Storm-borne from crag to crag. Serener breeze, With alternation soft in Nature's course, Following ere long, great Easter's harbinger, Thus spake he: 'I must keep the Feast at home; My children there expect me.' Parting thence, He left his brothers three to consummate His work begun, Celin, and Cynabil, And Chad, at Lichfield Bishop ere he died. Thus Lastingham had birth. Beside the Thames Meantime dark deeds were done. There dwelt two thanes, The kinsmen of the King, his friends in youth, Of meanest friend unworthy. Far and wide They ravined, and the laws of God and man Despised alike. Three times, in days gone by, A warning hand their Bishop o'er them raised; The fourth like bolt from heaven on them it fell, And clave them from God's Church. They heeded not; And now the elder kept his birthday feast, Summoning his friends around him, first the King. Doubtful and sad, the o'er-gentle monarch mused: 'To feast with sinners is to sanction sin, A deed abhorred; the alternative is hard: Must then their sovereign shame with open scorn Kinsman and friend? I think they mourn the past, And, were our Bishop here, would pardon sue.' Boding, yet self-deceived, he joined that feast: Thereat he saw scant sign of penitence: Ere long he bade farewell. That self-same hour Cedd from his northern pilgrimage returned; The monarch met him at the offenders' gate, And, instant when he saw that reverend face, His sin before him stood. Down from his horse Leaping, he told him all, and penance prayed. Long time the old man on that royal front Fixed a sad eye. 'Thy sin was great, my son, Shaming thy God to spare a sinner's shame: That sin thy God forgives, and I remit: But those whom God forgives He chastens oft: My son, I see a sign upon thy brow! Ere yonder lessening moon completes her wane Behold, the blood-stained hand late clasped in thine Shall drag thee to thy death.' The King replied: 'A Sigebert there lived, East Anglia's King, Whose death was glorious to his realm. May mine, Dark and inglorious, strengthen hearts infirm, And profit thus my land.' A time it was When Christian mercy, judged by Pagan hearts, Not virtue seemed but sin. That sin's reproach The King had long sustained. Ere long it chanced That, near the stronghold of that impious feast, A vanquished rebel, long in forests hid, Drew near, and knelt to Sigebert for grace, And won his suit. The monarch's kinsmen twain, Those men of blood, forth-gazing from a tower, Saw all; heard all. Upon them fury fell, As when through cloudless skies there comes a blast From site unknown, that, instant, finds its prey, Circling some white-sailed bark, or towering tree,