The Funeral, XXI

They raised the sheet from Baldred’s face, They turn’d the corpses where they lay, In each his features clearly trace, Crown’d with a tuft of silvery gray. They deem’d his bright ethereal flame Which mortal form could not control, From heav’n had held a trio frame To suit his zealous warmth of soul; That he might stray in paynim lands, A pilgrim lone in Palestine; Now tread the desert’s burning sands— Now preach the faith by Pictish Tyne; With that sweet angel for his guide, Who led St Serf by Bosphorus’ strand, Attendant duteous by his side, Like earth and heaven hand in hand!