Though many sang, yet no man sang like him.
O holy House of Whitby! on thy steep
Rejoice, howe’er the tempest, night or day,
Afflict thee, or the craftier hand of Time,
Drag back thine airy arches in mid spring;
Rejoice, for Ceadmon in thy cloisters knelt,
And singing paced beside thy sounding sea!
Long years he lived; and with the whitening hair
More youthful grew in spirit, and more meek;
And they that saw him said he sang within