Untangling ravelled evidence, and still Tracking traditions upward to their source, Like him, that Halicarnassean sage, Of antique history sire. 'I trust, my friends, To leave your sons, for lore by you bestowed Fair recompense, large measure well pressed down, Recording still God's kingdom in this land, History which all may read, and gentle hearts Loving, may grow in grace. Long centuries passed, If wealth should make this nation's heart too fat, And things of earth obscure the things of heaven, Haply such chronicle may prompt high hearts Wearied with shining nothings, back to cast Remorseful gaze through mists of time, and note That rock whence they were hewn. From youth to age Inmate of yonder convent on the Tyne, I question every pilgrim, priest, or prince, Or peasant grey, and glean from each his sheaf: Likewise the Bishops here and Abbots there Still send me deed of gift, or chronicle Or missive from the Apostolic See: Praise be to God Who fitteth for his place Not only high but mean! With wisdom's strength He filled our mitred Wilfred, born to rule; To saintly Cuthbert gave the spirit of prayer; On me, as one late born, He lays a charge Slender, yet helpful still.' Then spake a man Burly and big, that last at banquet sat, 'Father, is history true?' and Bede replied; 'The man who seeks for Truth like hidden gold, And shrinks from falsehood as a leper's touch Shall write true history; not the truth unmixed With fancies, base or high; not truth entire; Yet truth beneficent to man below. One Book there is that errs not: ye this day Have learned therefrom your Lord's Beatitudes: That Book contains its histories--like them none, Since written none from standing point so high, With insight so inspired, such measure just Of good and ill; high fruit of aid divine. The slothful spurn that Book; the erroneous warp: But they who read its page, or hear it read, Their guide, God's Spirit, and the Church of God, Shall hear the voice of Truth for ever nigh, Shall see the Truth, now sunlike, and anon Like dagger-point of light from dewy grass Flashed up, a word that yet confutes a life, Pierces, perchance a nation's heart: shall see Far more--the Truth Himself in human form, Walking not farms and fields of Eastern lands Alone, but these our English fields and farms; Shall see Him on the dusky mount at prayer; Shall see Him in the street and by the bier; Shall see Him at the feast, and at the grave; Now from the boat discoursing, and anon Staying the storm, or walking on its waves; Thus shall our land become a holy land And holy those who tread her!' Lifting then Heavenward that tome, he said, 'The Book of God! As stands God's Church, 'mid kingdoms of this world