Nought of vengeance nor of wailing, no woe-token ever.
Nor the narrow death, misery nor Eld,

Nor the loss of life,

Nought of strife or sin,

nor of loathly ill the coming;

nought of sorrow-soreness,

Nor the wretchlessness of want, nor of wealth the needing;
Neither sleep nor sadness, nor the sickman's weary bed,

Nor the winter-whirling snow, nor the wax and wane of tempests

Roughly storming under skies - nor the savage frost,

with

crushes down the folk! hurtleth down to earth;

nor rain-water falleth, but the liquid streamlets, from their wells upspringing, their lovely floods.

With his chill cold icicles,
There no hail or hrime
Never vapours full of wind,
Lashed the lift about 1.
Wonderfully beautiful,
Softly lap the land
Winsome are the waters
Which, at every moon,
Surge up cold as sea-foam;
Gloriously, from time to time;
That the mirth of river floods,
All about the fame-fast land
There with gladsome growths
With the (wildwood) blossoms.
Hallowed under heaven,

from the woodlands' middle
through the mossy turf of earth,
seek their path around the trees
for 'tis God's behest
every month that goes,
should o'erflow in play!
all the groves are hung,
Never wither there,
of the holt the lovelinesses!
falls upon the earth,

Never there the fallow foliage

Fairness it of forest trees; full of beauty are

Evermore the branches,

bent adown upon the trees,

With a fruitage always fresh, fadeless day by day!

On the grassy plain,
Brightest-gleaming of all groves,
Through the craft 2 of Holy God!
In the beauty of the holt; there
Wons above the winsome land;
Ever through the ages,
To the ancient work of old

stands in green array

gloriously enclad,

Never change is there
its holy fragrance
nor is waning known
till the end He brings

who erst its making had.

Phoenix, ll. 1-84.

The writer of these verses had lost his youthful unconsciousness in art, and, in endeavouring after his Latin original, was not himself quite free; yet his natural originality breaks through his convention. His work is scattered, but he has tried to give it some unity by the use of a refrain. It is also full of

1 Or lashed by the air, by the wind.

2 I use craft in all these translations with its old meaning of power.

repetition, but the repetition is but another instance of the pleasure with which the Northumbrian poet dwelt on that aspect of natural scenery and soft air which the Christian vision of Eden afforded him when the bitter weather froze his bones. Moreover, though the thoughts are repeated, the words used in the repetition are different; and different words, I have already said, for various phases of the same natural phenomenon are a proof that the people and the poet who use them are close and affectionate observers of Nature. I repeat the statement in connection with the subject of this chapter. The poetry of natural description, already slightly touched in Beowulf, was developed to a much greater fulness under the influence of Christianity. It is a very remarkable and uncommon thing that, at this early time, such a poetry should have existed at all; that the doings of Nature should have been made, by deliberate choice, a separate subject of song. This owes its origin, I think, partly to a special strain in the nature of the Northern English, the cause of which I cannot render definite; partly, I believe, to the reading of Virgil. It was, no doubt, strengthened by an admixture of Celtic blood. Whatever its origins, it is of extraordinary interest when we consider that in the European poetry of the last 150 years there has been no growth of the poetry of natural description so varied or so complete as that which arose into flower in Great Britain. In Germany that poetry was fairly wrought, but it was not, at the beginnings of this century, as full or of so great a range as ours, nor is it now. In France, that poetry has been, of late years, extensive, tender, and minute, but in the fulness of this we preceded France; and I may perhaps be allowed to trace our quicker seizure and more finished development of the subject to the fact that the root of the matter was in us more than a thousand years ago.

CHAPTER XII

MONASTICISM AND LITERATURE

THE monastic life, so largely developed in England both by Celtic and Latin Christianity, increased the force of some of the literary elements on which I have dwelt in the last chapter, added others, and brought to the help and adornment of literature new arts, and new forms of human life. Moreover, it enlarged the material of literature by producing a literary class and by the collection into libraries of the literature of the past. It founded the literature of History, Rhetoric, and Philosophy. It established schools. Laymen attended them, and it actually created in this fashion, and for a time, a small literary class of laymen in Northumbria. By means of the unity, which, independent of diverse nationalities, knit together the monasteries, monasticism opened to Englishmen Rome, Ireland, and the Continent. New thoughts, new scenes, new views thus entered into the life of thought in England. The pilgrimages which it encouraged did the same kind of work; and the movement to and fro of the missionaries whom England sent out to the Teutonic lands brought her into contact again with the original spirit which informed her poetry, and strengthened that spirit. It is worth while to briefly develop these various points, and to bring them, however diverse they may be, into as united a form as possible.

First, those emotional habits of daily life, of custom and thought on which I have dwelt in the last chapter, and which form, as it were, the ground-ooze of poetic literature, grew into a special charm in English monastic life. There was added to them a religious tenderness, a fuller love of quiet beauty, an imaginative heavenliness, which our sacred poetry has never lost. That charm is seen most clearly in the writings of Baeda. It runs like a sweet clear stream through the stories he tells of holy men and women who, while yet alive, heard celestial sounds and saw their convent gardens, the woods and moors

and starry heavens irradiated by the "solemn troops and sweet societies" of the angels. A history of literature is bound to quote one of these tales,1 itself a lovely illustration of the temper I am describing, and told with an ideal grace and innocent simplicity which arise out of Baeda's own delight in that of which he speaks.

When Ceadda, bishop of the Mercians, was near the hour of his death, it happened that a monk, whose name was Owini, was employed in the garden of the monastery at Lichfield, and became aware of a strange thing. The bishop was alone, reading or praying in his oratory, when on a sudden Owini "heard the voice of persons singing most sweetly and rejoicing, and the sound seemed to come down from heaven. And he heard the voice moving from the southeast, but afterwards it drew near to him, till, coming to the roof of the oratory where the bishop was, it entered therein and filled it. Owini listened, all attent, and after the space of half an hour the same song of joy ascended from the roof and returned to heaven with an inexpressible sweetness. While he stood astonished, turning seriously in his mind what this might be, the bishop opened the window of the oratory, and clapping with his hand as he was wont to do, bade him come in. 'Make haste to the church,' he said, 'and cause the seven brothers to come hither, and do you come with them.' When they were at hand he admonished them to keep the virtue of peace among themselves and towards all, and to be careful to practise the rules of regular discipline."

"And then he said, 'The time of my death is at hand, for that amiable guest who was wont to visit our brothers has vouchsafed also to come to me this day and to call me from the world. Return, therefore, to the church and speak to the brethren, that they recommend in their prayers my journey to the Lord; and be careful also (for the hour is uncertain) to provide for their own, by watching and prayer and good works.' When he had spoken thus much and more, and they, having received his blessing, had gone away in sorrow, he who had heard the heavenly song came back alone, and, kneeling on the ground, said, 'I beseech you, Father, that I may ask a question

1 No history of poetic literature would be in any sense complete which did not draw special attention to the stories contained in the Ecclesiastical History and in the Biographies of Baeda. I have quoted one of them above, in order to ask those who care for fine literature to read them all. I wish they were collected separately. I think it would be an admirable thing if some Anglo-Saxon professor were to put them into Anglo-Saxon and make a little reading-book out of them; or were to isolate them in their original Latin, and give them to the Class to reproduce in the manner of the later Anglo-Saxon of the Chronicle.

of you.'-'Ask what you will,' answered the bishop. Then he added, 'I entreat you to tell me what song of joy was that which I heard coming upon this oratory, and after some time returning to heaven?' The bishop answered, 'If you heard the singing, and know of the descent of the heavenly company, I command you, in the name of our Lord, that you tell it not to any before my death. These were angelic spirits who came to call me to my heavenly reward, for the which I have always longed; moreover, they promised to return seven days hence and take me with them.'

This is but one of many tales, full of so heartfelt a harmony of feeling and style, that it is impossible to ignore them as one of the original sources of English religious poetry. This sweet and well-bred gentleness, this religious fervour, with its tender supernaturalism, its natural dignity, its grave seriousness of life, and its quietude in death, added new and special elements to the Sacred Song of England, which, continued up to the present day, is not excelled in the world for its variety and depth, for the passion of its sadness and joy. The romantic tone added to it by the Celtic missionaries ministered still further to its endurance. Our island religion - at least in the home of poetry in the North was first made by the Irish, and was deeply tinged by their nature. Owing to their influence, a more changing colour was given to the religious life, a greater spirit of adventure pervaded it, a freer and more passionate daily life entered into it. Moreover, the life the Irish missionaries led and the spirit they imposed on religion were alike romantic. These things have been one of the powers of our literature. one of the fires which have burnt in it down to the present day.

We can trace these romantic roots of poetry and the subjects of poetry in the lives of the evangelisers of Northumbria. They were the eager bringers into life of an imaginative, richly-coloured, natural music. They filled with poetry popular religious emotion. Aidan, with his gentleness and fire thrilled the land he converted. We may even claim the life of Columba as another influence in the same direction, for after his death his romantic soul touches from afar the hearts of English kings. Oswald, who had been in exile at Iona, felt all through his life the spirit of the founder of Iona. The legend runs that on the evening before the battle of Denisesburn, Columba (now dead for thirty-six years) appeared to him, and stretched his glittering robe over the little army, and cried, "Be of good courage and play the man. Join battle at