Who loved not Oswin? Not alone his realm, Deira, loved him, but Bernician lords Whose monarch, Oswy, was a man of storms, Fierce King albeit in youth baptized to Christ; At heart half pagan. Swift as northern cloud Through summer skies, he swept with all his host Down on the rival kingdom. Face to face The armies stood. But Oswin, when he marked His own a little flock 'mid countless wolves, Addressed them thus: 'Why perish, friends, for me? From exile came I: for my people's sake To exile I return, or gladlier die: Depart in peace.' He rode to Gilling Tower; And waited there his fate. Thither next day King Oswy marched, and slew him. Twelve days passed; Then Aidan, while through green Northumbria's woods Pensive he paced, steadying his doubtful steps, Felt death approaching. Giving thanks to God, The old man laid him by a church half raised Amid great oaks and yews, and, leaning there His head against the buttress, passed to God. They made their bishop's grave at Lindisfarne; But Oswin rested at the mouth of Tyne Within a wave-girt, granite promontory Where sea and river meet. For many an age The pilgrim from far countries came in faith To that still shrine--they called it 'Oswin's Peace,'-- Thither the outcast fled for sanctuary: The sick man there found health. Thus Oswin lived, Though dead, a benediction in the land. What gentlest form kneels on the rain-washed ground From Gilling's keep a stone's-throw? Whose those hands Now pressed in anguish on a bursting heart, Now o'er a tearful countenance spread in shame? What purest mouth, but roseless for great woe, With zeal to youthful lovers never known Presses a new-made grave, and through the blades Of grass wind-shaken breathes her piteous prayer? Save from remorse came ever grief like hers? Yet how could ever sin, or sin's remorse, Find such fair mansion? Oswin's grave it is; And she that o'er it kneels is Eanfleda, Kinswoman of the noble dead, and wife To Oswin's murderer--Oswy. Saddest one And sweetest! Lo, that cloud which overhung Her cradle swathes once more in deeper gloom Her throne late won, and new-decked bridal bed. This was King Edwin's babe, whose natal star Shone on her father's pathway doubtful long, Shone there a line of light, from pagan snares Leading to Christian baptism. Penda heard-- Penda, that drew his stock from Odin's loins, Penda, that drank his wine from skulls of foes, Penda, fierce Mercia's king. He heard, and fell In ruin on the region. Edwin dead, Paulinus led the widow and her babe Back to that Kentish shore whereon had reigned Its grandsire Ethelbert. The infant's feet Pattered above the pavement of that church