At once he called to mind the days that were; His wanderings in Northumbrian glens; the hearths That welcomed him so joyously; at once Within his breast the heart parental yearned; He longed to see his children, scattered wide From Humber's bank to Tweed, from sea to sea, And cried to those around him: 'Let us forth, And visit all my charge; and since Carlisle Remotest sits upon its western bound, Keep there this year our Pentecost!' Next day He passed the sands, left hard by ebbing tide, His cross-bearer and brethren six in front, And trod the mainland. Reverent, first he sought His childhood's nurse, and 'neath her humble roof Abode one night. To Melrose next he fared Honouring his master old. Southward once more Returning, scarce a bow-shot from the woods There rode to him a mighty thane, one-eyed, With warriors circled, on a jet-black horse, Barbaric shape and huge, yet frank as fierce, Who thus made boast: 'A Jute devout am I! What raised that convent-pile on yonder rock? This hand! I wrenched the hillside from a foe By force, and gave it to thy Christian monks To spite yet more those Angles! Island Saint, Unprofitable have I found thy Faith! Behold, those priests, thy thralls, are savage men, Unrighteous, ruthless! For a sin of mine They laid on me a hundred days of fast! A man am I keen-witted: friend and liege I summoned, shewed my wrong, and ended thus: "Sirs, ye are ninety-nine, the hundredth I; I counsel that we share this fast among us! To-morrow from the dawn to evening's star No food as bulky as a spider's tongue Shall pass our lips; and thus in one day's time My hundred days of fast shall stand fulfilled." Wrathful they rose, and sware by Peter's keys That fight they would, albeit 'gainst Peter's self; But fast they would not save for personal sins. Signal I made: then backward rolled the gates, And, captured thus, they fasted without thanks, Cancelling my debt--a hundred days in one! Beseech you, Father, chide your priests who breed Contention thus 'mid friends!' The Saint replied, 'Penance is irksome, Thane: to 'scape its scourge Ways are there various; and the easiest this, Keep far from mortal sin.' Where'er he faced, The people round him pressed--the sick, the blind, Young mothers sad because a babe was pale; Likewise the wives of fishers, praying loud Their husbands' safe return. Rejoiced he was To see them, hear them, touch them; wearied never: Whate'er they said delighted still he heard: The rise and fall of empires touched him less, The book rich-blazoned, or the high-towered church: 'We have,' he said, 'God's children, and their God: The rest is fancy's work.' Him too they loved; Loved him the more because, so great and wise,