Yet, boast who might of distant chief renowned, His battle-axe, or fist that felled an ox, The Anglian's answer was 'our Hilda' still: 'Is not her prayer trenchant as sworded hosts? Her insight more than wisdom of the seers? What birth like hers illustrious? Edwin's self, Deira's exile, next Northumbria's king, Her kinsman was. Together bowed they not When he of holy hand, missioned from Rome, Paulinus, o'er them poured the absolving wave And joined to Christ? Kingliest was she, that maid Who spurned earth-crowns!' More late the miller rose-- He ruled the feast, the miller old, yet blithe-- And cried, 'A song!' So song succeeded song, For each man knew that time to chant his stave, But no man yet sang nobly. Last the harp Made way to Ceadmon, lowest at the board: He pushed it back, answering, 'I cannot sing:' The rest around him flocked with clamour, 'Sing!' And one among them, voluble and small, Shot out a splenetic speech: 'This lord of kine, Our herdsman, grows to ox! Behold, his eyes Move slow, like eyes of oxen!' Slowly rose Ceadmon, and spake: 'I note full oft young men Quick-eyed, but small-eyed, darting glances round Now here, now there, like glance of some poor bird, That light on all things and can rest on none: As ready are they with their tongues as eyes; But all their songs are chirpings backward blown On winds that sing God's song, by them unheard: My oxen wait my service: I depart.' Then strode he to his cow-house in the mead, Displeased though meek, and muttered, 'Slow of eye! My kine are slow: if rapid I, my hand Might tend them worse.' Hearing his step, the kine Turned round their horned fronts; and angry thoughts Went from him as a vapour. Straw he brought, And strewed their beds; and they, contented well, Laid down ere long their great bulks, breathing deep Amid the glimmering moonlight. He, with head Propped on a favourite heifer's snowy flank, Rested, his deer-skin o'er him drawn. Hard days Bring slumber soon. His latest thought was this: 'Though witless things we are, my kine and I, Yet God it was who made us.' As he slept, Beside him stood a Man Divine, and spake: 'Ceadmon, arise, and sing,' Ceadmon replied, 'My Lord, I cannot sing, and for that cause Forth from the revel came I. Once, in youth, I willed to sing the bright face of a maid, And failed, and once a gold-faced harvest-field, And failed, and once the flame-eyed face of war, And failed again.' To him the Man Divine, 'Those themes were earthly. Sing!' And Ceadmon said, 'What shall I sing, my Lord?' Then answer came, 'Ceadmon, stand up, and sing thy song of God.'