O holy House of Whitby! on thy steep Rejoice, howe'er the tempest, night or day, Afflict thee, or the hand of Time to earth Drag down thine airy arches long suspense; Rejoice, for Ceadmon in thy cloisters knelt, And singing paced beside thy sounding sea! Long years he lived; and with the whitening hair More youthful grew in spirit, and more meek; Yea, those that saw him said he sang within Then when the golden mouth but seldom breathed Sonorous strain, and when--that fulgent eye No longer bright--still on his forehead shone Not flame but purer light, like that last beam Which, when the sunset woods no longer burn, Maintains high place on Alpine throne remote, Or utmost beak of promontoried cloud, And heavenward dies in smiles. Esteem of men Daily he less esteemed, through single heart More knit with God. To please a sickly child He sang his latest song, and, ending, said, 'Song is but body, though 'tis body winged: The soul of song is love: the body dead, The soul should thrive the more.' That Patmian Sage Whose head had lain upon the Saviour's breast, Who in high vision saw the First and Last, Who heard the harpings of the Elders crowned, Who o'er the ruins of the Imperial House And ashes of the twelve great Caesars dead Witnessed the endless triumph of the Just, To humbler life restored, and, weak through age, But seldom spake, and gave but one command, The great '_Mandatum Novum_' of his Lord, 'My children, love each other!' Like to his Was Ceadmon's age. Weakness with happy stealth Increased upon him: he was cheerful still: He still could pace, though slowly, in the sun, Still gladsomely converse with friends who wept, Still lay a broad hand on his well-loved kine.