The ending of the Book of Saxon Saints. With one lay-brother only blessed Bede, In after times 'The Venerable' named, Passed from his convent, Jarrow. Where the Tyne Blends with the sea, all beautiful it stood, Bathed in the sunrise. At the mouth of Wear A second convent, Wearmouth, rose. That hour The self-same matin splendour gilt them both; And in some speech of mingling lights, not words, Both sisters praised their God. 'Apart, yet joined'-- So mused the old man gazing on the twain: Then onward paced, with head above his book, Murmuring his office. Algar walked behind, A youth of twenty years, with tonsured head, And face, though young, forlorn. An hour had passed; They reached a craggy height; and looking back, Beheld once more beyond the forest roof Those two fair convents glittering--at their feet Those two clear rivers winding! Bound by rule, Again the monk addressed him to his book; Lection and psalm recited, thus he spake: 'Why placed our holy Founder thus so near His convents? Why, albeit a single rule, At last a single hand, had sway o'er both, Placed them at distance? Hard it were to guess: I know but this, that severance here on earth Is strangely linked with union of the heart, Union with severance. Thou hast lost, young friend, But lately lost thy boyhood's dearest mate, Thine earliest friend, a brother of thy heart, True Christian soul though dwelling in the world; Fear not such severance can extinguish love Here, or hereafter! He whom most I loved Was severed from me by the tract of years: A child of nine years old was I, when first Jarrow received me: pestilence ere long Swept from that house her monks, save one alone, Ceolfrid, then its abbot. Man and child, We two the lonely cloisters paced; we two Together chaunted in the desolate church: I could not guess his thoughts; to him my ways Were doubtless as the ways of some sick bird Watched by a child. Not less I loved him well: Me too he somewhat loved. Beneath one roof We dwelt--and yet how severed! Save in God, What know men, one of other? Here on earth, Perhaps 'tis wiser to be kind to all In large goodwill of helpful love, yet free, Than link to one our heart-- Poor youth! that love which walks in narrow ways Is tragic love, be sure.' With gentle face The novice spake his gratitude. Once more, His hand upon the shoulder of the youth, (For now they mounted slow a bosky dell) The old man spake--yet not to him--in voice Scarce louder than the murmuring pines close by; For, by his being's law he seemed, like them, At times when pensive memories in him stirred, Vocal not less than visible: 'How great Was he, our Founder! In that ample brow,