But what if One, thro’ grove or flowery mead,
Indulging thus at will the creeping feet
Of a voluptuous indolence, should meet
The hovering Shade of venerable Bede;
The Saint, the Scholar, from a circle freed
Of toil stupendous, in a hallowed seat
Of Learning, where he heard the billows beat
On a wild coast—rough monitors to feed
Perpetual industry. Sublime Recluse!
The recreant soul, that dares to shun the debt
Imposed on human kind, must first forget
Thy diligence, thy unrelaxing use
Of a long life; and, in the hour of death,
The last dear service of thy passing breath!