BEDE’S LAST MAY

Bede issues forth from Jarrow, and visiting certain villagers in a wood, expounds to them the Beatitudes of Our Lord. Wherever he goes he seeks records of past times, and promises in return that he will bequeath to his fellow-countrymen translations from divers Sacred Scriptures, and likewise a history of God’s Church in their land. Having returned to his monastery, he dies a most happy death on the feast of the Ascension, while finishing his translation of St. John’s gospel.

The ending of the Book of Saxon Saints.
With one lay-brother only blessed Bede,
In after times ‘The Venerable’ named,
Passed from his convent, Jarrow. Where the Tyne
Blends with the sea, all beautiful it stood,
Bathed in the sunrise. At the mouth of Wear
A second convent, Wearmouth, rose. That hour
The self-same matin splendour gilt them both;
And in some speech of mingling lights, not words,
Both sisters praised their God.

Apart, yet joined

So mused the old man gazing on the twain:
Then onward paced, with head above his book,
Murmuring his office. Algar walked behind,
A youth of twenty years, with tonsured head,
And face, though young, forlorn. An hour had passed;
They reached a craggy height; and looking back,
Beheld once more beyond the forest roof
Those two fair convents glittering at their feet
Those two clear rivers winding! Bound by rule,
Again the monk addressed him to his book;
Lection and psalm recited, thus he spake:

’Why placed our holy Founder thus so near
His convents? Why, albeit a single rule,
At last a single hand, had sway o’er both,
Placed them at distance? Hard it were to guess:
I know but this, that severance here on earth
Is strangely linked with union of the heart,
Union with severance. Thou hast lost, young friend,
But lately lost thy boyhood’s dearest mate,
Thine earliest friend, a brother of thy heart,
True Christian soul though dwelling in the world;
Fear not such severance can extinguish love
Here, or hereafter! He whom most I loved
Was severed from me by the tract of years:
A child of nine years old was I, when first
Jarrow received me: pestilence ere long
Swept from that house her monks, save one alone,
Ceolfrid, then its abbot. Man and child,
We two the lonely cloisters paced; we two
Together chaunted in the desolate church:
I could not guess his thoughts; to him my ways
Were doubtless as the ways of some sick bird
Watched by a child. Not less I loved him well:
Me too he somewhat loved. Beneath one roof
We dwelt and yet how severed! Save in God,
What know men, one of other? Here on earth,
Perhaps ’tis wiser to be kind to all
In large goodwill of helpful love, yet free,
Than link to one our heart
Poor youth! that love which walks in narrow ways
Is tragic love, be sure.’
With gentle face
The novice spake his gratitude. Once more,
His hand upon the shoulder of the youth,
(For now they mounted slow a bosky dell)
The old man spake yet not to him in voice
Scarce louder than the murmuring pines close by;
For, by his being’s law he seemed, like them,
At times when pensive memories in him stirred,
Vocal not less than visible: ’How great
Was he, our Founder! In that ample brow,
What brooding weight of genius! In his eye,
How strangely was the pathos edged with light!
How oft, his churches roaming, flashed its beam
From pillar on to pillar, resting long
On carven imagery of flower or fruit,
Or deep-dyed window whence the heavenly choirs
Gave joy to men below! With what a zeal
He drew the cunningest craftsmen from all climes
To express his thoughts in form; while yet his hand,
Like meanest hand among us, patient toiled
In garden and in bakehouse, threshed the corn,
Or drave the calves to milk-pail! Earthly rule
Had proved to him a weight intolerable;
In spiritual beauty, there and there alone,
Our Bennett Biscop found his native haunt,
The lucent planet of his soul’s repose:
And yet O wondrous might of human love
One was there, one, to whom his heart was knit,
Siegfried, in all unlike him save in worth.
His was plain purpose, rectitude unwarped,
Industry, foresight. On his friend’s behalf
He ruled long years those beauteous convents twain,
Yet knew not they were beauteous! An abyss
Severed in spirit those in heart so near:
More late exterior severance came: three years
In cells remote they dwelt, by sickness chained:
But once they met to die. I see them still:
The monks had laid them on a single bed;
Weeping, they turned them later each to each:
I saw the snowy tresses softly mix;
I saw the faded lips draw near and meet;
Thus gently interwreathed I saw them die
Strange strength of human love!’
Still walked they on:
As high the sun ascended, woodlands green
Shivered all golden; and the old man’s heart
Brightened like them. His ever active mind
Inquisitive took note of all it saw;
And as some youth enamoured lifts a tress
Of her he loves, and wonders, so the monk,
Well loving Nature, loved her in detail,
Now pleased with nestling bird, anon with flower,
Now noting how the beech from dewy sheath
Pushed forth its silken leaflets fringed with down,
Exulting next because from sprays of lime
The little fledgeling leaves, like creatures winged,
Brake from their ruddy shells. Jesting, he cried:
’Algar! but hear those birds! Men say they sing
To fire their young, night-bound, with gladsome news,
And bid them seek the sun!’ Sadly the youth
With downward front, replied: ’My friend is dead;
For me to gladden were to break a troth.’
Upon the brow of Bede a shadow fell;
Silent he paced, then stopped: ’Forgive me, Algar!
Old men grow hard. Yet boys and girls salute
The May: like them the old must have their maying;
This is perchance my last.’
As thus he spake
They reached the summit of a grassy hill;
Beneath there wound a stream, upon its marge
A hamlet nestling lonely in the woods:
Its inmates saw the Saint, and t’wards him sped
Eager as birds that, when the grain is flung
In fountained cloister-court of Eastern church,
From all sides flock, with sudden rush of wings,
Darkening the pavement. Youths and maids came first;
Their elders followed: some his garments kissed,
And some his hands. The venerable man
Stretched forth his arms, as though to clasp them all:
Above them next he signed his Master’s cross;
Then, while the tears ran down his aged face,
Brake forth in grateful joy; ’To God the praise!
When, forty years ago, I roamed this vale
A haunt it was of rapine and of wars;
Now see I pleasant pastures, peaceful homes,
And faces peacefuller yet. That God Who walked
With His disciples ’mid the sabbath fields
While they the wheat-ears bruised, His sabbath keeps
Within your hearts this day! His harvest ye!
Once more a-hungered are His holy priests;
They hunger for your souls; with reverent palms
Daily the chaff they separate from the grain;
Daily His Church within her heart receives you,
Yea, with her heavenly substance makes you one;
Ye grow to be her eyes that see His truth;
Her ears that hear His voice; her hands that pluck
His tree of life; her feet that walk His ways.
Honouring God’s priests ye err not, O my friends,
Since thus ye honour God. In Him rejoice!’

So spake he, and his gladness kindled theirs;
With it their courage. One her infant brought
And sued for him a blessing. One, bereaved,
Cried out: ’Your promised peace has come at last;
No more I wish him back to earth!’ Again
Old foes shook hands; while now, their fears forgot,
Children that lately nestled at his feet
Clomb to his knees. Then called from out that crowd
A blind man; ’Read once more that Book of God!
For, after you had left us, many a month
I, who can neither see the sun nor moon,
Saw oft the God-Man walking farms and fields
Of that fair Eastern land!’ He spake, and lo!
All those around that heard him clamoured, ‘Read!’

Then Bede, the Sacred Scriptures opening, lit
Upon the ‘Sermon on the Mount,’ and read:
’The Saviour lifted up His holy eyes
On His disciples, saying, Blessed they;’
Expounding next the sense. ’Why fixed the Lord
His eyes on them that listened? Friends, His eyes
Go down through all things, searching out the heart;
He sees if heart be sound to hold His Word
And bring forth fruit in season, or as rock
Naked to bird that plucks the random seed.
Friends, with the heart alone we understand;
Who doth His will shall of the doctrine know
If His it be indeed. When Jesus speaks
Fix first your eyes upon His eyes divine,
There reading what He sees within your heart:
If sin He sees, repent!’
With hands upheld
A woman raised her voice, and cried aloud,
’Could we but look into the eyes of Christ
Nought should we see but love!’ And Bede replied:
’From babe and suckling God shall perfect praise!
Yea, from His eyes looks forth the Eternal Love,
Though oft, through sin of ours, in sadness veiled;
But when He rests them on disciples true,
Not on the stranger, love is love alone!
O great, true hearts that love so well your Lord!
That heard so trustingly His tidings good,
So long, by trial proved, have kept His Faith,
To you He cometh cometh with reward
In heaven, and here on earth.’
With brightening face,
As one who flingeth largess far abroad,
Once more he raised the sacred tome, and read,
Read loud the Eight Beatitudes of Christ;
Then ceased, but later spake: ’In ampler phrase
Those Blessings ye shall hear once more rehearsed,
And deeplier understand them. Blessed they
The poor in spirit; for to humble hearts
Belongs the kingdom of their God in heaven;
Blessed the meek nor gold they boast, nor power;
Yet theirs alone the sweetness of this earth;
Blessed are they who mourn, for on their hearts
The consolation of their God shall fall;
Blessed are they who hunger and who thirst
For righteousness; they shall be satisfied;
Blessed the merciful, for unto them
The God of mercy mercy shall accord;
Blessed are they, the pure in heart; their eyes
Shall see their God: Blessed the peacemakers;
This title man shall give them Sons of God;
Blessed are they who suffer for the cause
Righteous and just: a throne is theirs on high:
Blessed are ye when sinners cast you forth,
And brand your name with falsehood for my sake;
Rejoice, for great is your reward in heaven.’

Once more the venerable man made pause,
Giving his Master’s Blessings time to sink
Through hearts of those who heard. Anon with speech
Though fervent, grave, he shewed the glory and grace
Of those majestic Virtues crowned by Christ,
While virtues praised by worldlings passed unnamed;
How wondrously consentient each with each,
Like flowers well sorted, or like notes well joined:
Then changed the man to deeper theme; he shewed
How these high virtues, ere to man consigned,
Were warmed and moulded in the God-Man’s heart;
Thence born, and in its sacred blood baptized.
’What are these virtues but the life of Christ?
The poor in spirit; must not they be lowly
Whose God is One that stooped to wear our flesh?
The meek; was He not meek Whom sinners mocked?
The mourners; sent not He the Comforter?
Zeal for the good; was He not militant?
The merciful; He came to bring us mercy;
The pure in heart; was He not virgin-born?
Peacemakers; is not He the Prince of Peace?
Sufferers for God; He suffered first for man.
O Virtues blest by Christ, high doctrines ye!
Dread mysteries; royal records; standards red
Wrapped by the warrior King, His warfare past,
Around His soldiers’ bosoms! Recognise,
O man, that majesty in lowness hid!
Put on Christs garments. Fools shall call them rags
Heed not their scoff! A prince’s child is man,
Born in the purple; but his royal robes
None other are than those the Saviour dyed,
Treading His Passion’s wine-press all alone:
Of such alone be proud!’
The old man paused;
Then stretched his arms abroad, and said: ’This day,
Like eight great angels making way from Heaven,
Each following each, those Eight Beatitudes,
Missioned to earth by Him who made the earth,
Have sought you out! What welcome shall be theirs?’
In silence long he stood; in silence watched,
With faded cheek now flushed and widening eyes,
The advance of those high tidings. As a man
Who, when the sluice is cut, with beaming gaze
Pursues the on-rolling flood from fall to fall,
Green branch adown it swept, and showery spray
Silvering the berried copse, so followed Bede
The progress of those high Beatitudes
Brightening, with visible beams of faith and love,
That host in ampler circles, speechless some
And some in passionate converse. Saddest brows
Most quickly caught, that hour, the glory-touch,
Reflected it the best.
In such discourse,
Peaceful and glad the hours went by, though Bede
Had sought that valley less to preach the Word
Than see once more his children. Evening nigh
He shared their feast; and heard with joy like theirs
Their village harp; and smote that harp himself.
In turn become their scholar, hour by hour
Forth dragged he records of their chiefs and kings,
Untangling ravelled evidence, and still
Tracking traditions upward to their source,
Like him, that Halicarnassean sage,
Of antique history sire. ’I trust, my friends,
To leave your sons, for lore by you bestowed
Fair recompense, large measure well pressed down,
Recording still God’s kingdom in this land,
History which all may read, and gentle hearts
Loving, may grow in grace. Long centuries passed,
If wealth should make this nation’s heart too fat,
And things of earth obscure the things of heaven,
Haply such chronicle may prompt high hearts
Wearied with shining nothings, back to cast
Remorseful gaze through mists of time, and note
That rock whence they were hewn. From youth to age
Inmate of yonder convent on the Tyne,
I question every pilgrim, priest, or prince,
Or peasant grey, and glean from each his sheaf:
Likewise the Bishops here and Abbots there
Still send me deed of gift, or chronicle
Or missive from the Apostolic See:
Praise be to God Who fitteth for his place
Not only high but mean! With wisdom’s strength
He filled our mitred Wilfred, born to rule;
To saintly Cuthbert gave the spirit of prayer;
On me, as one late born, He lays a charge
Slender, yet helpful still.’
Then spake a man
Burly and big, that last at banquet sat,
‘Father, is history true?’ and Bede replied;
’The man who seeks for Truth like hidden gold,
And shrinks from falsehood as a leper’s touch
Shall write true history; not the truth unmixed
With fancies, base or high; not truth entire;
Yet truth beneficent to man below.
One Book there is that errs not: ye this day
Have learned therefrom your Lord’s Beatitudes:
That Book contains its histories like them none,
Since written none from standing point so high,
With insight so inspired, such measure just
Of good and ill; high fruit of aid divine.
The slothful spurn that Book; the erroneous warp:
But they who read its page, or hear it read,
Their guide, God’s Spirit, and the Church of God,
Shall hear the voice of Truth for ever nigh,
Shall see the Truth, now sunlike, and anon
Like dagger-point of light from dewy grass
Flashed up, a word that yet confutes a life,
Pierces, perchance a nation’s heart: shall see
Far more the Truth Himself in human form,
Walking not farms and fields of Eastern lands
Alone, but these our English fields and farms;
Shall see Him on the dusky mount at prayer;
Shall see Him in the street and by the bier;
Shall see Him at the feast, and at the grave;
Now from the boat discoursing, and anon
Staying the storm, or walking on its waves;
Thus shall our land become a holy land
And holy those who tread her!’ Lifting then
Heavenward that tome, he said, ’The Book of God!
As stands God’s Church, ’mid kingdoms of this world
Holy alone, so stands, ’mid books, this Book!
Within the “Upper Chamber” once that Church
Lived in small space; to-day she fills the world:
This Book which seems so narrow is a world:
It is an Eden of mankind restored;
It is a heavenly city lit with God:
From it the Spirit and the Bride say “Come:”
Blessed who reads this Book!’
Above the woods
Meantime the stars shone forth; and came that hour
When to the wanderer and the toiling man
Repose is sweet. Upon a leaf-strewn bed
The venerable man slept well that night:
Next morning young and old pursued his steps
As southward he departed. From a hill
O’er-looking far that sea-like forest tract
And many a church far-kenned through smokeless air,
He blessed that kneeling concourse, adding thus,
’Pray still, O friends, for me, since spiritual foes
Threat most the priesthood: pray that holy death,
Due warning given, may close a life too blest!
Pray well, since I for you have laboured well,
Yea, and will labour till my latest sigh;
Not only seeking you in wilds and woods
Year after year, but in my cell at night
Changing to accents of your native tongue
God’s Book Divine. Farewell, my friends, farewell!’
He left them; in his heart this thought, ’How like
The great death-parting every parting seems!’
But deathless hopes were with him; and the May;
His grief went by.
So passed a day of Bede’s;
And many a studious year were stored with such;
Enough but one for sample. Two glad weeks
He and his comrade onward roved. At eve
Convent or hamlet, known long since and loved,
Gladly received them. Bede with heart as glad
Renewed with them the memory of old times,
Recounted benefits by him received,
Then strong in youth, from just men passed away,
And preached his Master still with power so sweet
The listeners ne’er forgat him. Evermore,
Parting, he planted in the ground a cross,
And bade the neighbours till their church was built
Round it to pray. Meanwhile his youthful mate
Changed by degrees. The ever varying scene,
The biting breath and balmy breast of spring,
And most of all that old man’s valiant heart
Triumphed above his sadness, fancies gay
Pushing beyond it like those sunnier shoots
That gild the dark vest of the vernal pine.
He took account of all things as they passed;
He laughed; he told his tale. With quiet joy
His friend remarked that change. The second week
They passed to Durham; next to Walsingham;
To Gilling then; to stately Richmond soon
High throned above her Ouse; to Ripon last:
Then Bede made pause, and spake; ’Not far is York;
Egbert who fills Paulinus’ saintly seat
Would see me gladly: such was mine intent,
But something in my bosom whispers, “Nay,
Return to that fair river crossed by night,
The Tees, the fairest in this Northern land:
Beside its restless wave thine eye shall rest
On vision lovelier far and more benign
Than all it yet hath seen."’ Northward once more
They faced, and, three days travelling, reached at eve
Again those ivied cliffs that guard the Tees:
There as they stood a homeward dove, with flight
Softer for contrast with that turbulent stream,
Sailed through the crimson eve. ‘No sight like that!’
Thus murmured Bede; ’ever to me it seems
A Christian soul returning to its rest.’
A shade came o’er his countenance as he mused;
Algar remarked that shade, though what it meant
He knew not yet. The old man from that hour
Seemed mirthful less, less buoyant, beaming less,
Yet not less glad.
At dead of night, while hung
The sacred stars upon their course half way,
He left his couch, and thus to Egbert wrote,
Meek man too meek the brother of the king,
With brow low bent, and onward sweeping hand,
Great words, world-famed: ’Remember thine account!
The Lord’s Apostles are the salt of earth;
Let salt not lose its savour! Flail and fan
Are given thee. Purge thou well thy threshing floor!
Repel the tyrant; hurl the hireling forth;
That so from thy true priests true hearts may learn
True faith, true love, and nothing but the truth!’

Before the lark he rose the morrow morn,
And stood by Algar’s bed, and spake: ’Arise!
Playtime is past; the great, good work returns;
To Jarrow speed we!’ Homeward, day by day,
Thenceforth they sped with foot that lagged no more,
That youth, at first so mournful, joyous now,
That old man oft in thought. Next day, while eve
Descended dim, and clung to Hexham’s groves,
He passed its abbey, silent. Wonder-struck
Algar demanded, ’Father, pass you thus
That church where holy John ordained you priest?
Pass you its Bishop, Acca, long your friend?
Yearly he woos your visit; tells you tales
Of Hexham’s saintly Wilfred; shows you still
Chalice or cross new-won from distant shores:
Nor these alone: glancing from such last year
A page he read you of some Pagan bard
With smiles; yet ended with a sigh, and said:
“Where is he now?"’ The man of God replied:
’Desire was mine to see mine ancient friend;
For that cause came I hither: time runs short:
Then, Algar sighing, thus he added mild,
’Let go that theme; thy mourning time is past:
Thy gladsome time is now.’ As on they walked,
Later he spake: ’It may be I was wrong;
Old friends should part in hope.’
On Jarrow’s towers,
Bright as that sunrise while that pair went forth
The sunset glittered when, their wanderings past,
Bede and his comrade by the bank of Tyne
Once more approached the gates. Six hundred monks
Flocked forth to meet them. ‘They had grieved, I know,’
Thus spake, low-voiced, the venerable man,
’If I had died remote. To spare that grief
Before the time intended I returned.’
Sadly that comrade looked upon his face,
Yet saw there nought of sadness. Silent each
Advanced they till they met that cowled host:
But three weeks later on his bed the boy
Remembered well those words.
Within a cell
To Algar’s near that later night a youth
Wrote thus to one far off, his earliest friend:
’O blessed man! was e’er a death so sweet!
He sang that verse, “A dreadful thing it is
To fall into the hands of God, All-Just;”
Yet awe in him seemed swallowed up by love;
And ofttimes with the Prophets and the Psalms
He mixed glad minstrelsies of English speech,
Songs to his childhood dear!
’O blessed man!
The Ascension Feast of Christ our Lord drew nigh;
He watched that splendour’s advent; sang its hymn:
“All-glorious King, Who, triumphing this day,
Into the heaven of heavens didst make ascent,
Forsake us not, poor orphans! Send Thy Spirit,
The Spirit of Truth, the Father’s promised Gift,
To comfort us, His children: Hallelujah.”
And when he reached that word, “Forsake us not,”
He wept not tears of grief. With him we wept;
Alternate wept; alternate read our rite;
Yea, while we wept we read. So passed that day,
The sufferer thanking God with labouring breath,
“God scourges still the son whom He receives.”
’Undaunted, unamazed, daily he wrought
His daily task; instruction daily gave
To us his scholars round him ranged, and said,
“I will not have my pupils learn a lie,
Nor, fruitless, toil therein when I am gone.”
Full well he kept an earlier promise, made
Ofttimes to humble folk, in English tongue
Rendering the Gospels of the Lord. On these,
The last of these, the Gospel of Saint John,
He laboured till the close. The days went by,
And still he toiled, and panted, and gave thanks
To God with hands uplifted; yea, in sleep
He made thanksgiving still. When Tuesday came
Suffering increased; he said, “My time is short;
How short it is I know not.” Yet we deemed
He knew the time of his departure well.

’On Wednesday morn once more he bade us write:
We wrote till the third hour, and left him then
To pace, in reverence of that Feast all-blest,
Our cloister court with hymns. Meantime a youth,
Algar by name, there was who left him never;
The same that hour beside him sat and wrote:
More late he questioned: “Father well-beloved,
One chapter yet remaineth; have you strength
To dictate more?” He answered: “I have strength;
Make ready, son, thy pen, and swiftly write.”
When noon had come he turned him round and said,
“I have some little gifts for those I love;
Call in the Brethren;” adding with a smile,
“The rich man makes bequests, and why not I?”
Then gifts he gave, incense or altar-cloth,
To each, commanding, “Pray ye for my soul;
Be strong in prayer and offering of the Mass,
For ye shall see my face no more on earth:
Blessed hath been my life; and time it is
That unto God God’s creature should return;
Yea, I desire to die, and be with Christ.”
Thus speaking, he rejoiced till evening’s shades
Darkened around us. That disciple young
Once more addressed him, “Still one verse remains;”
The master answered, “Write, and write with speed;”
And dictated. The young man wrote; then said,
“’Tis finished now.” The man of God replied:
“Well say’st thou, son, ‘’tis finished.’ In thy hands
Receive my head, and move it gently round,
For comfort great it is, and joy in death,
Thus, on this pavement of my little cell,
Facing that happy spot whereon so oft
In prayer I knelt, to sit once more in prayer,
Thanking my Father.” “Glory,” then he sang,
“To God, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost;”
And with that latest Name upon his lips
Passed to the Heavenly Kingdom.’
Thus with joy
Died holy Bede upon Ascension Day
In Jarrow Convent. May he pray for us,
And all who read his annals of God’s Church
In England housed, his great bequest to man!