Death of Beda

Northumbrian breezes freshly blewAround a cloistered pile,And Tyne, high-swoln with vernal rains,Was murmuring near the while;And there, within his studious cell,The man of mighty mind,His cowled and venerable browWith sickness pale, reclined.

Yet still, to give God's word a voice,To bless the British Isles,He labored, while inspiring faithSustained the toil with smiles;

Still o'er the loved disciple's pageHis fervent spirit hung,Regardless though the grasp of painEach shuddering nerve unstrung.

"Speed on!" Then flew the writer's penWith grief and fear perplext,For Death's sure footstep nearer drewWith each receding text.The prompting breath more faintly came—"Speed on!—his form I see—That awful messenger of God,Who may not stay for me."

"Master, 'tis done." "Thou speakest well,Life with thy lines kept pace"—They bare him to the place of prayer,The death-dew on his face;And there, while o'er the gasping breastThe last keen torture stole,With the high watch-word of the skies,Went forth that sainted soul.