He stumbled oft in trifles. Once he said, 'How well those pine-trees shield the lamb from wind!' A smile ran round; at last the boldest spake, 'Father, these are not pine-trees--these are oaks.' And Cuthbert answered, 'Oaks, good sooth, they are! In youth I knew the twain apart: the pine Wears on his head the Cross.' Instruction next He gave them, how the Cross had vanquished sin: Then first abstruse to some appeared his words. 'Father,' they answered, 'speak in parables! For pleasant is the tale, and, onward passed, Keeps in our hearts thy lesson.' While they spake, A youth rich-vested tossed his head and cried: 'Father, why thus converse with untaught hinds? Their life is but the life of gnats and flies: They think but of the hour. Behold yon church! I reared it both for reverence of thy Christ, And likewise that through ages yet to come My name might live in honour!' At that word Cuthbert made answer: 'Hear the parable! My people craved for such. A monk there lived Holiest of men reputed. He was first On winter mornings in the freezing stall; Meekest when chidden; fervent most in prayer: And, late in life, when heresies arose, That book he wrote, like tempest winged from God, Drave them to darkness back. Grey-haired he died; With honour was interred. The years went by; His grave they opened. Peacefully he slept, Unchanged, the smile of death upon his lips: O'er the right hand alone, for so it seemed, Had Death retained his power: five little lines, White ashes, showed where once the fingers lay. All saw it--simple, learned, rich and poor: None might divine the cause. That night, behold! A Saintly Shape beside the abbot stood, Bright like the sun except one lifted palm-- Thereon there lay a stain. 'Behold that hand!' The Spirit spake, 'that, toiling twenty years, Sent forth that book which pacified the world; For it the world would canonise me Saint! See that ye do it not! Inferior tasks I wrought for God alone. Building that book Too oft I mused, "Far years will give thee praise." I expiate that offence.' Another day A sweet-faced woman raised her voice, and cried, 'Father! those sins denounced by God I flee; Yet tasks imposed by God too oft neglect: Stands thus a soul imperilled?' Cuthbert spake: 'Ye sued for parables; I speak in such, Though ill, a language strange to me, and new. There lived a man who shunned committed sin, Yet daily by omission sinned and knew it: In his own way, not God's, he served his God; And there was with him peace; yet not God's peace. So passed his youth. In age he dreamed a dream: He dreamed that, being dead, he raised his eyes, And saw a mountain range of frozen snows,