He plants a fair crown upon Whitby’s height:
Daily her convent towers more high aspire;
Daily ascend her Vespers. Hark that strain!”
He stood and listened. Soon the flame-touched herds
Sent forth their lowings, and the cliffs replied,
And Ceadmon thus resumed: “The music note
Rings through their lowings dull, though heard by few!
Poor kine, ye do your best! Ye know not God,
Yet man, his likeness, unto you is God,
And him ye worship with obedience sage,