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An hind nigheth hitherward, fluting ín his fist:
Loiteríng herdfolk, with browsing flocks, approach.
And with them cometh One, hipping on his staff:
I thereby know him, with his ancient looks.
'Tis Saxon Cædmon, warden of the folds:
Bond-servant tó an Abbey of holy women;
Whose belfry and réd tile-stones, tímbered amídst
Thick oaken wald, that lards the Minsters swine;
Now partly in yónder slade, from hence be seen.
Bowed with old rheums, this guardian óf the folds;
With hoary beard, low hanging ón his breast:
Likens those old saints' effigied images:
Whose antique portraitures éven now remain;
Blackened with eld and smoke and grossly limned;
On vénerable cloisters' párgetted walls.
Cædmon, for aught he goeth in servile weed,

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Rough wadmel coat and sárk of unbleached line;
With galages ón his feet: is he whom men
Master song-smith esteemed, in his lifes time,
On Englisc tongue. Whereín he a bondsman, born
Of cattle-kéepers, poor landsfolk; untaught,
Save only of Heaven, which harbours in his heart;
GODS ethling was. He canticles of the Lamb,
Maketh daily, óf heavenly Vision, his soul seeth;
Whence sungen are anthems in their Minster church.