Yet day by day thus far I tracked thy steps At distance, for my betters leaving place, The great and wise that round thee thronged; the young Who ne'er till then had seen thy face; the old Who saw it then, yet scarce again may see. Father, a happier lot was mine, thou know'st, Or had been save for sin of mine: each year I sought thy cell, thy words of wisdom heard; Yet still, alas! lived on like sensual men Who yield their hearts to creatures--fixing long A foolish eye on gold-touched leaf, or flower-- Not Him, the great Creator. Father and Friend, The years run past. I crave one latest boon: Grant that we two may die the self-same day!' Then Cuthbert knelt, and prayed. At last he spake: 'Thy prayer is heard; the self-same day and hour We two shall die.' That promise was fulfilled; For two years only on exterior tasks God set His servant's hands--the man who 'sought In all things rest,' nor e'er had ceased from rest Then when his task was heaviest. Two brief years He roamed on foot his spiritual realm: The simple still he taught: the sad he cheered: Where'er he went he founded churches still, And convents; yea, and, effort costlier far, Spared not to scan defect with vigilant eye: That eye the boldest called not 'vision-dazed'; That Saint he found no 'dreamer:' sloth or greed 'Scaped not his vengeance: scandals hid he not, But dragged them into day, and smote them down: Before his face he drave the hireling priest, The bandit thane: unceasing cried, 'Ye kings, Cease from your wars! Ye masters, loose your slaves!' Two years sufficed; for all that earlier life Had trained the Ascetic for those works of might Beyond the attempt of all but boundless love, And in him kept unspent the fire divine. Never such Bishop walked till then the North, Nor ever since, nor ever, centuries fled, So lived in hearts of men. Two years gone by, His strength decayed. He sought once more his cell Sea-lulled; and lived alone with God; and saw Once more, like lights that sweep the unmoving hills, God's providences girdling all the world, With glory following glory. Tenderer-souled Herbert meantime within his isle abode, At midnight listening Derwent's gladsome voice Mingling with deep-toned Greta's, 'Mourner' named; Pacing, each day, the shore; now gazing glad On gold-touched leaf, or bird that cut the mere, Now grieved at wandering thoughts. For men he prayed; And ever strove to raise his soul to God; And God, Who venerates still the pure intent, Forgat not his; and since his spirit and heart Holy albeit, were in the Eyes Divine Less ripe than Cuthbert's for the Vision Blest, Least faults perforce swelling where gifts are vast, That God vouchsafed His servant sickness-pains Virtue to perfect in a little space,