And heard, "Committed sins innumerable Though each one small--so small thou knew'st them not-- Uplifted, flake by flake as sin by sin, Yon barrier 'twixt thy God and thee! Arise, Remembering that of sins despair is worst: Be strong, and scale it!" Fifty years he scaled Those hills; so long it seemed. A cavern next Entering, with mole-like hands he scooped his way, And reached at last the gates of morn. Ah me! A stone's cast from him rose the Tree of Life: He heard its sighs ecstatic: Full in view The Beatific River rolled; beyond All-glorious shone the City of the Saints Clothed with God's light! And yet from him that realm Was severed by a gulf! Not wide that strait; It seemed a strong man's leap twice told--no more; But, as insuperably soared that cliff, Unfathomably thus its sheer descent Walled the abyss. Again he heard that Voice: "Henceforth no place remains for active toils, Penance for acts perverse. Inactive sloth Through passive suffering meets its due. On earth That sloth a nothing seemed; a nothing now That chasm whose hollow bars thee from the Blest, Poor slender film of insubstantial air. Self-help is here denied thee; for that cause A twofold term thou need'st of pain love-taught To expiate Love that lacked." That term complete An angel caught him o'er that severing gulf:-- Thenceforth he saw his God.' With such discourse Progress, though slow and interrupted oft, The Saint of God, by no delay perturbed, Made daily through his sacred charge. One eve He walked by pastures arched along the sea, With many companied. The on-flowing breeze Glazed the green hill-tops, bending still one way The glossy grasses: limitless below The ocean mirror, clipped by cape or point With low trees inland leaning, lay like lakes Flooding rich lowlands. Southward far, a rock Touched by a rainy beam, emerged from mist, And shone, half green, half gold. That rock was Farne: Though strangers, those that kenned it guessed its name: 'Doubtless 'twas there,' they said, 'our Saint abode!' Then pressed around him, questioning: 'Rumour goes, Father beloved, that in thine island home Thou sat'st all day with hammer small in hand, Shaping, from pebbles veined, miraculous beads That save their wearers still from sword and lance:-- Are these things true? 'Smiling the Saint replied: 'True, and not true! That isle in part is spread With pebbles divers-fashioned, some like beads: I gathered such, and gave to many a guest, Adding, "Such beads shall count thy nightly prayers; Pray well; then fear no peril!"' Others came And thus demanded: 'Rumour fills the world, Father, that birds miraculous crowned thine isle, And awe-struck let thee lift them in thy hand,