BY CHRISTIAN OWEN

The serene and silent island

Where nation’s roots are sown,

Where St. Cuthbert talked with angels

And the sea-winds make their moan,

Where King Oswald’s nuns are singing

To the flocks of wild sea-birds,

Where St. Aidan wrought his marvels

Reading God’s eternal words.

Here the Christian monk is walking

Down the little lamb-strewn lane,

Here his vigils keep their station

To the storm-winds and the rain.

Here he seeks to best the devil

By assiduous prayer and fasting;

Here his dim and single cell

Gleams with glory everlasting.

Here he asks to gain God’s grace,

That each sin should be forgotten,

That his love for God increase,

That his prayer should be unbroken,

That his life should cease to hanker

After all its human aims,

That his voice should cease to clatter

Amidst the tongues of rival claims,

That his heart should cease to vary

After pleasure’s fleeting treasure,

That his eye should see the glory

Of the Kingdom without measure.

When the wind blows from the sea

And the boats are furled in the Tees,

When the pool of Lindisfarne

Reflects verdant orchard trees,

When the owls begin to waver

Like a storm of moons in air,

When the corn bends like a river

In the moonlight lying there,

Then the old monk leaves his cloister,

And he stands beside the sea,

And he lifts his face to heaven

And he whispers, “Cry to me.”