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THE FIRST ENGLISH POET
Discern this Soul, his time and his abode:
In such a mould his reverent musings flow'd.
In such a mould his reverent musings flow'd.
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Dwelt a certain poor man in his day,
Near at hand to Hilda's holy house,
Learning's lighthouse, blessed beacon, built
High o'er sea and river, on the head,
Streaneshalch in Anglo-Saxon speech,
Whitby, after, by the Norsemen named.
Cædmon was he call'd; he came and went,
Doing humble duties for the monks,
Helping with the horses at behest;
Modest, meek, unmemorable man,
Moving slowly into middle age,
Toiling on,—twelve hundred years ago.
Near at hand to Hilda's holy house,
Learning's lighthouse, blessed beacon, built
High o'er sea and river, on the head,
Streaneshalch in Anglo-Saxon speech,
Whitby, after, by the Norsemen named.
Cædmon was he call'd; he came and went,
Doing humble duties for the monks,
Helping with the horses at behest;
Modest, meek, unmemorable man,
Moving slowly into middle age,
Toiling on,—twelve hundred years ago.
Still and silent, Cædmon sometimes sat
With the serfs at lower end of hall;
There he marvell'd much to hear the monks
Singing sweetly hymns unto their harp,
Handing it from each to each in turn,
Till his heart-strings trembled. Otherwhile,
When the serfs were merry with themselves,
Sung their folk-songs upon festal nights,
Handing round the harp to each in turn,
Cædmon, though he loved not lighter songs,
Long'd to sing,—but he could never sing.
With the serfs at lower end of hall;
There he marvell'd much to hear the monks
Singing sweetly hymns unto their harp,
Handing it from each to each in turn,
Till his heart-strings trembled. Otherwhile,
When the serfs were merry with themselves,
Sung their folk-songs upon festal nights,
Handing round the harp to each in turn,
Cædmon, though he loved not lighter songs,
Long'd to sing,—but he could never sing.
Sad and silent would he creep away,
Wander forth alone, he wist not why,
Watch the sky and water, stars or clouds
Climbing from the sea; and in his soul
Shadows mounted up and mystic lights,
Echoes vague and vast return'd the voice
Of the rushing river, roaring waves,
Twilight's windy whisper from the fells,
Howl of brindled wolf, and cry of bird;
Every sight and sound of solitude
Ever mingling in a master thought,
Glorious, terrible, of the Mighty One
Who made all things. As the Book declared.
“In the Beginning He made Heaven and Earth.”
Wander forth alone, he wist not why,
Watch the sky and water, stars or clouds
Climbing from the sea; and in his soul
Shadows mounted up and mystic lights,
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Of the rushing river, roaring waves,
Twilight's windy whisper from the fells,
Howl of brindled wolf, and cry of bird;
Every sight and sound of solitude
Ever mingling in a master thought,
Glorious, terrible, of the Mighty One
Who made all things. As the Book declared.
“In the Beginning He made Heaven and Earth.”
Thus lived Cædmon, quiet year by year;
Listen'd, learn'd a little, as he could;
Work'd, and mused, and pray'd, and held his peace.
Listen'd, learn'd a little, as he could;
Work'd, and mused, and pray'd, and held his peace.
Toward the end of harvest time, the hinds
Held a feast, and sung their festal songs,
Handing round the harp from each to each.
But before it came where Cædmon sat,
Sadly, silently, he stole away,
Wander'd to the stable-yard and wept,
Weeping laid him low among the straw,
Fell asleep at last. And in his sleep
Came a Stranger, calling him by name:
“Cædmon, sing to me!” “I cannot sing.
Wherefore—wo is me!—I left the house.”
“Sing, I bid thee!” “What then shall I sing?”
“Sing the Making of the World.” Whereon
Cædmon sung: and when he woke from sleep
Still the verses stay'd with him, and more
Sprang like fountain-water from a rock
Fed from never-failing secret springs.
Held a feast, and sung their festal songs,
Handing round the harp from each to each.
But before it came where Cædmon sat,
Sadly, silently, he stole away,
Wander'd to the stable-yard and wept,
Weeping laid him low among the straw,
Fell asleep at last. And in his sleep
Came a Stranger, calling him by name:
“Cædmon, sing to me!” “I cannot sing.
Wherefore—wo is me!—I left the house.”
“Sing, I bid thee!” “What then shall I sing?”
“Sing the Making of the World.” Whereon
Cædmon sung: and when he woke from sleep
Still the verses stay'd with him, and more
Sprang like fountain-water from a rock
Fed from never-failing secret springs.
Praising Heaven most high, but nothing proud,
Cædmon sought the Steward and told his tale,
Who to Holy Hilda led him in,
Pious Princess Hilda, pure of heart,
Ruling Mother, royal Edwin's niece.
Cædmon at her bidding boldly sang
Of the Making of the World, in words
Wondrous; whereupon they wotted well
'Twas an Angel taught him, and his gift
Came direct from God: and glad were they.
Cædmon sought the Steward and told his tale,
Who to Holy Hilda led him in,
Pious Princess Hilda, pure of heart,
Ruling Mother, royal Edwin's niece.
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Of the Making of the World, in words
Wondrous; whereupon they wotted well
'Twas an Angel taught him, and his gift
Came direct from God: and glad were they.
Thenceforth Holy Hilda greeted him
Brother of the brotherhood. He grew
Famedest monk of all the monastery;
Singing many high and holy songs
Folk were fain to hear, and loved him for:
Till his death-day came, that comes to all.
Brother of the brotherhood. He grew
Famedest monk of all the monastery;
Singing many high and holy songs
Folk were fain to hear, and loved him for:
Till his death-day came, that comes to all.
Cædmon bode that evening in his bed,
He at peace with men and men with him;
Wrapt in comfort of the Eucharist;
Weak and silent. “Soon our Brethren sing
Evensong?” he whisper'd. “Brother, yea.”
“Let us wait for that,” he said; and soon
Sweetly sounded up the solemn chant.
Cædmon smiled and listen'd; when it lull'd,
Sidelong turn'd to sleep his old white head,
Shut his eyes, and gave his soul to God,
Maker of the World.
He at peace with men and men with him;
Wrapt in comfort of the Eucharist;
Weak and silent. “Soon our Brethren sing
Evensong?” he whisper'd. “Brother, yea.”
“Let us wait for that,” he said; and soon
Sweetly sounded up the solemn chant.
Cædmon smiled and listen'd; when it lull'd,
Sidelong turn'd to sleep his old white head,
Shut his eyes, and gave his soul to God,
Maker of the World.
Twelve hundred years
Since are past and gone, nor he forgot,
Earliest Poet of the English Race.
Rude and simple were his days and thoughts.
Wisely speaketh no man, howso learn'd,
Of the making of this wondrous World,
Save a Poet, with a reverent soul.
Since are past and gone, nor he forgot,
Earliest Poet of the English Race.
Rude and simple were his days and thoughts.
Wisely speaketh no man, howso learn'd,
Of the making of this wondrous World,
Save a Poet, with a reverent soul.
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