e manuscript written or compiled by Thomas, a monk of
Ely, who lived in the twelfth century; and Mr. Bentham also relates it
at some length in his work;[2] but it would extend far beyond the
limits allowed in this sketch; we have, however, we hope given
sufficient to throw some light upon remarks we may make in subsequent
pages. She governed her house in such a manner as to gain the esteem
both of its members and the inhabitants of the surrounding country;
living and dying an example of piety and holiness, for we read that
"in her last sickness, when sensible of her approaching end, she was
calm and composed, and retained her memory and understanding to the
last, and expired in the very act of her calling, in the presence of
her flock; and whilst she was instructing them how to live, by her
example also taught them how to die."[3] She was interred, in
accordance with her own wish, in the grave-yard of the monastery, but
after a period of sixteen years her remains were translated, with much
reverence and ceremony, to the church she had founded. The account of
this translation might interest some of our readers, but is too long
for insertion here.

[Footnote 2: Bentham's History, i. 45, &c.]

[Footnote 3: Ibid. i. 59.]

The following lines, written at an early date, picture the fen country
as a series of lakes and water-courses, (as it was until drained six
centuries after,) studded with islands, on one of which the monastery
of Ely stood, and the music of its '_nones_' or '_vespers_' sounding
soft and sweet over the solitude.

Sweetly sang the Monks at Ely,
Knuet, the king, row'd nigh:
"Listen how the winds be bringing
From yon church a holy singing!
Row, men, nearer by."

Newborn sunbeams kiss the turrets
Of the minster high,
All the beauties of the morning,--
Grey at first, then golden dreaming,--
Deck the vernal sky.

Loudly sang the Monks of Ely
On that Thursday morn:
'Twas the Feast of "God Ascended"--
Of the wond'rous drama ended;--
God for sinners born!

Hark! "_I will not leave you orphans,
I will not leave you long_,"
Grand the minster music sounded
And the fen-land air resounded
With the holy song!

Sweetly sang the Monks at Ely
Knuet, the king, row'd nigh:
"Listen to the angels bringing
Holy _thoughts_ that seem like singing!
Row yet nearer by."