That both might pass to heaven the self-same hour. It came: that sun which flushed the spray up-hurled In cloud round Cuthbert's eastern rock, while he Within it dying chanted psalm on psalm, Ere long enkindled Herbert's western lake: The splendour waxed; mountain to mountain laughed, And, brightening, nearer drew, and, nearing, clasped That heaven-dropp'd beauty in more strict embrace: The cliffs successive caught their crowns of fire; Blencathara last. Slowly that splendour waned; And from the glooming gorge of Borrodale, Her purple cowl shadowing her holy head O'er the dim lake twilight with silent foot Stepped like a spirit. Herbert from his bed Of shingles watched that sunset till it died; And at one moment from their distant isles Those friends, by death united, passed to God. _SAINT FRIDESWIDA, OR THE FOUNDATIONS OF OXFORD_. Frideswida flies from the pursuit of a wicked king, invoking the Divine aid and the prayers of St. Catherine and St. Cecilia. She escapes; and at the hour of her death those Saints reveal to her that in that place, near the Isis, where she has successively opened a blind man's eyes and healed a leper, God will one day raise up a seat of Learning, the light and the health of the realm. 'One love I; One: within His bridal bower My feet shall tread: One love I, One alone: His Mother is a Virgin, and His Sire The unfathomed fount of pureness undefiled: Him love I Whom to love is to be chaste: Him love I touched by Whom my forehead shines: Whom she that clasps grows spotless more and more: Behold, to mine His spirit He hath joined: And His the blood that mantles in my cheek: His ring is on my finger.' Thus she sang; Then walked and plucked a flower: she sang again: 'That which I longed for, lo, the same I see: That which I hoped for, lo, my hand doth hold: At last in heaven I walk with Him conjoined Whom, yet on earth, I loved with heart entire.' Thus carolled Frideswida all alone, Treading the opens of a wood far spread Around the upper waters of the Thames. Christian almost by instinct, earth to her Was shaped but to sustain the Cross of Christ. Her mother lived a saint: she taught her child, From reason's dawn, to note in all things fair Their sacred undermeanings. 'Mark, my child, In lamb and dove, not fleshly shapes,' she said, 'But heavenly types: upon the robin's breast Revere that red which bathed her from the Cross With slender bill striving to loose those Nails!' Dying, that mother placed within her hand A book of saintly legends. Thus the maid Grew up with mysteries clothed, with marvels fed, A fearless creature swift as wind or fire: But fires of hers were spirit-fires alone, All else like winter moon. The Wessex King