What brooding weight of genius! In his eye, How strangely was the pathos edged with light! How oft, his churches roaming, flashed its beam From pillar on to pillar, resting long On carven imagery of flower or fruit, Or deep-dyed window whence the heavenly choirs Gave joy to men below! With what a zeal He drew the cunningest craftsmen from all climes To express his thoughts in form; while yet his hand, Like meanest hand among us, patient toiled In garden and in bakehouse, threshed the corn, Or drave the calves to milk-pail! Earthly rule Had proved to him a weight intolerable; In spiritual beauty, there and there alone, Our Bennett Biscop found his native haunt, The lucent planet of his soul's repose: And yet--O wondrous might of human love-- One was there, one, to whom his heart was knit, Siegfried, in all unlike him save in worth. His was plain purpose, rectitude unwarped, Industry, foresight. On his friend's behalf He ruled long years those beauteous convents twain, Yet knew not they were beauteous! An abyss Severed in spirit those in heart so near: More late exterior severance came: three years In cells remote they dwelt, by sickness chained: But once they met--to die. I see them still: The monks had laid them on a single bed; Weeping, they turned them later each to each: I saw the snowy tresses softly mix; I saw the faded lips draw near and meet; Thus gently interwreathed I saw them die-- Strange strength of human love!' Still walked they on: As high the sun ascended, woodlands green Shivered all golden; and the old man's heart Brightened like them. His ever active mind Inquisitive took note of all it saw; And as some youth enamoured lifts a tress Of her he loves, and wonders, so the monk, Well loving Nature, loved her in detail, Now pleased with nestling bird, anon with flower, Now noting how the beech from dewy sheath Pushed forth its silken leaflets fringed with down, Exulting next because from sprays of lime The little fledgeling leaves, like creatures winged, Brake from their ruddy shells. Jesting, he cried: 'Algar! but hear those birds! Men say they sing To fire their young, night-bound, with gladsome news, And bid them seek the sun!' Sadly the youth With downward front, replied: 'My friend is dead; For me to gladden were to break a troth.' Upon the brow of Bede a shadow fell; Silent he paced, then stopped: 'Forgive me, Algar! Old men grow hard. Yet boys and girls salute The May: like them the old must have their maying; This is perchance my last.' As thus he spake They reached the summit of a grassy hill; Beneath there wound a stream, upon its marge A hamlet nestling lonely in the woods: