Than famine and despair
Among mankind to spread,
And Earth our mother's curse to bear
Down to the silent dead.
DEATH OF BEDA.
"Though the last illness of this learned and venerable man was severe, he spent the evening of his death, in translating the Gospel of St. John into the Saxon language. When told by his amanuensis that there remained but one more chapter, he urged him to proceed rapidly, saying that he had no time to lose.
"'Master, there is now but one sentence wanting.'
"'Haste thee to write it.'
"'Master, it is done.'
"'Thou hast spoken truth—it is done. Take now my head between your hands, and move me, for it pleaseth me to sit over against the place where I was wont to pray, and where now sitting, I would yet invoke the Father.'
"Being seated according to his desire, on the floor of his cell, he said, 'Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.' And, pronouncing the last word, he expired."
Northumbrian breezes freshly blew
Around 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 brow
With sickness pale, reclined.
Yet still, to give God's word a voice,
To bless the British Isles,
He labored, while inspiring faith
Sustained the toil with smiles;
