music, touches of a keen sense of honor in most savage times, and in religion fervent and self-sacrificing zeal. In the Kimry now represented by the Kelts of Wales - there was the same artist nature.

He also says that in the fusion of the two races, Kelts and Teutons, the gift of genius was the contribution of the Kelt. The influence of the Keltic race upon English literature was not exerted directly through their fragmentary writings, nor by the "example set by one people, and followed by another; but in the way of nature, by the establishment of blood relationship, and the transmission of modified and blended character to a succeeding generation."

9. Keltic Poetry. There were a number of Keltic bards who wrote poetic descriptions of battles, and of other events that roused the passions and activities of men to the highest pitch; but, for the most part, only fragments of these not unworthy productions remain.

10. The First Poet.-A little past the middle of the seventh century a Keltic poet called Cadmon wrote in verse a paraphrase of many parts of the Bible. The story of his experiences and conscientious efforts is briefly told in the following lines, which appeared in Macmillan's Magazine. The lines themselves are in imitation of the style of Cadmon's simple yet touching verse.

Dwelt a certain poor man in his day,
Near at hand to Hilda's holy house,
Learning's lighthouse, blessed beacon, built
High o'er sea and river, on the head,

Streaneshalch in Anglo-Saxon speech,
Whitby, after by the Norsemen named.
Cadmon was he called; he came and went,
Doing humble duties for the monks,

Helping with the horses at behest,—
Modest, meek, unmemorable man,
Moving slowly into middle age,

Toiling on twelve hundred years ago.

Other while,

Still and silent, Cædmon sometimes sat
With the serfs at lower end of hall;
There he marveled much to hear the monks
Singing sweetly hymns unto their harp,
Handing it from each to each in turn,
Till his heart-strings trembled.
When the serfs were merry with themselves,
Sung their folk-songs upon festal nights,
Handing round the harp to each in turn,
Cadmon, though he loved not lighter songs,
Longed to sing; but he could never sing.

Watch the sky and water, stars or clouds
Climbing from the sea; and in his soul
Shadows mounted up and mystic lights,
Echoes vague and vast returned the voice
Of the rushing river, roaring waves,
Twilight's windy whisper from the fells,
Howl of brindled wolf, and cry of bird;
Every sight and sound of solitude
Ever mingling in a master thought

Glorious, terrible—of the Mighty One

Who made all things. As the Book declared, "In the beginning he made Heaven and Earth."

Thus lived Cædmon, quiet year by year;

Listened, learned a little, as he could;

Worked, and mused, and prayed, and held his peace.

Toward the end of harvest time, the hinds
Held a feast, and sung their festal songs,
Handing round the harp from each to each;
But before it came where Cadmon sat,
Sadly, silently, he stole away,

Wandered to the stable-yard, and wept;
Weeping, laid him low among the straw,-
Fell asleep at last. And in his sleep
Came a Stranger, calling him by name :
"Cædmon, sing to me." "I cannot sing.

Wherefore wo is me!

Sing, I bid thee!"

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I left the house."

What, then, shall I sing?"

Sing the Making of the World." Whereon
Cædmon sung: and when he woke from sleep,
Still the verses stayed with him, and more
Sprang like fountain-water from a rock
Fed from never-failing secret springs.

Praising Heaven most high, but nothing proud, Cadmon sought the steward, and told his tale, Who to Holy Hilda led him in,

Pious Princess Hilda, pure of heart,

Ruling Mother, royal Edwin's niece.
Cadmon at her bidding boldly sang
Of the Making of the World, in words
Wondrous; whereupon they wotted well
'Twas an Angel taught him, and his gift
Came direct from God: and glad were they.

Thenceforth Holy Hilda greeted him
He grew

Brother of the brotherhood.

Famedst monk of all the monastery;

Singing many high and holy songs

Folk were fain to hear, and loved him for;
Till his death-day came, that comes to all.

Cadmon bode that evening in his bed, He at peace with men, and men with him; Wrapped in comfort of the Eucharist;

Weak and silent.

"Soon our Brethren sing
"Brother, yea."

Evensong?" he whispered.

"Let us wait for that," he said; and soon
Sweetly sounded up the solemn chant.
Cadmon smiled and listened; when it lulled,
Sidelong turned to sleep his old white head,
Shut his eyes, and gave his soul to God,
Maker of the World.

Twelve hundred years

Since are past and gone, nor he forgot,

Earliest Poet of the English Race.

Rude and simple were his days and thoughts.
Wisely speaketh no man, howso learned,
Of the making of this wondrous world,
Save a Poet, with a reverent soul.

Though so simple in style, the poems of Cædmon are not wanting in dignity, nor marks of genius. In the opening of his description of the creation are these lines :

Most right it is that we praise with our words,
Love in our minds, the Warden of the skies!
Glorious King of all the hosts of men!

He speeds the strong, and is the head of all

His high creation, the Almighty Lord.

None formed him; no first was nor last shall be
Of the Eternal Ruler, but his sway

Is everlasting over thrones in heaven.

Of the first state of the earth, he says,

There had not here, as yet,

Save cavern shade, aught been;

But this wide abyss stood deep and dim,
Strange to its Lord, idle and useless.

It may be noticed that Cadmon's lines are without rime, that they are unequal in length and irregular in meter. They have, however, a rude alliteration, which consists in a recurrence of similar consonant sounds at the beginning of words. This is a characteristic of the earlier poems of our language.

Cadmon's account of Satan's revolt in heaven is strikingly suggestive of Milton's more polished description written a thousand years later. Here are a few lines :

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'Wherefore," said he, "shall I toil?

No need have I of master. I can work

With my own hands great marvels, and have power
To build a throne more worthy of a god,-
Higher in heaven. Why shall I, for his smile
Serve him, bend to him thus in vassalage?
I may be God as He.

Stand by me, strong supporters, firm in strife.
Hard-mooded heroes, famous warriors,
Have chosen me for chief: one may take thought
With such for counsel, and with such secure
Large following. My friends, in earnest they,
Faithful in all the shaping of their minds:

I am their master, and may rule this realm."

And again, after his fall,

Satan discoursed,- he who henceforth ruled hell
Spake sorrowing.

God's angel erst, he had shone white in heaven,
Till his soul urged, and most of all its pride,
That of the Lord of Hosts he should no more
Bend to the word. About his heart his soul
Tumultuously heaved, hot pains of wrath
Without him.