 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
98
BEDE.
Around thy memory there lingereth stillA rare and gracious savour, reverend man,
Whose patient toil so long ago began
To sink the sacred wells on Zion-hill,—
Whence issued ankle-deep truth's earliest rill,
That, deepening soon, in copious torrents ran
From thee their sometime patriarch, until
They reach us fathomless, a mighty sea:
O simple priest, pious, and just, and true,
Religious, learned,—thousand thanks are due
From England, and her children unto thee:
Thou, like thy Master, bowing His meek head,
Didst view thy perfect work of piety,
And die rejoicing it was finishèd.
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