man walking farms and fieldsOf that fair Eastern land!' He spake, and lo!All those around that heard him clamoured, 'Read!'
Then Bede, the Sacred Scriptures opening, litUpon the 'Sermon on the Mount,' and read:'The Saviour lifted up His holy eyesOn His disciples, saying, Blessed they;'Expounding next the sense. 'Why fixed the LordHis eyes on them that listened? Friends, His eyesGo down through all things, searching out the heart;He sees if heart be sound to hold His WordAnd bring forth fruit in season, or as rockNaked to bird that plucks the random seed.Friends, with the heart alone we understand;Who doth His will shall of the doctrine knowIf His it be indeed. When Jesus speaksFix first your eyes upon His eyes divine,There reading what He sees within your heart:If sin He sees, repent!'With hands upheldA woman raised her voice, and cried aloud,'Could we but look into the eyes of ChristNought should we see but love!' And Bede replied:'From babe and suckling God shall perfect praise!Yea, from His eyes looks forth the Eternal Love,Though oft, through sin of ours, in sadness veiled;But when He rests them on disciples true,Not on the stranger, love is love alone!O great, true hearts that love so well your Lord!That heard so trustingly His tidings good,So long, by trial proved, have kept His Faith,To you He cometh—cometh with rewardIn heaven, and here on earth.'With brightening face,As one who flingeth largess far abroad,Once more he raised the sacred tome, and read,Read loud the Eight Beatitudes of Christ;Then ceased, but later spake: 'In ampler phraseThose Blessings ye shall hear once more rehearsed,And deeplier understand them. Blessed theyThe poor in spirit; for to humble heartsBelongs the kingdom of their God in heaven;Blessed the meek—nor gold they boast, nor power;Yet theirs alone the sweetness of this earth;Blessed are they who mourn, for on their heartsThe consolation of their God shall fall;Blessed are they who hunger and who thirstFor righteousness; they shall be satisfied;Blessed the merciful, for unto themThe God of mercy mercy shall accord;Blessed are they, the pure in heart; their eyesShall see their God: Blessed the peacemakers;This title man shall give them—Sons of God;Blessed are they who suffer for the causeRighteous and just: a throne is theirs on high:Blessed are ye when sinners cast you forth,And brand your name with falsehood for my sake;Rejoice, for great is your reward in heaven.'
Once more the venerable man made pause,Giving his Master's Blessings time to sinkThrough hearts of those who heard. Anon with speechThough fervent, grave, he shewed the glory and graceOf those majestic Virtues crowned by Christ,While virtues praised by worldlings passed unnamed;How wondrously consentient each with each,Like flowers well sorted, or like notes well joined:Then changed the man to deeper theme; he shewedHow these high virtues, ere to man consigned,Were warmed and moulded in the God-Man's heart;Thence born, and in its sacred blood baptized.'What are these virtues but the life of Christ?The poor in spirit; must not they be lowlyWhose God is One that stooped to wear our flesh?The meek; was He not meek Whom sinners mocked?The mourners; sent not He the Comforter?Zeal for the good; was He not militant?The merciful; He came to bring us mercy;The pure in heart; was He not virgin-born?Peacemakers; is not He the Prince of Peace?Sufferers for God; He suffered first for man.O Virtues blest by Christ, high doctrines ye!Dread mysteries; royal records; standards redWrapped by the warrior King, His warfare past,Around His soldiers' bosoms! Recognise,O man, that majesty in lowness hid!Put on Christ's garments. Fools shall call them rags—Heed not their scoff! A prince's child is man,Born in the purple; but his royal robesNone other are than those the Saviour dyed,Treading His Passion's wine-press all alone:Of such alone be proud!'The old man paused;Then stretched his arms abroad, and said: 'This day,Like eight great angels making way from Heaven,Each following each, those Eight Beatitudes,Missioned to earth by Him who made the earth,Have sought you out! What welcome shall be theirs?'In silence long he stood; in silence watched,With faded cheek now flushed and widening eyes,The advance of those high tidings. As a manWho, when the sluice is cut, with beaming gazePursues the on-rolling flood from fall to fall,Green branch adown it swept, and showery spraySilvering the berried copse, so followed BedeThe progress of those high BeatitudesBrightening, with visible beams of faith and love,That host in ampler circles, speechless someAnd some in passionate converse. Saddest browsMost quickly caught, that hour, the glory-touch,Reflected it the best.In such discourse,Peaceful and glad the hours went by, though BedeHad sought that valley less to preach the WordThan see once more his children. Evening nighHe shared their feast; and heard with joy like theirsTheir village harp; and smote that harp himself.In turn become their scholar, hour by hourForth dragged he records of their chiefs and kings,Untangling ravelled evidence, and stillTracking traditions upward to their source,Like him, that Halicarnassean sage,Of antique history sire. 'I trust, my friends,To leave your sons, for lore by you bestowedFair recompense, large measure well pressed down,Recording still God's kingdom in this land,History which all may read, and gentle heartsLoving, may grow in grace. Long centuries passed,If wealth should make this nation's heart too fat,And things of earth obscure the things of heaven,Haply such chronicle may prompt high heartsWearied with shining nothings, back to castRemorseful gaze through mists of time, and noteThat rock whence they were hewn. From youth to ageInmate of yonder convent on the Tyne,I question every pilgrim, priest, or prince,Or peasant grey, and glean from each his sheaf:Likewise the Bishops here and Abbots thereStill send me deed of gift, or chronicleOr missive from the Apostolic See:Praise be to God Who fitteth for his placeNot only high but mean! With wisdom's strengthHe filled our mitred Wilfred, born to rule;To saintly Cuthbert gave the spirit of prayer;On me, as one late born, He lays a chargeSlender, yet helpful still.'Then spake a manBurly and big, that last at banquet sat,'Father, is history true?' and Bede replied;'The man who seeks for Truth like hidden gold,And shrinks from falsehood as a leper's touchShall write true history; not the truth unmixedWith fancies, base or high; not truth entire;Yet truth beneficent to man below.One Book there is that errs not: ye this dayHave learned therefrom your Lord's Beatitudes:That Book contains its histories—like them none,Since written none from standing point so high,With insight so inspired, such measure justOf good and ill; high fruit of aid divine.The slothful spurn that Book; the erroneous warp:But they who read its page, or hear it read,Their guide, God's Spirit, and the Church of God,Shall hear the voice of Truth for ever nigh,Shall see the Truth, now sunlike, and anonLike dagger-point of light from dewy grassFlashed up, a word that yet confutes a life,Pierces, perchance a nation's heart: shall seeFar more—the Truth Himself in human form,Walking not farms and fields of Eastern landsAlone, but these our English fields and farms;Shall see Him on the dusky mount at prayer;Shall see Him in the street and by the bier;Shall see Him at the feast, and at the grave;Now from the boat discoursing, and anonStaying the storm, or walking on its waves;Thus shall our land become a holy landAnd holy those who tread her!' Lifting thenHeavenward that tome, he said, 'The Book of God!As stands God's Church, 'mid kingdoms of this worldHoly alone, so stands, 'mid books, this Book!Within the "Upper Chamber" once that ChurchLived in small space; to-day she fills the world:—This Book which seems so narrow is a world:It is an Eden of mankind restored;It is a heavenly city lit with God:From it the Spirit and the Bride say "Come:"Blessed who reads this Book!'Above the woodsMeantime the stars shone forth; and came that hourWhen to the wanderer and the toiling manRepose is sweet. Upon a leaf-strewn bedThe venerable man slept well that night:Next morning young and old pursued his stepsAs southward he departed. From a hillO'er-looking far that sea-like forest tractAnd many a church far-kenned through smokeless air,He blessed that kneeling concourse, adding thus,'Pray still, O friends, for me, since spiritual foesThreat most the priesthood:—pray that holy death,Due warning given, may close a life too blest!Pray well, since I for you have laboured well,Yea, and will labour till my latest sigh;Not only seeking you in wilds and woodsYear after year, but in my cell at nightChanging to accents of your native tongueGod's Book Divine. Farewell, my friends, farewell!'He left them; in his heart this thought, 'How likeThe great death-parting every parting seems!'But deathless hopes were with him; and the May;His grief went by.So passed a day of Bede's;And many a studious year were stored with such;Enough but one for sample. Two glad weeksHe and his comrade onward roved. At eveConvent or hamlet, known long since and loved,Gladly received them. Bede with heart as gladRenewed with them the memory of old times,Recounted benefits by him received,Then strong in youth, from just men passed away,And preached his Master still with power so sweetThe listeners ne'er forgat him. Evermore,Parting, he planted in the ground a cross,And bade the neighbours till their church was builtRound it to pray. Meanwhile his youthful mateChanged by degrees. The ever varying scene,The biting breath and balmy breast of spring,And most of all that old man's valiant heartTriumphed above his sadness, fancies gayPushing beyond it like those sunnier shootsThat gild the dark vest of the vernal pine.He took account of all things as they passed;He laughed; he told his tale. With quiet joyHis friend remarked that change. The second weekThey passed to Durham; next to Walsingham;To Gilling then; to stately Richmond soonHigh throned above her Ouse; to Ripon last:Then Bede made pause, and spake; 'Not far is York;Egbert who fills Paulinus' saintly seatWould see me gladly: such was mine intent,But something in my bosom whispers, "Nay,Return to that fair river crossed by night,The Tees, the fairest in this Northern land:Beside its restless wave thine eye shall restOn vision lovelier far and more benignThan all it yet hath seen."' Northward once moreThey faced, and, three days travelling, reached at eveAgain those ivied cliffs that guard the Tees:There as they stood a homeward dove, with flightSofter for contrast with that turbulent stream,Sailed through the crimson eve. 'No sight like that!'Thus murmured Bede; 'ever to me it seemsA Christian soul returning to its rest.'A shade came o'er his countenance as he mused;Algar remarked that shade, though what it meantHe knew not yet. The old man from that hourSeemed mirthful less, less buoyant, beaming less,Yet not less glad.At dead of night, while hungThe sacred stars upon their course half way,He left his couch, and thus to Egbert wrote,Meek man—too meek—the brother of the king,With brow low bent, and onward sweeping hand,Great words, world-famed: 'Remember thine account!The Lord's Apostles are the salt of earth;Let salt not lose its savour! Flail and fanAre given thee. Purge thou well thy threshing floor!Repel the tyrant; hurl the hireling forth;That so from thy true priests true hearts may learnTrue faith, true love, and nothing but the truth!'
Before the lark he rose the morrow morn,And stood by Algar's bed, and spake: 'Arise!Playtime is past; the great, good work returns;To Jarrow speed we!' Homeward, day by day,Thenceforth they sped with foot that lagged no more,That youth, at first so mournful, joyous now,That old man oft in thought. Next day, while eveDescended dim, and clung to Hexham's groves,He passed its abbey, silent. Wonder-struckAlgar demanded, 'Father, pass you thusThat church where holy John[26]ordained you priest?Pass you its Bishop, Acca, long your friend?Yearly he woos your visit; tells you talesOf Hexham's saintly Wilfred; shows you stillChalice or cross new-won from distant shores:Nor these alone:—glancing from such last yearA page he read you of some Pagan bardWith smiles; yet ended with a sigh, and said:"Where is he now?"' The man of God replied:'Desire was mine to see mine ancient friend;For that cause came I hither:—time runs short':—Then, Algar sighing, thus he added mild,'Let go that theme; thy mourning time is past:Thy gladsome time is now.' As on they walked,Later he spake: 'It may be I was wrong;Old friends should part in hope.'On Jarrow's towers,Bright as that sunrise while that pair went forthThe sunset glittered when, their wanderings past,Bede and his comrade by the bank of TyneOnce more approached the gates. Six hundred monksFlocked forth to meet them. 'They had grieved, I know,'Thus spake, low-voiced, the venerable man,'If I had died remote. To spare that griefBefore the time intended I returned.'Sadly that comrade looked upon his face,Yet saw there nought of sadness. Silent eachAdvanced they till they met that cowlèd host:But three weeks later on his bed the boyRemembered well those words.Within a cellTo Algar's near that later night a youthWrote thus to one far off, his earliest friend:'O blessed man! was e'er a death so sweet!He sang that verse, "A dreadful thing it isTo fall into the hands of God, All-Just;"Yet awe in him seemed swallowed up by love;And ofttimes with the Prophets and the PsalmsHe mixed glad minstrelsies of English speech,Songs to his childhood dear!'O blessed man!The Ascension Feast of Christ our Lord drew nigh;He watched that splendour's advent; sang its hymn:"All-glorious King, Who, triumphing this day,Into the heaven of heavens didst make ascent,Forsake us not, poor orphans! Send Thy Spirit,The Spirit of Truth, the Father's promised Gift,To comfort us, His children: Hallelujah."And when he reached that word, "Forsake us not,"He wept—not tears of grief. With him we wept;Alternate wept; alternate read our rite;Yea, while we wept we read. So passed that day,The sufferer thanking God with labouring breath,"God scourges still the son whom He receives."'Undaunted, unamazed, daily he wroughtHis daily task; instruction daily gaveTo us his scholars round him ranged, and said,"I will not have my pupils learn a lie,Nor, fruitless, toil therein when I am gone."Full well he kept an earlier promise, madeOfttimes to humble folk, in English tongueRendering the Gospels of the Lord. On these,The last of these, the Gospel of Saint John,He laboured till the close. The days went by,And still he toiled, and panted, and gave thanksTo God with hands uplifted; yea, in sleepHe made thanksgiving still. When Tuesday cameSuffering increased; he said, "My time is short;How short it is I know not." Yet we deemedHe knew the time of his departure well.
'On Wednesday morn once more he bade us write:We wrote till the third hour, and left him thenTo pace, in reverence of that Feast all-blest,Our cloister court with hymns. Meantime a youth,Algar by name, there was who left him never;The same that hour beside him sat and wrote:More late he questioned: "Father well-beloved,One chapter yet remaineth; have you strengthTo dictate more?" He answered: "I have strength;Make ready, son, thy pen, and swiftly write."When noon had come he turned him round and said,"I have some little gifts for those I love;Call in the Brethren;" adding with a smile,"The rich man makes bequests, and why not I?"Then gifts he gave, incense or altar-cloth,To each, commanding, "Pray ye for my soul;Be strong in prayer and offering of the Mass,For ye shall see my face no more on earth:Blessed hath been my life; and time it isThat unto God God's creature should return;Yea, I desire to die, and be with Christ."Thus speaking, he rejoiced till evening's shadesDarkened around us. That disciple youngOnce more addressed him, "Still one verse remains;"The master answered, "Write, and write with speed;"And dictated. The young man wrote; then said,"'Tis finished now." The man of God replied:"Well say'st thou, son, ''tis finished.' In thy handsReceive my head, and move it gently round,For comfort great it is, and joy in death,Thus, on this pavement of my little cell,Facing that happy spot whereon so oftIn prayer I knelt, to sit once more in prayer,Thanking my Father." "Glory," then he sang,"To God, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost;"And with that latest Name upon his lipsPassed to the Heavenly Kingdom.'Thus with joyDied holy Bede upon Ascension DayIn Jarrow Convent. May he pray for us,And all who read his annals of God's ChurchIn England housed, his great bequest to man!
FOOTNOTES:[1]See Montalembert's 'Moines de l'Occident,' vol. iii. p. 343; and also Burke: 'On the Continent the Christian religion, after the northern irruptions, not only remained but flourished.... In England it was so entirely extinguished that when Augustine undertook his mission, it does not appear that among all the Saxons there was a single person professing Christianity.'[2]Tacitus. The German's wife might well be called his 'helpmate.' His wedding gift to his bride consisted of a horse, a yoke of oxen, a lance and a sword.[3]Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, pp. 79, 80. (Bell and Daldy, 1873.) Burke records this tradition with an entire credence. See note in p. 288.[4]Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, chap. x.[5]Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, pp. 88, 89.[6]P. 89.[7]P. 100.[8]Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, p. 103.[9]The Prose Edda.[10]Northern Antiquities: the Editor, T. A. Blackwell.[11]P. 474.[12]P. 475.[13]T. A. Blackwell. See Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, p. 476.[14]'This (Christianity), as it introduced great mildness into the tempers of the people, made them less warlike, and consequently prepared the way to their forming one body.'—Burke,An Abridgment of English History, book ii. chap. iii.[15]Saxons in England, vol. i. p. 330.[16]Saxons in England, vol. i. p. 335.[17]History of the Anglo-Saxons, vol. i. p. 241.[18]'In process of time, Britain, besides the Britons and Picts, received a third nation, the Scots, who migrating from Ireland, under their leader Reuda, either by fair means or by force of arms secured to themselves those settlements among the Picts which they still possess.'—Bede'sEcclesiastical Hist., book i. cap. i.[19]'In the fifth century there appear in North Britain two powerful and distinct tribes, who are not before named in history. These are the Picts and the Scots.... The Scots, on the other hand, were of Irish origin; for, to the great confusion of ancient history, the inhabitants of Ireland, those at least of the conquering and predominating caste, were called Scots. A colony of these Irish Scots, distinguished by the name of Dalriads, or Dalreudini, natives of Ulster, had early attempted a settlement on the coast of Argyleshire; they finally established themselves there under Fergus, the son of Eric, about the year 503, and, recruited by colonies from Ulster, continued to multiply and increase until they formed a nation which occupied the western side of Scotland.'—Sir Walter Scott'sHistory of Scotland, vol. i. p. 7. Scott proceeds to record the eventual triumph of the Irish or Scotic race over the Pictish in the ninth century. 'So complete must have been the revolution that the very language of the Picts is lost.... The country united under his sway (that of Kenneth Mac Alpine) was then called for the first time Scotland.' The same statement is made by Burke: 'The principal of these were the Scots, a people of ancient settlement in Ireland, and who had thence been transplanted into the northern part of Britain, which afterwards derived its name from that colony.'—Burke,Abridgment of English History, book i. cap. iv.[20]Moines d'Occident, vol. iv. pp. 127-8. Par le Comte de Montalembert.[21]Cardinal Newman'sHistorical Sketches, vol. i. p. 266:The Northmen and Normans in England and Ireland.[22]Sara Coleridge.[23]As the illustration of an Age, Bede'sHistoryhas been well compared by Cardinal Manning with theFioretti di S. Francesco, that exquisite illustration of the thirteenth century.[24]The motto of the University of Oxford.[25]Tacitus.[26]St. John of Beverley.
[1]See Montalembert's 'Moines de l'Occident,' vol. iii. p. 343; and also Burke: 'On the Continent the Christian religion, after the northern irruptions, not only remained but flourished.... In England it was so entirely extinguished that when Augustine undertook his mission, it does not appear that among all the Saxons there was a single person professing Christianity.'
[1]See Montalembert's 'Moines de l'Occident,' vol. iii. p. 343; and also Burke: 'On the Continent the Christian religion, after the northern irruptions, not only remained but flourished.... In England it was so entirely extinguished that when Augustine undertook his mission, it does not appear that among all the Saxons there was a single person professing Christianity.'
[2]Tacitus. The German's wife might well be called his 'helpmate.' His wedding gift to his bride consisted of a horse, a yoke of oxen, a lance and a sword.
[2]Tacitus. The German's wife might well be called his 'helpmate.' His wedding gift to his bride consisted of a horse, a yoke of oxen, a lance and a sword.
[3]Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, pp. 79, 80. (Bell and Daldy, 1873.) Burke records this tradition with an entire credence. See note in p. 288.
[3]Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, pp. 79, 80. (Bell and Daldy, 1873.) Burke records this tradition with an entire credence. See note in p. 288.
[4]Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, chap. x.
[4]Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, chap. x.
[5]Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, pp. 88, 89.
[5]Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, pp. 88, 89.
[6]P. 89.
[6]P. 89.
[7]P. 100.
[7]P. 100.
[8]Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, p. 103.
[8]Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, p. 103.
[9]The Prose Edda.
[9]The Prose Edda.
[10]Northern Antiquities: the Editor, T. A. Blackwell.
[10]Northern Antiquities: the Editor, T. A. Blackwell.
[11]P. 474.
[11]P. 474.
[12]P. 475.
[12]P. 475.
[13]T. A. Blackwell. See Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, p. 476.
[13]T. A. Blackwell. See Mallet'sNorthern Antiquities, p. 476.
[14]'This (Christianity), as it introduced great mildness into the tempers of the people, made them less warlike, and consequently prepared the way to their forming one body.'—Burke,An Abridgment of English History, book ii. chap. iii.
[14]'This (Christianity), as it introduced great mildness into the tempers of the people, made them less warlike, and consequently prepared the way to their forming one body.'—Burke,An Abridgment of English History, book ii. chap. iii.
[15]Saxons in England, vol. i. p. 330.
[15]Saxons in England, vol. i. p. 330.
[16]Saxons in England, vol. i. p. 335.
[16]Saxons in England, vol. i. p. 335.
[17]History of the Anglo-Saxons, vol. i. p. 241.
[17]History of the Anglo-Saxons, vol. i. p. 241.
[18]'In process of time, Britain, besides the Britons and Picts, received a third nation, the Scots, who migrating from Ireland, under their leader Reuda, either by fair means or by force of arms secured to themselves those settlements among the Picts which they still possess.'—Bede'sEcclesiastical Hist., book i. cap. i.
[18]'In process of time, Britain, besides the Britons and Picts, received a third nation, the Scots, who migrating from Ireland, under their leader Reuda, either by fair means or by force of arms secured to themselves those settlements among the Picts which they still possess.'—Bede'sEcclesiastical Hist., book i. cap. i.
[19]'In the fifth century there appear in North Britain two powerful and distinct tribes, who are not before named in history. These are the Picts and the Scots.... The Scots, on the other hand, were of Irish origin; for, to the great confusion of ancient history, the inhabitants of Ireland, those at least of the conquering and predominating caste, were called Scots. A colony of these Irish Scots, distinguished by the name of Dalriads, or Dalreudini, natives of Ulster, had early attempted a settlement on the coast of Argyleshire; they finally established themselves there under Fergus, the son of Eric, about the year 503, and, recruited by colonies from Ulster, continued to multiply and increase until they formed a nation which occupied the western side of Scotland.'—Sir Walter Scott'sHistory of Scotland, vol. i. p. 7. Scott proceeds to record the eventual triumph of the Irish or Scotic race over the Pictish in the ninth century. 'So complete must have been the revolution that the very language of the Picts is lost.... The country united under his sway (that of Kenneth Mac Alpine) was then called for the first time Scotland.' The same statement is made by Burke: 'The principal of these were the Scots, a people of ancient settlement in Ireland, and who had thence been transplanted into the northern part of Britain, which afterwards derived its name from that colony.'—Burke,Abridgment of English History, book i. cap. iv.
[19]'In the fifth century there appear in North Britain two powerful and distinct tribes, who are not before named in history. These are the Picts and the Scots.... The Scots, on the other hand, were of Irish origin; for, to the great confusion of ancient history, the inhabitants of Ireland, those at least of the conquering and predominating caste, were called Scots. A colony of these Irish Scots, distinguished by the name of Dalriads, or Dalreudini, natives of Ulster, had early attempted a settlement on the coast of Argyleshire; they finally established themselves there under Fergus, the son of Eric, about the year 503, and, recruited by colonies from Ulster, continued to multiply and increase until they formed a nation which occupied the western side of Scotland.'—Sir Walter Scott'sHistory of Scotland, vol. i. p. 7. Scott proceeds to record the eventual triumph of the Irish or Scotic race over the Pictish in the ninth century. 'So complete must have been the revolution that the very language of the Picts is lost.... The country united under his sway (that of Kenneth Mac Alpine) was then called for the first time Scotland.' The same statement is made by Burke: 'The principal of these were the Scots, a people of ancient settlement in Ireland, and who had thence been transplanted into the northern part of Britain, which afterwards derived its name from that colony.'—Burke,Abridgment of English History, book i. cap. iv.
[20]Moines d'Occident, vol. iv. pp. 127-8. Par le Comte de Montalembert.
[20]Moines d'Occident, vol. iv. pp. 127-8. Par le Comte de Montalembert.
[21]Cardinal Newman'sHistorical Sketches, vol. i. p. 266:The Northmen and Normans in England and Ireland.
[21]Cardinal Newman'sHistorical Sketches, vol. i. p. 266:The Northmen and Normans in England and Ireland.
[22]Sara Coleridge.
[22]Sara Coleridge.
[23]As the illustration of an Age, Bede'sHistoryhas been well compared by Cardinal Manning with theFioretti di S. Francesco, that exquisite illustration of the thirteenth century.
[23]As the illustration of an Age, Bede'sHistoryhas been well compared by Cardinal Manning with theFioretti di S. Francesco, that exquisite illustration of the thirteenth century.
[24]The motto of the University of Oxford.
[24]The motto of the University of Oxford.
[25]Tacitus.
[25]Tacitus.
[26]St. John of Beverley.
[26]St. John of Beverley.
Page xxxvi.The Irish Mission in England during the seventh century was one of the great things of history.
The following expressions of Dr. von Döllinger respecting the Irish Church are more ardent than any I have ventured to use:—
'During the sixth and seventh centuries the Church of Ireland stood in the full beauty of its bloom. The spirit of the Gospel operated amongst the people with a vigorous and vivifying power: troops of holy men, from the highest to the lowest ranks of society, obeyed the counsel of Christ, and forsook all things that they might follow Him. There was not a country in the world, during this period, which could boast of pious foundations or of religious communities equal to those that adorned this far distant island. Among the Irish the doctrines of the Christian religion were preserved pure and entire; the names of heresy or of schism were not known to them; and in the Bishop of Rome they acknowledged and venerated the Supreme Head of the Church on earth, and continued with him, and through him with the whole Church, in a never interrupted communion. The schools in the Irish cloisters were at this time the most celebrated in all the West.... The strangers who visited the island, not only from the neighbouring shores of Britain, but also from the most remote nations of the Continent, received from the Irish people the most hospitable reception, a gratuitous entertainment, free instruction, and even the books that were necessary for the studies.... On the other hand, many holy and learned Irishmen left their own country to proclaim the Faith, to establish or to reform monasteries in distant lands, and thus to become the benefactors of almost every country in Europe.... The foundation of many of the English Sees is due to Irishmen.... These holy men served God, and not the world; they possessed neither gold nor silver, and all that they received from the rich passed through their hands into the hands of the poor. Kings and nobles visited them from time to time only to pray in their churches, or to listen to their sermons; and as long as they remained in the cloisters they were content with the humble food of the brethren. Wherever one of these ecclesiastics or monks came, he was received by all with joy; and whenever he was seen journeying across the country, the people streamed around him to implore his benediction, and to hearken to his words. The priests entered the villages only to preach or to administer the Sacraments; and so free were they from avarice, that it was only when compelled by the rich and noble that they would accept lands for the erection of monasteries.'
Page xliii.For both countries that early time was a period of wonderful spiritual greatness.
I cannot deny myself the pleasure of quoting the following passage illustrating the religious greatness both of the Irish and the English at the period referred to:—
'The seventh and eighth centuries are the glory of the Anglo-Saxon Church, as the sixth and seventh are of the Irish. As the Irish missionaries travelled down through England, France, and Switzerland, to Lower Italy, and attempted Germany at the peril of their lives, converting the barbarian, restoring the lapsed, encouraging the desolate, collecting the scattered, and founding churches, schools, and monasteries as they went along; so amid the deep pagan woods of Germany, and round about, the English Benedictine plied his axe, and drove his plough, planted his rude dwelling, and raised his rustic altar upon the ruins of idolatry; and then, settling down as a colonist upon the soil, began to sing his chants and to copy his old volumes, and thus to lay the slow butsure foundations of the new civilisation. Distinct, nay antagonistic, in character and talents, the one nation and the other, Irish and English—the one more resembling the Greek, the other the Roman—open from the first perhaps to jealousies as well as rivalries, they consecrated their respective gifts to the Almighty Giver, and, labouring together for the same great end, they obliterated whatever there was of human infirmity in their mutual intercourse by the merit of their common achievements. Each by turn could claim pre-eminence in the contest of sanctity and learning. In the schools of science England has no name to rival Erigena in originality, or St. Virgil in freedom of thought; nor (among its canonised women) any saintly virgin to compare with St. Bridget; nor, although it has 150 saints in its calendar, can it pretend to equal that Irish multitude which the Book of Life alone is large enough to contain. Nor can Ireland, on the other hand, boast of a doctor such as St. Bede, or of an apostle equal to St. Boniface, or of a martyr like St. Thomas; or of so long a catalogue of royal devotees as that of the thirty male or female Saxons who, in the course of two centuries, resigned their crowns; or as the roll of twenty-three kings, and sixty queens and princes, who, between the seventh and the eleventh centuries, gained a place among the saints.'—Cardinal Newman,Historic Sketches, 'The Isles of the North,' pp. 128-9.
Page 16.