"Then after seven nights He from the ark let forth A palid dove To fly after the swart raven, Over the deep water, To quest whether the foaming sea Had of the green earth Yet any part laid bare. Wide she flew seeking her own will, Far she flew yet found no rest. Because of the flood With her feet she might not perch on land, Nor on the tree leaves light. For the steep mountain tops Were whelmed in waters. Then the wild bird went At eventide the ark to seek. Over the darling wave she flew Weary, to sink hungry To the hands of the holy man." A second time the dove is sent forth, and this is how the poet tells of it:-- "Far and wide she flew Glad in flying free, till she found a place On a gentle tree. Gay of mood she was and glad Since she sorely tired, now could settle down, On the branches of the tree, on its beamy mast. Then she fluttered feathers, went a flying off again, With her booty flew, brought it to the sailor, From an olive tree a twig, right into his hands Brought the blade of green. "Then the chief of seamen knew that gladness was at hand, and he sent forth after three weeks the wild dove who came not back again; for she saw the land of the greening trees. The happy creature, all rejoicing, would no longer of the ark, for she needed it no more."* *Stopford Brooke Besides Genesis many other poems were thought at one time to have been made by Caedmon. The chief of these are Exodus and Daniel. They are all in an old book, called the Junian MS., from the name of the man, Francis Dujon, who first published them. The MS. was found among some other old books in Trinity College, Dublin, and given to Francis Dujon. He published the poems in 1655, and it is from that time that we date our knowledge of Caedmon. Wise men tell us that Caedmon could not have made any of these poems, not even the Genesis of which you have been reading. But if Caedmon did not make these very poems, he made others like them which have been lost. It was he who first showed the way, and other poets followed. We need not wonder, perhaps, that our poetry is a splendor of the world when we remember that it is rooted in these grand old tales, and that it awoke to life through the singing of a strong son of the soil, a herdsman and a poet. We know very little of this first of English poets, but what we do know makes us love him. He must have been a gentle, humble, kindly man, tender of heart and pure of mind. Of his birth we know nothing; of his life little except the story which has been told. And when death came to him, he met it cheerfully as he had lived. For some days he had been ill, but able still to walk and talk. But one night, feeling that the end of life for him was near, he asked the brothers to give to him for the last time the Eucharist, or sacrament of the Lord's Supper.