A week went by with gladness winged and prayer. In wonder Cedd beheld those structures new From small beginnings reared, though many a gift, Sent for that work's behoof, had fed the poor In famine time laid low. Moorlands he saw By cornfields vanquished; marked the all-beauteous siege Of pasture yearly threatening loftier crags Loud with the bleat of lambs. Their shepherd once Had roved a bandit; next had toiled a slave; Now with both hands he poured his weekly wage Down on his young wife's lap, his pretty babes Gambolling around for joy. A hospital Stood by the convent's gate. With moistened eye, Musing on Him Who suffers in His sick, The Bishop paced it. There he found his death: That year a plague had wasted all the land: It reached him. Late that night he said, ''Tis well!' In three days more he lay with hands death cold Crossed on a peaceful breast. Like winter cloud Borne through dark air, that portent feared of man, Ill tidings, making way with mystic speed, Shadowed ere long the troubled bank of Thames, And spread a wailing round its Minsters twain, Saint Peter's and Saint Paul's. Saint Alban's caught That cry, and northward echoed. Southward soon Forlorn it rang 'mid towers of Rochester; Then seaward died. But in that convent pile, Wherein so long the Saint had made abode, A different grief there lived, a deeper grief, That grief which part hath none in sobs or tears-- Which needs must act. There thirty monks arose, And, taking each his staff, made vow thenceforth To serve God's altar where their father died, Or share his grave. Through Ithancestor's gate As forth they paced between two kneeling crowds, A little homeless boy, who heard their dirge (Late orphaned, at its grief he marvelled not), So loved them that he followed, shorter steps Doubling 'gainst theirs. At first the orphan went That mood relaxed: before them now he ran To pluck a flower; as oft he lagged behind, The wild bird's song so aptly imitating That, by his music drawn, or by his looks, That bird at times forgat her fears, and perched Pleased on his arm. As flower and bird to him Such to those monks the child. Better each day He loved them; yet, revering, still he mocked, And though he mocked, he kissed. The westering sun On the eighth eve from towers of Lastingham Welcomed those strangers. In another hour, Well-nigh arrived, they saw that grave they sought Sole on the church's northern slope. As when, Some father, absent long, returns at last, His children rush loud-voiced from field to house, And cling about his knees; and they that mark-- Old reaper, bent no more, with hook in hand, Or ploughman, leaning 'gainst the old blind horse-- Beholding wonder not; so to that grave Rushed they; so clung.