Cædmon's Chronicle

Cædmon was a cowherd
    clothéd roughly, poor and humble;
as home, Northumbria, he hailed
    where Hilda, Streoneshalh's abbess, held
high charge of holy life.

Free were the days, when the Light first
    fell full on English eyes –
ever lifting minds and hearts
    to Highest Heaven's greatest gift,
given to ransom Adam's race.

Days were they of burgeoning dawn,
    when dragons fell to Christian swords –
sworn enemies, they, of all
    evil beasts of dark abode –
so bright their hope, their blazing faith!

Now Oswiu ruled as heir
    on the Angle throne (after
Oswald, blessed king, fell to Penda –
    praying with his final breath,
bent o'er the souls of his men),

when the Saint there walk'd,
    wandering to and fro –
through fields of shire-green
    grown on ocean's breath –
blithe were those days, and the stars sang!

And Cædmon was become,
    crowned with grey already,
ripened in his years –
    yet not at all withered –
when we join in his tale,

in Streoneshalh's seaward streets,
    strolling port-town paths,
its people his neighbours – friends
    formed together in bonds
born of shared communion;

collective labours lay
    light on many shoulders,
sharing both lack and plenty,
    pious shriving, pleasant resting –
the rite of wassailing also:

e'er at times of feasting, when all
    able persons, by their custom,
came to dine and gather –
    gifting each their presence,
profiting each the other –

when filled the hall, and fire
    fuelled and lit the hearth,
and hearts were warm'd and merry,
    mingling mead and laughter –
listen'd, they, to each other.

Then passed the lyre from person
    to person, each to play,
pluck a tune, and lay to sing –
    subtle craft of verse –
vibrant poetry.

The agéd sang songs of old –
    those oft recited, rarely written
rhymes of ancient pagan gods
    gathered together for their judgement,
justly condemned – doomed to fire.

Those mature would chant through
    the thrum of faithful-living days –
dawn to dusk, and through the night –
    nought but done in love and grace –
grateful hearts for mirth and toil.

The mouths of youth in chorus mingled
    merry tunes of midnight dances –
dauntless men and maidens fair
    frolicking in lovers' rites –
revelry their wont and passion.

So the harp wound its circuit,
    straying not 'til each had played,
poem performed or else a tale
    told, delighting every ear –
of all sitting present.

But Cædmon sang no canticle,
    kept close his eye on the harp.
To hail the crowd, and chant a verse,
    his voice could never bear –
better to bid goodnight, ere then –

mud-minded, with muck-melody,
    no might with harp or lyre –
little skilled in word and verse-craft –
    verily he judged himself,
his silence keeping, in the hall.

'Twas, late upon an eve the like,
    when left the saint from feasting,
for fear to be embarrassed;
    he brought himself to the cowshed –
the cattle's weather-shelter.

Ever there he found his ease –
    his eyes knew the spots of each,
his ears the every subtle
    sound of the lowing beasts –
bovinish speech – their poetry.

Arranging himself there aright,
    ready then to take his slumber,
the saint sighed a silent prayer
    for peaceful rest and pleasant dreams –
and dream he did, anon.

"Cædmon!" the voice came,
    calling out his Christian name.
Never had the saint heard
    a heavenly voice so sweet –
it swelled like bells and laughter.

"Cædmon!" came again the call,
    to claim the saint's attention.
Turning thither, he saw a man
    mantled in white shimmer –
shining silver hues.

"Here am I," said he,
    his head lifting, limbs rousing –
ready heart to receive
    a solemn charge or warning –
waiting for the man's word.

"Start, brother," the man said,
    "to sing to me a song.
Sing that I may in turn
    take delight in hearing
a hymn worthy of Heaven!"

He, troubled in spirit, heaved
    a heavy sigh, and said,
"Sing, I cannot – skilled not am I.
    If ever I open my mouth
it makes the most wretched sounds!

Fro I went from the feast,
    for this reason, early:
that I might not embarrass
    both myself and list'ners,
languish'd by my screech-tongue!"

The man remained, unmoved,
    mirthful gaze glinting –
gracious tongue speaking –
    "Such as may be, still
sing for me, my brother!"

Cædmon, trusty cattleman,
    calmed within that gaze,
gathered up his musings,
    his mouth then spake a word:
"Of what shall I make melody?"

Said the bright-clad man, "Sing
    a song concerning the first
founding works of creation,
    when all that's Lovely became
crafted within the Word."

Emboldened, forth he brought
    beauty of boundless heavens,
and hope of Earth's glory.
    He gave his tongue to sing –
the saint, this song he wrought:

"Now we must magnify
    the Master of Heaven's kingdom,
the Crafter's might
    and his mind's will –
the works of the Glory-Father
    for his every wonder,
which th'Eternal Lord
    long ago founded:
he fashioned first a home,
    for humans to inhabit,
the Holy Craftsman shaped
    the shining heavens to cover,
to crown this middle-earth.
    Aft'ward, mankind's Keeper –
King Eternal – ordained
    a dwelling on land for men.
Almighty is the Lord!"

Sang the saint with such
    subtle, beauteous voice,
and verse so heav'nly crafted,
    Cædmon marvelled himself –
so sudden his transformation!

Indeed, no poem since that day's
    been deemed e'er to equal –
been ever claimed to rival –
    the rune that cowherd wrote:
th'aria of Creation!

'Twas said that ever since,
    the saint continued always
in this gift of poetry –
    and pleas'd was Hilda to make
a monk of him, in the monast'ry,

where he made it his wont,
    when he heard Holy Scriptures,
to set them into verse –
    veritas and beauty,
bound in son'rous song.

Lived he there until his last
    Life's-Breath left his Mortal Frame;
from friends, received unction –
    Eucharist he partook of –
to Triune God, himself committed.

And so ends the story –
    the saint's tale, truly told.
And Time shall remember,
    of this master verse-maker,
'twas th' Maker's gift – the Master's grace.

And christened, called, humble Cædmon
    came into his heav'nly home,
hailed not as mere cattleman –
    acclaimed higher than poet –
in priestly garments clothéd;

Saw he the Father in Heaven –
    beheld that Glory-Haven,
where heroes, saintly, dwell.
    He heard that hail 'yond Light of Dawn:
"Well done, my faithful servant!"

First published on the author's Substack.