O'er that sea-murmur hoarse; and they were ware That in the black far-shadowing church whose bulk Up-towered between them and the moon, the monks Their matins had begun. A little sigh That moment reached them from the central gloom Guarding the sleeper's bed; a second sigh Succeeded: neither seemed the sigh of pain: And some one said, 'He wakens.' Large and bright Over the church-roof sudden rushed the moon, And smote the cross above that sleeper's couch, And smote that sleeper's face. The smile thereon Was calmer than the smile of life. Thus died Ceadmon, the earliest bard of English song. _KING OSWY OF NORTHUMBRIA, OR THE WIFE'S VICTORY_. Oswy, King of Bernicia, being at war with his kinsman Oswin, slays him unarmed. He refuses to repent of this sin; yet at last, subdued by the penitence, humility, and charity of Eanfleda, his wife, repents likewise, and builds a monastery over the grave of Oswin. Afterwards he becomes a great warrior and dies a saint. Young, beauteous, brave--the bravest of the brave-- Who loved not Oswin? All that saw him loved: Aidan loved most, monk of Iona's Isle, Northumbria's bishop next, from Lindisfarne Ruling in things divine. One morn it chanced That Oswin, noting how with staff in hand Old Aidan roamed his spiritual realm, footbare, Wading deep stream, and piercing thorny brake, Sent him a horse--his best. The Saint was pleased; But, onward while he rode, and, musing, smiled To think of these his honours in old age, A beggar claimed his alms. 'Gold have I none,' Aidan replied; 'this horse be thine!' The King, Hearing the tale, was grieved. 'Keep I, my lord, No meaner horses fit for beggar's use That thus my best should seem a thing of naught?' The Saint made answer: 'Beggar's use, my King! What was that horse? The foal of some poor mare! The least of men--the sinner--is God's child!' Then dropped the King on both his knees, and cried: 'Father, forgive me!' As they sat at meat Oswin was mirthful, and at jest and tale His hungry thanes laughed loud. But great, slow tears In silence trickled down old Aidan's face: These all men marked; yet no man question made. At last to one beside him Aidan spake In Irish tongue, unknown to all save them, 'God will not leave such meekness long on earth.'