The Tees, the fairest in this Northern land: Beside its restless wave thine eye shall rest On vision lovelier far and more benign Than all it yet hath seen."' Northward once more They faced, and, three days travelling, reached at eve Again those ivied cliffs that guard the Tees: There as they stood a homeward dove, with flight Softer for contrast with that turbulent stream, Sailed through the crimson eve. 'No sight like that!' Thus murmured Bede; 'ever to me it seems A Christian soul returning to its rest.' A shade came o'er his countenance as he mused; Algar remarked that shade, though what it meant He knew not yet. The old man from that hour Seemed mirthful less, less buoyant, beaming less, Yet not less glad. At dead of night, while hung The sacred stars upon their course half way, He left his couch, and thus to Egbert wrote, Meek man--too meek--the brother of the king, With brow low bent, and onward sweeping hand, Great words, world-famed: 'Remember thine account! The Lord's Apostles are the salt of earth; Let salt not lose its savour! Flail and fan Are given thee. Purge thou well thy threshing floor! Repel the tyrant; hurl the hireling forth; That so from thy true priests true hearts may learn True faith, true love, and nothing but the truth!' Before the lark he rose the morrow morn, And stood by Algar's bed, and spake: 'Arise! Playtime is past; the great, good work returns; To Jarrow speed we!' Homeward, day by day, Thenceforth they sped with foot that lagged no more, That youth, at first so mournful, joyous now, That old man oft in thought. Next day, while eve Descended dim, and clung to Hexham's groves, He passed its abbey, silent. Wonder-struck Algar demanded, 'Father, pass you thus That church where holy John[26] ordained you priest? Pass you its Bishop, Acca, long your friend? Yearly he woos your visit; tells you tales Of Hexham's saintly Wilfred; shows you still Chalice or cross new-won from distant shores: Nor these alone:--glancing from such last year A page he read you of some Pagan bard With smiles; yet ended with a sigh, and said: "Where is he now?"' The man of God replied: 'Desire was mine to see mine ancient friend; For that cause came I hither:--time runs short':-- Then, Algar sighing, thus he added mild, 'Let go that theme; thy mourning time is past: Thy gladsome time is now.' As on they walked, Later he spake: 'It may be I was wrong; Old friends should part in hope.' On Jarrow's towers, Bright as that sunrise while that pair went forth The sunset glittered when, their wanderings past, Bede and his comrade by the bank of Tyne Once more approached the gates. Six hundred monks Flocked forth to meet them. 'They had grieved, I know,'