In his safe, warm place in the straw, Caedmon soon fell asleep. All
around him were the cows of the abbey, some chewing their cuds, and
others like their master quietly sleeping. The singing in the kitchen
was ended, the fire had burned low, and each man had gone to his place.
Then Caedmon had a strange dream. He thought that a wonderful light
was shining around him. His eyes were dazzled by it. He rubbed them
with his hands, and when they were quite open he thought that he saw
a beautiful face looking down upon him, and that a gentle voice
said,--
"Caedmon, sing for me."
At first he was so bewildered that he could not answer. Then he heard
the voice again.
"Caedmon, sing something."
"Oh, I cannot sing," answered the poor man." I do not know any song;
and my voice is harsh and unpleasant. It was for this reason that I
left my fellows in the abbey kitchen and came here to be alone."
"But you _must_ sing," said the voice. "You _must_ sing."
"What shall I sing?" he asked.
"Sing of the creation," was the answer.
Then Caedmon, with only the cows as his hearers, opened his mouth and
began to sing. He sang of the beginning of things; how the world was
made; how the sun and moon came into being; how the land rose from the
water; how the birds and the beasts were given life.
[Illustration: Caedmon signing in the cow byre]
All through the night he sat among the abbey cows, and sang his
wonderful song. When the stable boys and shepherds came out in the
morning, they heard him singing; and they were so amazed that they
stood still in the drifted snow and listened with open mouths.
At length, others of the servants heard him, and were entranced by his
wonderful song. And one ran quickly and told the good abbess, or
mistress of the abbey, what strange thing had happened.
"Bring the cowherd hither, that I and those who are with me may hear
him," said she.
So Caedmon was led into the great hall of the abbey. And all of the
sweet-faced sisters and other women of the place listened while he
sang again the wonderful song of the creation.
"Surely," said the abbess, "this is a poem, most sweet, most true,
most beautiful. It must be written down so that people in other places
and in other times may hear it read and sung."
So she called her clerk, who was a scholar, and bade him write the
song, word for word, as it came from Caedmon's lips. And this he did.
Such was the way in which the first true English poem was written. And
Caedmon, the poor cowherd of the abbey, was the first great poet of
England.