4041277Zinzendorff and Other PoemsDeath of Beda1836Lydia Huntley Sigourney

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;

Still o'er the loved disciple's page
His fervent spirit hung,
Regardless though the grasp of pain
Each shuddering nerve unstrung.

"Speed on!" Then flew the writer's pen
With grief and fear perplext,
For Death's sure footstep nearer drew
With 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 breast
The last keen torture stole,
With the high watch-word of the skies,
Went forth that sainted soul.