On the northern coast of England in the town of Whitby (White-town) was built a monastery many centuries ago by a woman whose name was Hild; and when the monastery was completed she became the abbess. In this monastery ruled over by the Abbess Hild, there were not only monks and nuns, but also a number of servants and helpers who had not devoted themselves to the religious life. Among these was a poor herdsman whose name was Cadmon. He could neither read nor write, and his work in the monastery consisted in taking care of the cows and other cattle which were needed to supply the monastery table with milk and butter.

Now it was a common custom for Cadmon and his friends to entertain themselves, when the day’s work was done, by sitting around the fire telling stories and singing songs. Among other amusements they had one especially which is known as “passing the harp.” According to this custom, the harp was passed along from one person to another, and as it came each man’s turn, he took the harp and sang a song to its accompaniment. Most people in those days knew many stories which they could recite in this way, but unfortunately for Cadmon, this was an accomplishment which he could never learn. Consequently when he saw the harp approaching him, he would get up and leave the circle, ashamed to confess that he could not sing a song as the others had done.

It happened that one night Cadmon left the group of his friends in this way, as he had often done before, and went into the stable where he was to pass the night watching the cattle. After a time he fell asleep. As he lay sleeping, he heard a voice calling to him, which said: “Cadmon, sing for me.” Then Cadmon answered the voice, saying: “I cannot sing; and it is for that reason that I have left the company of my friends and have come hither.” “Nevertheless, I say you must sing for me,” the voice continued. “What shall I sing?” asked Cadmon. “Sing for me,” the voice answered, “the story of how all things were created.” And then Cadmon, greatly to his own astonishment, found that he was able to sing, and he began to sing the praises of God the Creator in verses which he had never heard before.

The next morning, when Cadmon awoke from the sleep in which he had had this dream or vision, the strangest part of it was that he remembered perfectly what he had sung in his sleep during the night, and better still, he was able to add other verses to these. He told what had happened to him to his master, and his master went directly to Abbess Hild and repeated the story to her. Hild immediately called Cadmon to her, and, sending for several learned monks, she bade them recite a passage of Scripture in English to Cadmon, and then she asked Cadmon to turn what he had heard into verse. The next morning Cadmon came back and recited to her in perfect and melodious verse all that he had been told by the learned monks. Then Hild immediately perceived that this poor cowherd in her monastery was possessed of a very precious gift. She gave orders that he should be accepted as a monk into her monastery, and that the other monks should teach him all the story of the Bible. This was so done, and being unable to read, Cadmon learned all the stories of the Bible by having them told to him, and then he turned them into poetical form. The monks were glad to write down the poems as Cadmon recited them, and thus together they put into verse the whole story of the creation of the world, of the fall of man, of the children of Israel and the Exodus out of Egypt into the Promised Land, and many other stories contained in the Bible.

For many years Cadmon continued to live in the monastery at Whitby, making noble use of this poet’s gift that had been granted to him. And it was here at Whitby that he finally died. He had been unwell for several weeks before his death, but it was not supposed that his sickness was serious. One night, however, the night on which he died, he asked his nurse to take him to the infirmary, which was the part of the monastery where those brothers who were dangerously sick and on the point of death were usually cared for together. The man was surprised that Cadmon should want to be taken to the infirmary, but he did as he was asked to do. Cadmon seemed to be bright and happy, and talked cheerfully with the other sick people in the infirmary. When it was about midnight, he asked if the Eucharist was there in the infirmary. “Why do you ask that?” his friends said. “You are not so near to death that you need ask for the Eucharist.” But Cadmon asked for the Eucharist again, and when he had it in his hand he inquired whether they were all kindly disposed and at peace with him. When they said they were, then Cadmon continued: “And I, too, am at peace with all men.” Having made his last communion, he asked if the time was near when the brothers of the monastery should arise and say the prayers known as nocturns. “It is almost time,” they answered. “Let us then wait for it,” he said; and blessing himself with the sign of the cross, he lay back upon his pillow, and so falling asleep, as peacefully and as gently as he had lived, he passed to his final rest.

This is the simple story of the blameless life of the first English poet whose name has come down to us. Other poets there must have been before Cadmon, poets who sang the stories of the bloody combats of English heroes before the days of Augustine and Aidan. From the very earliest times the English have had their bards or minstrels, whose task it was to keep alive the fame of the nation’s great men. But not even the names of any of these earlier heathen poets are known to us, and but a few fragments of their songs have survived to our day. These songs were of the kind which Cadmon could not sing, but which his companions, at their feasts and banquets, all sang so freely to the accompaniment of the harp. This heathen minstrelsy is now all lost and silent, while down through the ages the clear voice of Cadmon is heard, singing the old story of the Creation of the World and of the ways of God to man. From Cadmon to Milton it is a thousand years, but the poor cowherd who became the chief ornament of Hild’s ancient monastery on the cliff above Whitby sang his songs in the same spirit as the author of “Paradise Lost.”