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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/7165-0.txt b/7165-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7795ce6 --- /dev/null +++ b/7165-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6190 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Legends of Saint Patrick, by Aubrey De +Vere, Edited by Henry Morley + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Legends of Saint Patrick + + +Author: Aubrey De Vere + +Editor: Henry Morley + +Release Date: July 28, 2014 [eBook #7165] +[This file was first posted on March 18, 2003] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK*** + + +This eBook was prepared by Les Bowler. + + CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY. + + * * * * * + + + + + + THE LEGENDS + OF + SAINT PATRICK + + + BY + AUBREY DE VERE, LL.D. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED: + _LONDON_, _PARIS & MELBOURNE_. + 1892 + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +ONCE more our readers are indebted to a living poet for wide circulation +of a volume of delightful verse. The name of Aubrey de Vere is the more +pleasantly familiar because its association with our highest literature +has descended from father to son. In 1822, sixty-seven years ago, Sir +Aubrey de Vere, of Curragh Chase, by Adare, in the county of +Limerick—then thirty-four years old—first made his mark with a dramatic +poem upon “Julian the Apostate.” In 1842 Sir Aubrey published Sonnets, +which his friend Wordsworth described as “the most perfect of our age;” +and in the year of his death he completed a dramatic poem upon “Mary +Tudor,” published in the next year, 1847, with the “Lamentation of +Ireland, and other Poems.” Sir Aubrey de Vere’s “Mary Tudor” should be +read by all who have read Tennyson’s play on the same subject. + +The gift of genius passed from Sir Aubrey to his third son, Aubrey Thomas +de Vere, who was born in 1814, and through a long life has put into music +only noble thoughts associated with the love of God and man, and of his +native land. His first work, published forty-seven years ago, was a +lyrical piece, in which he gave his sympathy to devout and persecuted men +whose ways of thought were not his own. Aubrey de Vere’s poems have been +from time to time revised by himself, and they were in 1884 finally +collected into three volumes, published by Messrs. Kegan Paul. Left free +to choose from among their various contents, I have taken this little +book of “Legends of St. Patrick,” first published in 1872, but in so +doing I have unwillingly left many a piece that would please many a +reader. + +They are not, however, inaccessible. Of the three volumes of collected +works, each may be had separately, and is complete in itself. The first +contains “The Search after Proserpine, and other Poems—Classical and +Meditative.” The second contains the “Legends of St. Patrick, and +Legends of Ireland’s Heroic Age,” including a version of the “Tain Bo.” +The third contains two plays, “Alexander the Great,” “St. Thomas of +Canterbury,” and other Poems. + +For the convenience of some readers, the following extract from the +second volume of my “English Writers,” may serve as a prosaic summary of +what is actually known about St. Patrick. + + H. M. + + + + +ST. PATRICK. +_FROM_ “_ENGLISH WRITERS_.” + + +THE birth of St. Patrick, Apostle and Saint of Ireland, has been +generally placed in the latter half of the fourth century; and he is said +to have died at the age of a hundred and twenty. As he died in the year +493—and we may admit that he was then a very old man—if we may say that +he reached the age of eighty-eight, we place his birth in the year 405. +We may reasonably believe, therefore, that he was born in the early part +of the fifth century. His birthplace, now known as Kilpatrick, was at +the junction of the Levin with the Clyde, in what is now the county of +Dumbarton. His baptismal name was Succath. His father was Calphurnius, +a deacon, son of Potitus, who was a priest. His mother’s name was +Conchessa, whose family may have belonged to Gaul, and who may thus have +been, as it is said she was, of the kindred of St. Martin of Tours; for +there is a tradition that she was with Calphurnius as a slave before he +married her. Since Eusebius spoke of three bishops from Britain at the +Council of Arles, Succath, known afterwards in missionary life by his +name in religion, Patricius (_pater civium_), might very reasonably be a +deacon’s son. + +In his early years Succath was at home by the Clyde, and he speaks of +himself as not having been obedient to the teaching of the clergy. When +he was sixteen years old he, with two of his sisters and other of his +countrymen, was seized by a band of Irish pirates that made descent on +the shore of the Clyde and carried him off to slavery. His sisters were +taken to another part of the island, and he was sold to Milcho MacCuboin +in the north, whom he served for six or seven years, so learning to speak +the language of the country, while keeping his master’s sheep by the +Mountain of Slieve Miss. Thoughts of home and of its Christian life made +the youth feel the heathenism that was about him; his exile seemed to him +a punishment for boyish indifference; and during the years when young +enthusiasm looks out upon life with new sense of a man’s power—growing +for man’s work that is to do—Succath became filled with religious zeal. + +Three Latin pieces are ascribed to St. Patrick: a “Confession,” which is +in the Book of Armagh, and in three other manuscripts; {10a} a letter to +Coroticus, and a few “Dieta Patricii,” which are also in the Book of +Armagh. {10b} There is no strong reason for questioning the authenticity +of the “Confession,” which is in unpolished Latin, the writer calling +himself “indoctus, rusticissimus, imperitus,” and it is full of a deep +religious feeling. It is concerned rather with the inner than the outer +life, but includes references to the early days of trial by which +Succath’s whole heart was turned to God. He says, “After I came into +Ireland I pastured sheep daily, and prayed many times a day. The love +and fear of God, and faith and spirit, wrought in me more and more, so +that in one day I reached to a hundred prayers, and in the night almost +as many, and stayed in the woods and on the mountains, and was urged to +prayer before the dawn, in snow, in frost, in rain, and took no harm, +nor, I think, was there any sloth in me. And there one night I heard a +voice in a dream saying to me, ‘Thou hast well fasted; thou shalt go back +soon to thine own land;’ and again after a little while, ‘Behold! thy +ship is ready.’” In all this there is the passionate longing of an +ardent mind for home and Heaven. + +At the age of twenty-two Succath fled from his slavery to a vessel of +which the master first refused and finally consented to take him on +board. He and the sailors were then cast by a storm upon a desert shore +of Britain, possibly upon some region laid waste by ravages from over +sea. Having at last made his way back, by a sea passage, to his home on +the Clyde, Succath was after a time captured again, but remained captive +only for two months, and went back home. Then the zeal for his Master’s +service made him feel like the Seafarer in the Anglo-Saxon poem; and all +the traditions of his home would have accorded with the rise of the +resolve to cross the sea, and to spread Christ’s teaching in what had +been the land of his captivity. + +There were already centres of Christian work in Ireland, where devoted +men were labouring and drew a few into their fellowship. Succath aimed +at the gathering of all these scattered forces, by a movement that should +carry with it the whole people. He first prepared himself by giving +about four years to study of the Scriptures at Auxerre, under Germanus, +and then went to Rome, under the conduct of a priest, Segetius, and +probably with letters from Germanus to Pope Celestine. Whether he +received his orders from the Pope seems doubtful; but the evidence is +strong that Celestine sent him on his Irish mission. Succath left Rome, +passed through North Italy and Gaul, till he met on his way two followers +of Palladius, Augustinus and Benedictus, who told him of their master’s +failure, and of his death at Fordun. Succath then obtained consecration +from Amathus, a neighbouring bishop, and as Patricius, went straight to +Ireland. He landed near the town of Wicklow, by the estuary of the River +Varty, which had been the landing-place of Palladius. In that region he +was, like Palladius, opposed; but he made some conversions, and advanced +with his work northward that he might reach the home of his old master, +Milcho, and pay him the purchase-money of his stolen freedom. But +Milcho, it is said, burnt himself and his goods rather than bear the +shame of submission to the growing power of his former slave. + +St. Patrick addressed the ruling classes, who could bring with them their +followers, and he joined tact with his zeal; respecting ancient +prejudices, opposing nothing that was not directly hostile to the spirit +of Christianity, and handling skilfully the chiefs with whom he had to +deal. An early convert—Dichu MacTrighim—was a chief with influential +connections, who gave the ground for the religious house now known as +Saul. This chief satisfied so well the inquiries of Laeghaire, son of +Niall, King of Erin, concerning the stranger’s movements, that St. +Patrick took ship for the mouth of the Boyne, and made his way straight +to the king himself. The result of his energy was that he met +successfully all the opposition of those who were concerned in the +maintenance of old heathen worship, and brought King Laeghaire to his +side. + +Then Laeghaire resolved that the old laws of the country as established +by the judges, whose order was named Brehon, should be revised, and +brought into accord with the new teaching. So the Brehon laws of Ireland +were revised, with St. Patrick’s assistance, and there were no ancient +customs broken or altered, except those that could not be harmonised with +Christian teaching. The good sense of St. Patrick enabled this great +work to be done without offence to the people. The collection of laws +thus made by the chief lawyers of the time, with the assistance of St. +Patrick, is known as the “Senchus Mor,” and, says an old poem— + + “Laeghaire, Corc Dairi, the brave; + Patrick, Beuen, Cairnech, the just; + Rossa, Dubtach, Fergus, the wise; + These are the nine pillars of the Senchus Mor.” + +This body of laws, traditions, and treatises on law is found in no +manuscript of a date earlier than the fourteenth century. It includes, +therefore, much that is of later date than the fifth century. + +St. Patrick’s greatest energies are said to have been put forth in Ulster +and Leinster. Among the churches or religious communities founded by him +in Ulster was that of Armagh. If he was born about the year 405, when he +was carried to Ireland as a prisoner at the age of sixteen the date would +have been 421. His age would have been twenty-two when he escaped, after +six or seven years of captivity, and the date 427. A year at home, and +four years with Germanus at Auxerre, would bring him to the age of +twenty-seven, and the year 432, when he began his great endeavour to put +Christianity into the main body of the Irish people. That work filled +all the rest of his life, which was long. If we accept the statement, in +which all the old records agree, that the time of Patrick’s labour in +Ireland was not less than sixty years; sixty years bring him to the age +of eighty-eight in the year 493. And in that year he died. + +The “Letter to Coroticus,” ascribed to St. Patrick, is addressed to a +petty king of Brittany who persecuted Christians, and was meant for the +encouragement of Christian soldiers who served under him. It may, +probably, be regarded as authentic. The mass of legend woven into the +life of the great missionary lies outside this piece and the +“Confession.” The “Confession” only expresses heights and depths of +religious feeling haunted by impressions and dreams, through which, to +the fervid nature out of which they sprang heaven seemed to speak. St. +Patrick did not attack heresies among the Christians; he preached to +those who were not Christians the Christian faith and practice. His +great influence was not that of a writer, but of a speaker. He must have +been an orator, profoundly earnest, who could put his soul into his +voice; and, when his words bred deeds, conquered all difficulties in the +way of action with right feeling and good sense. + + HENRY MORLEY. + + * * * * * + + TO THE MEMORY + OF + WORDSWORTH. + + * * * * * + + + + +AUTHOR’S PREFACE +TO +“THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK.” + + +THE ancient records of Ireland abound in legends respecting the greatest +man and the greatest benefactor that ever trod her soil; and of these the +earlier are at once the more authentic and the nobler. Not a few have a +character of the sublime; many are pathetic; some have a profound meaning +under a strange disguise; but their predominant character is their +brightness and gladsomeness. A large tract of Irish history is dark: but +the time of Saint Patrick, and the three centuries which succeeded it, +were her time of joy. That chronicle is a song of gratitude and hope, as +befits the story of a nation’s conversion to Christianity, and in it the +bird and the brook blend their carols with those of angels and of men. +It was otherwise with the later legends connecting Ossian with Saint +Patrick. A poet once remarked, while studying the frescoes of Michael +Angelo in the Sistine Chapel, that the Sibyls are always sad, while the +Prophets alternated with them are joyous. In the legends of the +Patrician Cycle the chief-loving old Bard is ever mournful, for his face +is turned to the past glories of his country; while the Saint is always +bright, because his eyes are set on to the glory that has no end. + +These legends are to be found chiefly in several very ancient lives of +Saint Patrick, the most valuable of which is the “Tripartite Life,” +ascribed by Colgan to the century after the Saint’s death, though it has +not escaped later interpolations. The work was long lost, but two copies +of it were re-discovered, one of which has been recently translated by +that eminent Irish scholar, Mr. Hennessy. Whether regarded from the +religious or the philosophic point of view, few things can be more +instructive than the picture which it delineates of human nature at a +period of critical transition, and the dawning of the Religion of Peace +upon a race barbaric, but far indeed from savage. That wild race +regarded it doubtless as a notable cruelty when the new Faith discouraged +an amusement so popular as battle; but in many respects they were in +sympathy with that Faith. It was one in which the nobler affections, as +well as the passions, retained an unblunted ardour; and where Nature is +strongest and least corrupted it most feels the need of something higher +than itself, its interpreter and its supplement. It prized the family +ties, like the Germans recorded by Tacitus; and it could not but have +been drawn to Christianity, which consecrated them. Its morals were +pure, and it had not lost that simplicity to which so much of spiritual +insight belongs. Admiration and wonder were among its chief habits; and +it would not have been repelled by Mysteries in what professed to belong +to the Infinite. Lawless as it was, it abounded also in loyalty, +generosity, and self-sacrifice; it was not, therefore, untouched by the +records of martyrs, examples of self-sacrifice, or the doctrine of a +great Sacrifice. It loved children and the poor; and Christianity made +the former the exemplars of faith, and the latter the eminent inheritors +of the Kingdom. On the other hand, all the vices of the race ranged +themselves against the new religion. + +In the main the institutions and traditions of Ireland were favourable to +Christianity. She had preserved in a large measure the patriarchal +system of the East. Her clans were families, and her chiefs were +patriarchs who led their households to battle, and seized or recovered +the spoil. To such a people the Christian Church announced herself as a +great family—the family of man. Her genealogies went up to the first +parent, and her rule was parental rule. The kingdom of Christ was the +household of Christ; and its children in all lands formed the tribes of a +larger Israel. Its laws were living traditions; and for traditions the +Irish had ever retained the Eastern reverence. + +In the Druids no formidable enemy was found; it was the Bards who wielded +the predominant social influence. As in Greece, where the sacerdotal +power was small, the Bards were the priests of the national Imagination, +and round them all moral influences had gathered themselves. They were +jealous of their rivals; but those rivals won them by degrees. Secknall +and Fiacc were Christian Bards, trained by St. Patrick, who is said to +have also brought a bard with him from Italy. The beautiful legend in +which the Saint loosened the tongue of the dumb child was an apt emblem +of Christianity imparting to the Irish race the highest use of its +natural faculties. The Christian clergy turned to account the Irish +traditions, as they had made use of the Pagan temples, purifying them +first. The Christian religion looked with a genuine kindness on whatever +was human, except so far as the stain was on it; and while it resisted to +the face what was unchristian in spirit, it also, in the Apostolic sense, +“made itself all things to all men.” As legislator, Saint Patrick waged +no needless war against the ancient laws of Ireland. He purified them, +and he amplified them, discarding only what was unfit for a nation made +Christian. Thus was produced the great “Book of the Law,” or “Senchus +Mohr,” compiled A.D. 439. + +The Irish received the Gospel gladly. The great and the learned, in +other nations the last to believe, among them commonly set the example. +With the natural disposition of the race an appropriate culture had +concurred. It was one which at least did not fail to develop the +imagination, the affections, and a great part of the moral being, and +which thus indirectly prepared ardent natures, and not less the heroic +than the tender, to seek their rest in spiritual things, rather than in +material or conventional. That culture, without removing the barbaric, +had blended it with the refined. It had created among the people an +appreciation of the beautiful, the pathetic, and the pure. The early +Irish chronicles, as well as songs, show how strong among them that +sentiment had ever been. The Borromean Tribute, for so many ages the +source of relentless wars, had been imposed in vengeance for an insult +offered to a woman; and a discourtesy shown to a poet had overthrown an +ancient dynasty. The education of an Ollambh occupied twelve years; and +in the third century, the time of Oiseen and Fionn, the military rules of +the Feinè included provisions which the chivalry of later ages might have +been proud of. It was a wild, but not wholly an ungentle time. An +unprovoked affront was regarded as a grave moral offence; and severe +punishments were ordained, not only for detraction, but for a word, +though uttered in jest, which brought a blush on the cheek of a listener. +Yet an injury a hundred years old could meet no forgiveness, and the life +of man was war! It was not that laws were wanting; a code, minute in its +justice, had proportioned a penalty to every offence, and specified the +_Eric_ which was to wipe out the bloodstain in case the injured party +renounced his claim to right his own wrong. It was not that hearts were +hard—there was at least as much pity for others as for self. It was that +anger was implacable, and that where fear was unknown, the war field was +what among us the hunting field is. + +The rapid growth of learning as well as piety in the three centuries +succeeding the conversion of Ireland, prove that the country had not been +till then without a preparation for the gift. It had been the special +skill of Saint Patrick to build the good which was lacked upon that which +existed. Even the material arts of Ireland he had pressed into the +service of the Faith; and Irish craftsmen had assisted him, not only in +the building of his churches, but in casting his church bells, and in the +adornment of his chalices, crosiers, and ecclesiastical vestments. Once +elevated by Christianity, Ireland’s early civilisation was a memorable +thing. It sheltered a high virtue at home, and evangelised a great part +of Northern Europe; and amidst many confusions it held its own till the +true time of barbarism had set in—those two disastrous centuries when the +Danish invasions trod down the sanctuaries, dispersed the libraries, and +laid waste the colleges to which distant kings had sent their sons. + +Perhaps nothing human had so large an influence in the conversion of the +Irish as the personal character of her Apostle. Where others, as +Palladius, had failed, he succeeded. By nature, by grace, and by +providential training, he had been specially fitted for his task. We can +still see plainly even the finer traits of that character, while the land +of his birth is a matter of dispute, and of his early history we know +little, except that he was of noble birth, that he was carried to Ireland +by pirates at the age of sixteen, and that after five years of bondage he +escaped thence, to return A.D. 432, when about forty-five years old; +belonging thus to that great age of the Church which was made illustrious +by the most eminent of its Fathers, and tasked by the most critical of +its trials. In him a great character had been built on the foundations +of a devout childhood, and of a youth ennobled by adversity. Everywhere +we trace the might and the sweetness which belonged to it, the versatile +mind yet the simple heart, the varying tact yet the fixed resolve, the +large design taking counsel for all, yet the minute solicitude for each, +the fiery zeal yet the genial temper, the skill in using means yet the +reliance on God alone, the readiness in action with the willingness to +wait, the habitual self-possession yet the outbursts of an inspiration +which raised him above himself, the abiding consciousness of authority—an +authority in him, but not of him—and yet the ever-present humility. +Above all, there burned in him that boundless love, which seems the main +constituent of the Apostolic character. It was love for God; but it was +love for man also, an impassioned love, and a parental compassion. It +was not for the spiritual weal alone of man that he thirsted. Wrong and +injustice to the poor he resented as an injury to God. His vehement love +for the poor is illustrated by his “Epistle to Coroticus,” reproaching +him with his cruelty, as well as by his denunciations of slavery, which +piracy had introduced into parts of Ireland. No wonder that such a +character should have exercised a talismanic power over the ardent and +sensitive race among whom he laboured, a race “easy to be drawn, but +impossible to be driven,” and drawn more by sympathy than even by +benefits. That character can only be understood by one who studies, and +in a right spirit, that account of his life which he bequeathed to us +shortly before its close—the “Confession of Saint Patrick.” The last +poem in this series embodies its most characteristic portions, including +the visions which it records. + +The “Tripartite Life” thus ends:—“After these great miracles, therefore, +after resuscitating the dead, after healing lepers, and the blind, and +the deaf, and the lame, and all diseases; after ordaining bishops, and +priests, and deacons, and people of all orders in the Church; after +teaching the men of Erin, and after baptising them; after founding +churches and monasteries; after destroying idols and images and Druidical +arts, the hour of death of Saint Patrick approached. He received the +body of Christ from the Bishop Tassach, according to the counsel of the +Angel Victor. He resigned his spirit afterwards to Heaven, in the one +hundred and twentieth year of his age. His body is still here in the +earth, with honour and reverence. Though great his honour here, greater +honour will be to him in the Day of Judgment, when judgment will be given +on the fruit of his teaching, as of every great Apostle, in the union of +the Apostles and Disciples of Jesus; in the union of the Nine Orders of +Angels, which cannot be surpassed; in the union of the Divinity and +Humanity of the Son of God; in the union, which is higher than all +unions, of the Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.” + + A. DE VERE. + + + + +THE +LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK. + + +THE BAPTISM OF ST. PATRICK. + + + “How can the babe baptiséd be + Where font is none and water none?” + Thus wept the nurse on bended knee, + And swayed the Infant in the sun. + + “The blind priest took that Infant’s hand: + With that small hand, above the ground + He signed the Cross. At God’s command + A fountain rose with brimming bound. + + “In that pure wave from Adam’s sin + The blind priest cleansed the Babe with awe; + Then, reverently, he washed therein + His old, unseeing face, and saw! + + “He saw the earth; he saw the skies, + And that all-wondrous Child decreed + A pagan nation to baptise, + To give the Gentiles light indeed.” + + Thus Secknall sang. Far off and nigh + The clansmen shouted loud and long; + While every mother tossed more high + Her babe, and glorying joined the song. + + + +THE DISBELIEF OF MILCHO, +OR, SAINT PATRICK’S ONE FAILURE. + + +ARGUMENT. + + +Fame of St. Patrick goes ever before him, and men of goodwill believe +gladly; but Milcho, a mighty merchant, and one given wholly to pride and +greed, wills to disbelieve. St. Patrick sends him greeting and gifts; +but he, discovering that the prophet welcomed by all had once been his +slave, hates him the more. Notwithstanding, he fears that when that +prophet arrives, he, too, may be forced to believe, though against his +will. He resolves to set fire to his castle and all his wealth, and make +new fortunes in far lands. The doom of Milcho, who willed to disbelieve. + + WHEN now at Imber Dea that precious bark + Freighted with Erin’s future, touched the sands + Just where a river, through a woody vale + Curving, with duskier current clave the sea, + Patrick, the Island’s great inheritor, + His perilous voyage past, stept forth and knelt + And blessed his God. The peace of those green meads + Cradled ’twixt purple hills and purple deep, + Seemed as the peace of heaven. The sun had set; + But still those summits twinned, the “Golden Spears,” + Laughed with his latest beam. The hours went by: + The brethren paced the shore or musing sat, + But still their Patriarch knelt and still gave thanks + For all the marvellous chances of his life + Since those his earlier years when, slave new-trapped, + He comforted on hills of Dalaraide + His hungry heart with God, and, cleansed by pain, + In exile found the spirit’s native land. + Eve deepened into night, and still he prayed: + The clear cold stars had crowned the azure vault; + And, risen at midnight from dark seas, the moon + Had quenched those stars, yet Patrick still prayed on: + Till from the river murmuring in the vale, + Far off, and from the morning airs close by + That shook the alders by the river’s mouth, + And from his own deep heart a voice there came, + “Ere yet thou fling’st God’s bounty on this land + There is a debt to cancel. Where is he, + Thy five years’ lord that scourged thee for his swine? + Alas that wintry face! Alas that heart + Joyless since earliest youth! To him reveal it! + To him declare that God who Man became + To raise man’s fall’n estate, as though a man, + All faculties of man unmerged, undimmed, + Had changed to worm and died the prey of worms, + That so the mole might see!” + + Thus Patrick mused + Not ignorant that from low beginnings rise + Oftenest the works of greatness; yet of this + Unweeting, that his failure, one and sole + Through all his more than mortal course, even now + Before that low beginning’s threshold lay, + Betwixt it and that Promised Land beyond + A bar of scandal stretched. Not otherwise + Might whatsoe’er was mortal in his strength + Dying, put on the immortal. + + With the morn + Deep sleep descended on him. Waking soon, + He rose a man of might, and in that might + Laboured; and God His servant’s toil revered; + And gladly on that coast Erin to Christ + Paid her firstfruits. Three days he preached his Lord: + The fourth embarking, cape succeeding cape + They passed, and heard the lowing herds remote + In hollow glens, and smelt the balmy breath + Of gorse on golden hillsides; till at eve, + The Imber Domnand reached, on silver sands + Grated their keel. Around them flocked at dawn + Warriors with hunters mixed, and shepherd youths + And maids with lips as red as mountain berries + And eyes like sloes, or keener eyes, dark-fringed + And gleaming like the blue-black spear. They came + With milk-pail, and with kid, and kindled fire + And spread the genial board. Upon that shore + Full many knelt and gave themselves to Christ, + Strong men, and men at midmost of their hopes + By sickness felled; old chiefs, at life’s dim close + That oft had asked, “Beyond the grave what hope?” + Worn sailors weary of the toilsome seas, + And craving rest; they, too, that sex which wears + The blended crowns of Chastity and Love; + Wondering, they hailed the Maiden-Motherhood; + And listening children praised the Babe Divine, + And passed Him, each to each. + + Ere long, once more + Their sails were spread. Again by grassy marge + They rowed, and sylvan glades. The branching deer + Like flying gleams went by them. Oft the cry + Of fighting clans rang out: but oftener yet + Clamour of rural dance, or mart confused + With many-coloured garb and movements swift, + Pageant sun-bright: or on the sands a throng + Girdled with circle glad some bard whose song + Shook the wild clan as tempest shakes the woods. + Still north the wanderers sailed: at evening, mists + Cumbered the shore and on them leaned the blast, + And fierce rain flashed mingling with dim-lit sea. + All night they toiled; next day at noon they kenned + A seaward stream that shone like golden tress + Severed and random-thrown. That river’s mouth + Ere long attained was all with lilies white + As April field with daisies. Entering there + They reached a wood, and disembarked with joy: + There, after thanks to God, silent they sat + In thought, and watched the ripples, dusk yet bright, + That lived and died like things that laughed at time, + On gliding ’neath those many-centuried boughs. + But, midmost, Patrick slept. Then through the trees, + Shy as a fawn half-tamed now stole, now fled + A boy of such bright aspect faëry child + He seemed, or babe exposed of royal race: + At last assured beside the Saint he stood, + And dropped on him a flower, and disappeared: + Thus flower on flower from the great wood he brought + And hid them in the bosom of the Saint. + The monks forbade him, saying, “Lest thou wake + The master from his sleep.” But Patrick woke, + And saw the boy, and said, “Forbid him not; + The heir of all my kingdom is this child.” + Then spake the brethren, “Wilt thou walk with us?” + And he, “I will:” and so for his sweet face + They called his name Benignus: and the boy + Thenceforth was Christ’s. Beneath his parent’s roof + At night they housed. Nowhere that child would sleep + Except at Patrick’s feet. Till Patrick’s death + Unchanged to him he clave, and after reigned + The second at Ardmacha. + + Day by day + They held their course; ere long the hills of Mourne + Loomed through sea-mist: Ulidian summits next + Before them rose: but nearer at their left + Inland with westward channel wound the wave + Changed to sea-lake. Nine miles with chant and hymn + They tracked the gold path of the sinking sun; + Then southward ran ’twixt headland and green isle + And landed. Dewy pastures sunset-dazed, + At leisure paced by mild-eyed milk-white kine + Smiled them a welcome. Onward moved in sight + Swiftly, with shadow far before him cast, + Dichu, that region’s lord, a martial man + And merry, and a speaker of the truth. + Pirates he deemed them first and toward them faced + With wolf-hounds twain that watched their master’s eye + To spring, or not to spring. The imperious face + Forbidding not, they sprang; but Patrick raised + His hand, and stone-like crouched they chained and still: + Then, Dichu onward striding fierce, the Saint + Between them signed the Cross; and lo, the sword + Froze in his hand, and Dichu stood like stone. + The amazement past, he prayed the man of God + To grace his house; and, side by side, a mile + They clomb the hills. Ascending, Patrick turned, + His heart with prescience filled. Beneath, there lay + A gleaming strait; beyond, a dim vast plain + With many an inlet pierced: a golden marge + Girdled the water-tongues with flag and reed; + But, farther off, a gentle sea-mist changed + The fair green flats to purple. “Night comes on;” + Thus Dichu spake, and waited. Patrick then + Advanced once more, and Sabhall soon was reached, + A castle half, half barn. There garnered lay + Much grain, and sun-imbrowned: and Patrick said, + “Here where the earthly grain was stored for man + The bread of angels man shall eat one day.” + And Patrick loved that place, and Patrick said, + “King Dichu, give thou to the poor that grain, + To Christ, our Lord, thy barn.” The strong man stood + In doubt; but prayers of little orphaned babes + Reared by his hand, went up for him that hour: + Therefore that barn he ceded, and to Christ + By Patrick was baptised. Where lay the corn + A convent later rose. There dwelt he oft; + And ’neath its roof more late the stranger sat, + Exile, or kingdom-wearied king, or bard, + That haply blind in age, yet tempest-rocked + By memories of departed glories, drew + With gradual influx into his old heart + Solace of Christian hope. + + With Dichu bode + Patrick somewhile, intent from him to learn + The inmost of that people. Oft they spake + Of Milcho. “Once his thrall, against my will + In earthly things I served him: for his soul + Needs therefore must I labour. Hard was he; + Unlike those hearts to which God’s Truth makes way + Like message from a mother in her grave: + Yet what I can I must. Not heaven itself + Can force belief; for Faith is still good will.” + Dichu laughed aloud: “Good will! Milcho’s good will + Neither to others, nor himself, good will + Hath Milcho! Fireless sits he, winter through, + The logs beside his hearth: and as on them + Glimmers the rime, so glimmers on his face + The smile. Convert him! Better thrice to hang him! + Baptise him! He will film your font with ice! + The cold of Milcho’s heart has winter-nipt + That glen he dwells in! From the sea it slopes + Unfinished, savage, like some nightmare dream, + Raked by an endless east wind of its own. + On wolf’s milk was he suckled not on woman’s! + To Milcho speed! Of Milcho claim belief! + Milcho will shrivel his small eye and say + He scorns to trust himself his father’s son, + Nor deems his lands his own by right of race + But clutched by stress of brain! Old Milcho’s God + Is gold. Forbear him, sir, or ere you seek him + Make smooth your way with gold.” + + Thus Dichu spake; + And Patrick, after musings long, replied: + “Faith is no gift that gold begets or feeds, + Oftener by gold extinguished. Unto God, + Unbribed, unpurchased, yearns the soul of man; + Yet finds perforce in God its great reward. + Not less this Milcho deems I did him wrong, + His slave, yet fleeing. To requite that loss + Gifts will I send him first by messengers + Ere yet I see his face.” + + Then Patrick sent + His messengers to Milcho, speaking thus: + “If ill befell thy herds through flight of mine + Fourfold that loss requite I, lest, for hate + Of me, thou disesteem my Master’s Word. + Likewise I sue thy friendship; and I come + In few days’ space, with gift of other gold + Than earth concedes, the Tidings of that God + Who made all worlds, and late His Face hath shown, + Sun-like to man. But thou, rejoice in hope!” + + + Thus Patrick, once by man advised in part, + Though wont to counsel with his God alone. + + + Meantime full many a rumour vague had vexed + Milcho much musing. He had dealings large + And distant. Died a chief? He sent and bought + The widow’s all; or sold on foodless shores + For usury the leanest of his kine. + Meantime, his dark ships and the populous quays + With news still murmured. First from Imber Dea + Came whispers how a sage had landed late, + And how when Nathi fain had barred his way, + Nathi that spurned Palladius from the land, + That sage with levelled eyes, and kingly front + Had from his presence driven him with a ban + Cur-like and craven; how on bended knee + Sinell believed, the royal man well-loved + Descending from the judgment-seat with joy: + And how when fishers spurned his brethren’s quest + For needful food, that sage had raised his rod, + And all the silver harvest of blue streams + Lay black in nets and sand. His wrinkled brow + Wrinkling yet more, thus Milcho answer made: + “Deceived are those that will to be deceived: + This knave has heard of gold in river-beds, + And comes a deft sand-groper; let him come! + He’ll toil ten years ere gold enough he finds + To make a crooked torque.” + + From Tara next + The news: “Laeghaire, the King, sits close in cloud + Of sullen thought, or storms from court to court, + Because the chiefest of the Druid race + Locru, and Luchat prophesied long since + That one day from the sea a Priest would come + With Doctrine and a Rite, and dash to earth + Idols, and hurl great monarchs from their thrones; + And lo! At Imber Boindi late there stept + A priest from roaring waves with Creed and Rite, + And men before him bow.” Then Milcho spake: + “Not flesh enough from thy strong bones, Laeghaire, + These Druids, ravens of the woods, have plucked, + But they must pluck thine eyes! Ah priestly race, + I loathe ye! ’Twixt the people and their King + Ever ye rub a sore!” Last came a voice: + “This day in Eire thy saying is fulfilled, + Conn of the ‘Hundred Battles,’ from thy throne + Leaping long since, and crying, ‘O’er the sea + The Prophet cometh, princes in his train, + Bearing for regal sceptres bended staffs, + Which from the land’s high places, cliff and peak, + Shall drag the fair flowers down!’” Scoffing he heard: + “Conn of the ‘Hundred Battles!’ Had he sent + His hundred thousand kernes to yonder steep + And rolled its boulders down, and built a mole + To fence my laden ships from spring-tide surge, + Far kinglier pattern had he shown, and given + More solace to the land.” + + He rose and turned + With sideway leer; and printing with vague step + Irregular the shining sands, on strode + Toward his cold home, alone; and saw by chance + A little bird light-perched, that, being sick, + Plucked from the fissured sea-cliff grains of sand; + And, noting, said, “O bird, when beak of thine + From base to crown hath gorged this huge sea-wall, + Then shall that man of Creed and Rite make null + The strong rock of my will!” Thus Milcho spake, + Feigning the peace not his. + + Next day it chanced + Women he heard in converse. Thus the first: + “If true the news, good speed for him, my boy! + Poor slaves by Milcho scourged on earth shall wear + In heaven a monarch’s crown! Good speed for her + His little sister, not reserved like us + To bend beneath these loads.” To whom her mate: + “Doubt not the Prophet’s tidings! Not in vain + The Power Unknown hath shaped us! Come He must, + Or send, and help His people on their way. + Good is He, or He ne’er had made these babes!” + They passed, and Milcho said, “Through hate of me + All men believe!” And straightway Milcho’s face + Grew bleaker than that crab-tree stem forlorn + That hid him, wanner than that sea-sand wet + That whitened round his foot down-pressed. + + Time passed. + One morn in bitter mockery Milcho mused: + “What better laughter than when thief from thief + Pilfers the pilfered goods? Our Druid thief + Two thousand years hath milked and shorn this land; + Now comes the thief outlandish that with him + Would share milk-pail and fleece! O Bacrach old, + To hear thee shout ‘Impostor!’” Straight he went + To Bacrach’s cell hid in a skirt wind-shav’n + Of low-grown wood, and met, departing thence, + Three sailors sea-tanned from a ship late-beached. + Within a corner huddled, on the floor, + The Druid sat, cowering, and cold, and mazed: + Sudden he rose, and cried, by conquering joy + Clothed as with youth restored: “The God Unknown, + That God who made the earth, hath walked the earth! + This hour His Prophet treads the isle! Three men + Have seen him; and their speech is true. To them + That Prophet spake: ‘Four hundred years ago, + Sinless God’s Son on earth for sinners died: + Black grew the world, and graves gave up their dead.’ + Thus spake the Seer. Four hundred years ago! + Mark well the time! Of Ulster’s Druid race + What man but yearly, those four hundred years, + Trembled that tale recounting which with this + Tallies as footprint with the foot of man? + Four hundred years ago—that self-same day— + Connor, the son of Nessa, Ulster’s King, + Sat throned, and judged his people. As he sat, + Under clear skies, behold, o’er all the earth + Swept a great shadow from the windless east; + And darkness hung upon the air three hours; + Dead fell the birds, and beasts astonied fled. + Then to his Chief of Druids, Connor spake + Whispering; and he, his oracles explored, + Shivering made answer, ‘From a land accursed, + O King, that shadow sweeps; therein, this hour, + By sinful men sinless God’s Son is slain.’ + Then Ulster’s king, down-dashing sceptre and crown, + Rose, clamouring, ‘Sinless! shall the sinless die?’ + And madness fell on him; and down that steep + He rushed whereon the Emanian Palace stood, + And reached the grove, Lambraidhè, with two swords, + The sword of battle, and the sword of state, + And hewed and hewed, crying, ‘Were I but there + Thus they should fall who slay that Sinless One;’ + And in that madness died. Old Erin’s sons + Beheld this thing; nor ever in the land + Hath ceased the rumour, nor the tear for him + Who, wroth at justice trampled, martyr died. + And now we know that not for any dream + He died, but for the truth: and whensoe’er + The Prophet of that Son of God who died + Sinless for sinners, standeth in this place, + I, Bacrach, oldest Druid in this Isle, + Will rise the first, and kiss his vesture’s hem.” + + He spake; and Milcho heard, and without speech + Departed from that house. + + A later day + When the wild March sunset, gone almost ere come, + By glacial shower was hustled out of life, + Under a blighted ash tree, near his house, + Thus mused the man: “Believe, or Disbelieve! + The will does both; Then idiot who would be + For profitless belief to sell himself? + Yet disbelief not less might work our bane! + For, I remember, once a sickly slave + Ill shepherded my flock: I spake him plain; + ‘When next, through fault of thine, the midnight wolf + Worries my sheep, on yonder tree you hang:’ + The blear-eyed idiot looked into my face, + And smiled his disbelief. On that day week + Two lambs lay dead. I hanged him on a tree. + What tree? this tree! Why, this is passing strange! + For, three nights since, I saw him in a dream: + Weakling as wont he stood beside my bed, + And, clutching at his wrenched and livid throat, + Spake thus, ‘Belief is safest.’” + + Ceased the hail + To rattle on the ever barren boughs, + And friendlier sound was heard. Beside his door + Wayworn the messengers of Patrick stood, + And showed the gifts, and held his missive forth. + Then learned that lost one all the truth. That sage + Confessed by miracles, that prophet vouched + By warnings old, that seer by words of might + Subduing all things to himself—that priest, + None other was than the uncomplaining boy + Five years his slave and swineherd! In him rage + Burst forth, with fear commixed, as when a beast + Strains in the toils. “Can I alone stand firm?” + He mused; and next, “Shall I, in mine old age, + Byword become—the vassal of my slave? + Shall I not rather drive him from my door + With wolf hounds and a curse?” As thus he stood + He marked the gifts, and bade men bare them in, + And homeward signed the messengers unfed. + + But Milcho slept not all that night for thought, + And, forth ere sunrise issuing, paced a moor + Stone-roughened like the graveyard of dead hosts, + Till noontide. Sudden then he stopt, and thus + Discoursed within: “A plot from first to last, + The fraudulent bondage, flight, and late return; + For now I mind me of a foolish dream + Chance-sent, yet drawn by him awry. One night + Methought that boy from far hills drenched in rain + Dashed through my halls, all fire. From hands and head, + From hair and mouth, forth rushed a flaming fire + White, like white light, and still that mighty flame + Into itself took all. With hands outstretched + I spurned it. On my cradled daughters twain + It turned, and they were ashes. Then in burst + The south wind through the portals of the house, + Tempest rose-sweet, and blew those ashes forth + Wide as the realm. At dawn I sought the knave; + He glossed my vision thus: ‘That fire is Faith— + Faith in the God Triune, the God made Man, + Sole light wherein I walk, and walking burn; + And they that walk with me shall burn like me + By Faith. But thou that radiance wilt repel, + Housed through ill-will, in Error’s endless night. + Not less thy little daughters shall believe + With glory and great joy; and, when they die, + Report of them, like ashes blown abroad, + Shall light far lands, and health to men of Faith + Stream from their dust.’ I drave the impostor forth: + Perjured ere long he fled, and now returns + To reap a harvest from his master’s dream”— + Thus mused he, while black shadow swept the moor. + So day by day darker was Milcho’s heart, + Till, with the endless brooding on one thought, + Began a little flaw within that brain + Whose strength was still his boast. Was no friend nigh? + Alas! what friend had he? All men he scorned; + Knew truly none. In each, the best and sweetest + Near him had ever pined, like stunted growth + Dwarfed by some glacier nigh. The fifth day dawned: + And inly thus he muttered, darkly pale: + “Five days; in three the messengers returned: + In three—in two—the Accursèd will be here, + Or blacken yonder Sleemish with his crew + Descending. Then those idiots, kerne and slave— + The mighty flame into itself takes all— + Full swarm will fly to meet him! Fool! fool! fool! + The man hath snared me with those gifts he sent; + Else had I barred the mountains: now ’twere late, + My people in revolt. Whole weeks his horde + Will throng my courts, demanding board and bed, + With hosts by Dichu sent to flout my pang, + And sorer make my charge. My granaries sacked, + My larder lean as ship six months ice-bound, + The man I hate will rise, and open shake + The invincible banner of his mad new Faith, + Till all that hear him shout, like winds or waves, + Belief; and I be left sole recusant; + Or else perhaps that Fury who prevails + At times o’er knee-joints of reluctant men, + By magic imped, may crumble into dust + By force my disbelief.” + + He raised his head, + And lo, before him lay the sea far ebbed + Sad with a sunset all but gone: the reeds + Sighed in the wind, and sighed a sweeter voice + Oft heard in childhood—now the last time heard: + “Believe!” it whispered. Vain the voice! That hour, + Stirred from the abyss, the sins of all his life + Around him rose like night—not one, but all— + That earliest sin which, like a dagger, pierced + His mother’s heart; that worst, when summer drouth + Parched the brown vales, and infants thirsting died, + While from full pail he gorged his swine with milk + And flung the rest away. Sin-walled he stood: + God’s Angels could not pierce that cincture dread, + Nor he look through it. Yet he dreamed he saw: + His life he saw; its labours, and its gains + Hard won, long-waited, wonder of his foes; + The manifold conquests of a Will oft tried; + Victory, Defeat, Retrieval; last, that scene + Around him spread: the wan sea and grey rocks; + And he was ’ware that on that self-same ledge + He, Milcho, thirty years gone by, had stood, + While pirates pushed to sea, leaving forlorn + On that wild shore a scared and weeping boy, + (His price two yearling kids and half a sheep) + Thenceforth his slave. + + Not sole he mused that hour. + The Demon of his House beside him stood + Upon that iron coast, and whispered thus: + “Masterful man art thou for wit and strength; + Yet girl-like standst thou brooding! Weave a snare! + He comes for gold, this prophet. All thou hast + Heap in thy house; then fire it! In far lands + Build thee new fortunes. Frustrate thus shall he + Stare but on stones, his destined vassal scaped.” + + So fell the whisper; and as one who hears + And does, the stiff-necked man obsequious bent + His strong will to a stronger, and returned, + And gave command to heap within his house + His stored up wealth—yea, all things that were his— + Borne from his ships and granaries. It was done. + Then filled he his huge hall with resinous beams + Seasoned for far sea-voyage, and the ribs + Of ocean-sundering vessels deep in sea; + Which ended, to his topmost tower he clomb, + And therein sat two days, with face to south, + Clutching a brand; and oft through clenched teeth hissed, + Hissed long, “Because I will to disbelieve.” + But ere the second sunset two brief hours, + Where comfortless leaned forth that western ridge + Long patched with whiteness by half melted snows, + There crept a gradual shadow. Soon the man + Discerned its import. There they hung—he saw them— + That company detested; hung as when + Storm-boding cloud on mountain hangs half way + Scarce moving, and in fear the shepherd cries, + “Would that the worse were come!” So dread to him + Those Heralds of fair Peace! He gazed upon them + With blood-shot eyes; a moment passed: he stood + Sole in his never festal hall, and flung + His lighted brand into that pile far forth, + And smiled that smile men feared to see, and turned, + And issuing faced the circle of his serfs + That wondering gathered round in thickening mass, + Eyeing that unloved House. + + His place he chose + Beside that blighted ash, fronting those towers + Palled with red smoke, and muttered low, “So be it! + Worse to be vassal to the man I hate,” + With hueless lips. His whole white face that hour + Was scorched; and blistered was the dead tree’s bark; + Yet there he stood; and in that fiery light + His life, no more triumphant, passed once more + In underthought before him, while on spread + The swift, contagious madness of that fire, + And muttered thus, not knowing it, the man, + “The mighty flame into itself takes all,” + Mechanic iteration. Not alone + Stood he that hour. The Demon of his House + By him once more and closer than of old, + Stood, whispering thus, “Thy game is now played out; + Henceforth a byword art thou—rich in youth— + Self-beggared in old age.” And as the wind + Of that shrill whisper cut his listening soul, + The blazing roof fell in on all his wealth, + Hard-won, long-waited, wonder of his foes; + And, loud as laughter from ten thousand fiends, + Up rushed the fire. With arms outstretched he stood; + Stood firm; then forward with a wild beast’s cry + He dashed himself into that terrible flame, + And vanished as a leaf. + + Upon a spur + Of Sleemish, eastward on its northern slope, + Stood Patrick and his brethren, travel-worn, + When distant o’er the brown and billowy moor + Rose the white smoke, that changed ere long to flame, + From site unknown; for by the seaward crest + That keep lay hidden. Hands to forehead raised, + Wondering they watched it. One to other spake: + “The huge Dalriad forest is afire + Ere melted are the winter’s snows!” Another, + “In vengeance o’er the ocean Creithe or Pict, + Favoured by magic, or by mist, have crossed, + And fired old Milcho’s ships.” But Patrick leaned + Upon his crosier, pale as the ashes wan + Left by a burned out city. Long he stood + Silent, till, sudden, fiercelier soared the flame + Reddening the edges of a cloud low hung; + And, after pause, vibration slow and stern + Troubling the burthened bosom of the air, + Upon a long surge of the northern wind + Came up—a murmur as of wintry seas + Far borne at night. All heard that sound; all felt it; + One only know its import. Patrick turned; + “The deed is done: the man I would have saved + Is dead, because he willed to disbelieve.” + + Yet Patrick grieved for Milcho, nor that hour + Passed further north. Three days on Sleemish hill + He dwelt in prayer. To Tara’s royal halls + Then turned he, and subdued the royal house + And host to Christ, save Erin’s king, Laeghaire. + But Milcho’s daughters twain to Christ were born + In baptism, and each Emeria named: + Like rose-trees in the garden of the Lord + Grew they and flourished. Dying young, one grave + Received them at Cluanbrain. Healing thence + To many from their relics passed; to more + The spirit’s happier healing, Love and Faith. + + + +SAINT PATRICK AT TARA. + + + THE King is wroth with a greater wrath + Than the wrath of Nial or the wrath of Conn! + From his heart to his brow the blood makes path, + And hangs there, a red cloud, beneath his crown. + + Is there any who knows not, from south to north, + That Laeghaire to-morrow his birthday keeps? + No fire may be lit upon hill or hearth + Till the King’s strong fire in its kingly mirth + Up rushes from Tara’s palace steeps! + + Yet Patrick has lighted his Paschal fire + At Slane—it is holy Saturday— + And blessed his font ’mid the chaunting choir! + From hill to hill the flame makes way; + While the king looks on it his eyes with ire + Flash red, like Mars, under tresses grey. + + The chiefs and the captains with drawn swords rose: + To avenge their Lord and the Realm they swore; + The Druids rose and their garments tore; + “The strangers to us and our Gods are foes!” + Then the king to Patrick a herald sent, + Who spake, “Come up at noon and show + Who lit thy fire and with what intent: + These things the great king Laeghaire would know.” + + But Laeghaire had hid twelve men by the way, + Who swore by the sun the Saint to slay. + + When the waters of Boyne began to bask + And fields to flash in the rising sun + The Apostle Evangelist kept his Pasch, + And Erin her grace baptismal won: + Her birthday it was: his font the rock, + He blessed the land, and he blessed his flock. + + Then forth to Tara he fared full lowly: + The Staff of Jesus was in his hand: + Twelve priests paced after him chaunting slowly, + Printing their steps on the dewy land. + It was the Resurrection morn; + The lark sang loud o’er the springing corn; + The dove was heard, and the hunter’s horn. + + The murderers twelve stood by on the way; + Yet they saw nought save the lambs at play. + + A trouble lurked in the monarch’s eye + When the guest he counted for dead drew nigh: + He sat in state at his palace gate; + His chiefs and nobles were ranged around; + The Druids like ravens smelt some far fate; + Their eyes were gloomily bent on the ground. + Then spake Laeghaire: “He comes—beware! + Let none salute him, or rise from his chair!” + + Like some still vision men see by night, + Mitred, with eyes of serene command, + Saint Patrick moved onward in ghostly white: + The Staff of Jesus was in his hand; + Twelve priests paced after him unafraid, + And the boy, Benignus, more like a maid; + Like a maid just wedded he walked and smiled, + To Christ new plighted, that priestly child. + + They entered the circle; their anthem ceased; + The Druids their eyes bent earthward still: + On Patrick’s brow the glory increased + As a sunrise brightening some sea-beat hill. + The warriors sat silent: strange awe they felt: + The chief bard, Dubtach, rose and knelt: + + Then Patrick discoursed of the things to be + When time gives way to eternity, + Of kingdoms that fall, which are dreams not things, + And the Kingdom built by the King of kings. + Of Him he spake who reigns from the Cross; + Of the death which is life, and the life which is loss; + How all things were made by the Infant Lord, + And the small hand the Magian kings adored. + His voice sounded on like a throbbing flood + That swells all night from some far-off wood, + And when it ended—that wondrous strain— + Invisible myriads breathed “Amen!” + + While he spake, men say that the refluent tide + On the shore by Colpa ceased to sink: + They say that the white stag by Mulla’s side + O’er the green marge bending forbore to drink: + That the Brandon eagle forgat to soar; + That no leaf stirred in the wood by Lee: + Such stupor hung the island o’er, + For none might guess what the end would be. + + Then whispered the king to a chief close by, + “It were better for me to believe than die!” + + Yet the king believed not; but ordinance gave + That whoso would might believe that word: + So the meek believed, and the wise, and brave, + And Mary’s Son as their God adored. + And the Druids, because they could answer nought, + Bowed down to the Faith the stranger brought. + That day on Erin God poured His Spirit: + Yet none like the chief of the bards had merit, + Dubtach! He rose and believed the first, + Ere the great light yet on the rest had burst. + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND THE TWO PRINCESSES. +FEDELM “THE RED ROSE,” AND ETHNA “THE FAIR.” + + + LIKE two sister fawns that leap, + Borne, as though on viewless wings, + Down bosky glade and ferny steep + To quench their thirst at silver springs, + From Cruachan palace through gorse and heather, + Raced the Royal Maids together. + Since childhood thus the twain had rushed + Each morn to Clebach’s fountain-cell + Ere earliest dawn the East had flushed + To bathe them in its well: + Each morn with joy their young hearts tingled; + Each morn as, conquering cloud or mist, + The first beam with the wavelet mingled, + Mouth to mouth they kissed! + + They stand by the fount with their unlooped hair— + A hand each raises—what see they there? + A white Form seated on Clebach stone; + A kinglike presence: the monks stood nigh: + Fronting the dawn he sat alone; + On the star of morning he fixed his eye: + That crozier he grasped shone bright; but brighter + The sunrise flashed from Saint Patrick’s mitre! + They gazed without fear. To a kingdom dear + From the day of their birth those Maids had been; + Of wrong they had heard; but it came not near; + They hoped they were dear to the Power unseen. + They knelt when that Vision of Peace they saw; + Knelt, not in fear, but in loving awe: + The “Red Rose” bloomed like that East afar; + The “Fair One” shone like that morning star. + + Then Patrick rose: no word he said, + But thrice he made the sacred Sign: + At the first, men say that the demons fled; + At the third flocked round them the Powers divine + Unseen. Like children devout and good, + Hands crossed on their bosoms, the maidens stood. + + “Blessed and holy! This land is Eire: + Whence come ye to her, and the king our sire?” + + “We come from a Kingdom far off yet near + Which the wise love well, and the wicked fear: + We come with blessing and come with ban, + We come from the Kingdom of God with man.” + + “Whose is that Kingdom? And say, therein + Are the chiefs all brave, and the maids all fair? + Is it clean from reptiles, and that thing, sin? + Is it like this kingdom of King Laeghaire?” + + “The chiefs of that kingdom wage war on wrong, + And the clash of their swords is sweet as song; + Fair are the maids, and so pure from taint + The flash of their eyes turns sinner to saint; + There reptile is none, nor the ravening beast; + There light has no shadow, no end the feast.” + + “But say, at that feast hath the poor man place? + Is reverence there for the old head hoar? + For the cripple that never might join the race? + For the maimed that fought, and can fight no more?” + + “Reverence is there for the poor and meek; + And the great King kisses the worn, pale cheek; + And the King’s Son waits on the pilgrim guest; + And the Queen takes the little blind child to her breast: + There with a crown is the just man crowned; + But the false and the vengeful are branded and bound + In knots of serpents, and flung without pity + From the bastions and walls of the saintly City.” + + Then the eyes of the Maidens grew dark, as though + That judgment of God had before them passed: + And the two sweet faces grew dim with woe; + But the rose and the radiance returned at last. + + “Are gardens there? Are there streams like ours? + Is God white-headed, or youthful and strong? + Hang there the rainbows o’er happy bowers? + Are there sun and moon and the thrush’s song?” + + “They have gardens there without noise or strife, + And there is the Tree of immortal Life: + Four rivers circle that blissful bound; + And Spirits float o’er it, and Spirits go round: + There, set in the midst, is the golden throne; + And the Maker of all things sits thereon: + A rainbow o’er-hangs him; and lo! therein + The beams are His Holy Ones washed from sin.” + + As he spake, the hearts of the Maids beat time + To music in heaven of peace and love; + And the deeper sense of that lore sublime + Came out from within them, and down from above; + By degrees came down; by degrees came out: + Who loveth, and hopeth, not long shall doubt. + + “Who is your God? Is love on His brow? + Oh how shall we love Him and find Him? How?” + The pure cheek flamed like the dawn-touched dew: + There was silence: then Patrick began anew. + “The princes who ride in your father’s train + Have courted your love, but sued in vain;— + Look up, O Maidens; make answer free: + What boon desire you, and what would you be?” + + “Pure we would be as yon wreath of foam, + Or the ripple which now yon sunbeams smite: + And joy we would have, and a songful home; + And one to rule us, and Love’s delight.” + + “In love God fashioned whatever is, + The hills, and the seas, and the skiey fires; + For love He made them, and endless blis + Sustains, enkindles, uplifts, inspires: + That God is Father, and Son, and Spirit; + And the true and spotless His peace inherit: + And God made man, with his great sad heart, + That hungers when held from God apart. + Your sire is a King on earth: but I + Would mate you to One who is Lord on high: + There bride is maid: and her joy shall stand, + For the King’s Son hath laid on her head His hand.” + As he spake, the eyes of that lovely twain + Grew large with a tearful but glorious light, + Like skies of summer late cleared by rain, + When the full-orbed moon will be soon in sight. + + “That Son of the King—is He fairest of men? + That mate whom He crowns—is she bright and blest? + Does she chase the red deer at His side through the glen? + Does she charm Him with song to His noontide rest?” + + “That King’s Son strove in a long, long war: + His people He freed; yet they wounded Him sore; + And still in His hands, and His feet, and His side, + The scars of His sorrow are ’graved, deep-dyed.” + + Then the breasts of the Maidens began to heave + Like harbour waves when beyond the bar + The great waves gather, and wet winds grieve, + And the roll of the tempest is heard afar. + + “We will kiss, we will kiss those bleeding feet; + On the bleeding hands our tears shall fall; + And whatever on earth is dear or sweet, + For that wounded heart we renounce them all. + + “Show us the way to His palace-gate:”— + “That way is thorny, and steep, and straight; + By none can His palace-gate be seen, + Save those who have washed in the waters clean.” + + They knelt; on their heads the wave he poured + Thrice in the name of the Triune Lord: + And he signed their brows with the Sign adored. + On Fedelm the “Red Rose,” on Ethna “The Fair,” + God’s dew shone bright in that morning air: + Some say that Saint Agnes, ’twixt sister and sister, + As the Cross touched each, bent over and kissed her. + + Then sang God’s new-born Creatures, “Behold! + We see God’s City from heaven draw nigh: + But we thirst for the fountains divine and cold: + We must see the great King’s Son, or die! + Come, Thou that com’st! Our wish is this, + That the body might die, and the soul, set free, + Swell out, like an infant’s lips, to the kiss + Of the Lover who filleth infinity!” + + “The City of God, by the water’s grace, + Ye see: alone, they behold His Face, + Who have washed in the baths of Death their eyes, + And tasted His Eucharist Sacrifice.” + + “Give us the Sacrifice!” Each bright head + Bent toward it as sunflowers bend to the sun: + They ate; and the blood from the warm cheek fled: + The exile was over: the home was won: + A starry darkness o’erflowed their brain: + Far waters beat on some heavenly shore: + Like the dying away of a low, sweet strain, + The young life ebbed, and they breathed no more: + In death they smiled, as though on the breast + Of the Mother Maid they had found their rest. + + The rumour spread: beside the bier + The King stood mute, and his chiefs and court: + The Druids dark-robed drew surlily near, + And the Bards storm-hearted, and humbler sort: + The “Staff of Jesus” Saint Patrick raised: + Angelic anthems above them swept: + There were that muttered; there were that praised: + But none who looked on that marvel wept. + + For they lay on one bed, like Brides new-wed, + By Clebach well; and, the dirge days over, + On their smiling faces a veil was spread, + And a green mound raised that bed to cover. + Such were the ways of those ancient days— + To Patrick for aye that grave was given; + And above it he built a church in their praise; + For in them had Eire been spoused to heaven. + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDREN OF FOCHLUT WOOD. + + +ARGUMENT. + + +Saint Patrick makes way into Fochlut wood by the sea, the oldest of +Erin’s forests, whence there had been borne unto him, then in a distant +land, the Children’s Wail from Erin. He meets there two young Virgins, +who sing a dirge of man’s sorrowful condition. Afterwards they lead him +to the fortress of the king, their father. There are sung two songs, a +song of Vengeance and a song of Lament; which ended, Saint Patrick makes +proclamation of the Advent and of the Resurrection. The king and all his +chiefs believe with full contentment. + + ONE day as Patrick sat upon a stone + Judging his people, Pagan babes flocked round, + All light and laughter, angel-like of mien, + Sueing for bread. He gave it, and they ate: + Then said he, “Kneel;” and taught them prayer: but lo! + Sudden the stag hounds’ music dinned the wind; + They heard; they sprang; they chased it. Patrick spake; + “It was the cry of children that I heard + Borne from the black wood o’er the midnight seas: + Where are those children? What avails though Kings + Have bowed before my Gospel, and in awe + Nations knelt low, unless I set mine eyes + On Fochlut Wood?” Thus speaking, he arose, + And, journeying with the brethren toward the West, + Fronted the confine of that forest old. + + Then entered they that darkness; and the wood + Closed as a cavern round them. O’er its roof + Leaned roof of cloud, and hissing ran the wind, + And moaned the trunks for centuries hollowed out + Yet stalwart still. There, rooted in the rock, + Stood the huge growths, by us unnamed, that frowned + Perhaps on Partholan, the parricide, + When that first Pagan settler fugitive + Landed, a man foredoomed. Between the stems + The ravening beast now glared, now fled. Red leaves, + The last year’s phantoms, rattled here and there. + The oldest wood that ever grew in Eire + Was Fochlut Wood, and gloomiest. Spirits of Ill + Made it their palace, and its labyrinths sowed + With poisons. Many a cave, with horrors thronged + Within it yawned, and many a chasm unseen + Waited the unwary treader. Cry of wolf + Pierced the cold air, and gibbering ghosts were heard; + And o’er the black marsh passed those wandering lights + That lure lost feet. A thousand pathways wound + From gloom to gloom. One only led to light: + That path was sharp with flints. + + Then Patrick mused, + “O life of man, how dark a wood art thou! + Erring how many track thee till Despair, + Sad host, receives them in his crypt-like porch + At nightfall.” Mute he paced. The brethren feared; + And fearing, knelt to God. Made strong by prayer + Westward once more they trod that dark, sharp way + Till deeper gloom announced the night, then slept + Guarded by angels. But the Saint all night + Watched, strong in prayer. The second day still on + They fared, like mariners o’er strange seas borne, + That keep in mist their soundings when the rocks + Vex the dark strait, and breakers roar unseen. + At last Benignus cried, “To God be praise! + He sends us better omens. See! the moss + Brightens the crag!” Ere long another spake: + “The worst is past! This freshness in the air + Wafts us a welcome from the great salt sea; + Fair spreads the fern: green buds are on the spray, + And violets throng the grass.” + + A few steps more + Brought them to where, with peaceful gleam, there spread + A forest pool that mirrored yew trees twain + With beads like blood-drops hung. A sunset flash + Kindled a glory in the osiers brown + Encircling that still water. From the reeds + A sable bird, gold-circled, slowly rose; + But when the towering tree-tops he outsoared, + Eastward a great wind swept him as a leaf. + Serenely as he rose a music soft + Swelled from afar; but, as that storm o’ertook him, + The music changed to one on-rushing note + O’ertaken by a second; both, ere long, + Blended in wail unending. Patrick’s brow, + Listening that wail, was altered, and he spake: + “These were the Voices that I heard when stood + By night beside me in that southern land + God’s angel, girt for speed. Letters he bare + Unnumbered, full of woes. He gave me one, + Inscribed, ‘The Wailing of the Irish Race;’ + And as I read that legend on mine ear + Forth from a mighty wood on Erin’s coast + There rang the cry of children, ‘Walk once more + Among us; bring us help!’” Thus Patrick spake: + Then towards that wailing paced with forward head. + + Ere long they came to where a river broad, + Swiftly amid the dense trees winding, brimmed + The flower-enamelled marge, and onward bore + Green branches ’mid its eddies. On the bank + Two virgins stood. Whiter than earliest streak + Of matin pearl dividing dusky clouds + Their raiment; and, as oft in silent woods + White beds of wind-flower lean along the earth-breeze, + So on the river-breeze that raiment wan + Shivered, back blown. Slender they stood and tall, + Their brows with violets bound; while shone, beneath, + The dark blue of their never-tearless eyes. + Then Patrick, “For the sake of Him who lays + His blessing on the mourners, O ye maids, + Reveal to me your grief—if yours late sent, + Or sped in careless childhood.” And the maids: + “Happy whose careless childhood ’scaped the wound:” + Then she that seemed the saddest added thus: + “Stranger! this forest is no roof of joy, + Nor we the only mourners; neither fall + Bitterer the widow’s nor the orphan’s tears + Now than of old; nor sharper than long since + That loss which maketh maiden widowhood. + In childhood first our sorrow came. One eve + Within our foster-parents’ low-roofed house + The winter sunset from our bed had waned: + I slept, and sleeping dreamed. Beside the bed + There stood a lovely Lady crowned with stars; + A sword went through her heart. Down from that sword + Blood trickled on the bed, and on the ground. + Sorely I wept. The Lady spake: ‘My child, + Weep not for me, but for thy country weep; + Her wound is deeper far than mine. Cry loud! + The cry of grief is Prayer.’ I woke, all tears; + And lo! my little sister, stiff and cold, + Sat with wide eyes upon the bed upright: + That starry Lady with the bleeding heart + She, too, had seen, and heard her. Clamour vast + Rang out; and all the wall was fiery red; + And flame was on the sea. A hostile clan + Landing in mist, had fired our ships and town, + Our clansmen absent on a foray far, + And stricken many an old man, many a boy + To bondage dragged. Oh night with blood redeemed! + Upon the third day o’er the green waves rushed + The vengeance winged, with axe and torch, to quit + Wrong with new wrong, and many a time since then. + That night sad women on the sea sands toiled, + Drawing from wreck and ruin, beam or plank + To shield their babes. Our foster-parents slain, + Unheeded we, the children of the chief, + Roamed the great forest. There we told our dream + To children likewise orphaned. Sudden fear + Smote them as though themselves had dreamed that dream, + And back from them redoubled upon us; + Until at last from us and them rang out— + The dark wood heard it, and the midnight sea— + A great and bitter cry.” + + “That cry went up, + O children, to the heart of God; and He + Down sent it, pitying, to a far-off land, + And on into my heart. By that first pang + Which left the eternal pallor in your cheeks, + O maids, I pray you, sing once more that song + Ye sang but late. I heard its long last note: + Fain would I hear the song that such death died.” + + They sang: not scathless those that sing such song! + Grief, their instructress, of the Muses chief + To hearts by grief unvanquished, to their hearts + Had taught a melody that neither spared + Singer nor listener. Pale when they began, + Paler it left them. He not less was pale + Who, out of trance awaking, thanked them thus: + “Now know I of that sorrow in you fixed; + What, and how great it is, and bless that Power + Who called me forth from nothing for your sakes, + And sent me to this wood. Maidens, lead on! + A chieftain’s daughters ye; and he, your sire, + And with him she who gave you your sweet looks + (Sadder perchance than you in songless age) + They, too, must hear my tidings. Once a Prince + Went solitary from His golden throne, + Tracking the illimitable wastes, to find + One wildered sheep, the meanest of the flock, + And on His shoulders bore it to that House + Where dwelt His Sire. ‘Good Shepherd’ was His Name. + My tidings these: heralds are we, footsore, + That bring the heart-sore comfort.” + + On they paced, + On by the rushing river without words. + Beside the elder sister Patrick walked, + Benignus by the younger. Fair her face; + Majestic his, though young. Her looks were sad + And awe-struck; his, fulfilled with secret joy, + Sent forth a gleam as when a morn-touched bay + Through ambush shines of woodlands. Soon they stood + Where sea and river met, and trod a path + Wet with salt spray, and drank the clement breeze, + And saw the quivering of the green gold wave, + And, far beyond, that fierce aggressor’s bourn, + Fair haunt for savage race, a purple ridge + By rainy sunbeam gemmed from glen to glen, + Dim waste of wandering lights. The sun, half risen, + Lay half sea-couched. A neighbouring height sent forth + Welcome of baying hounds; and, close at hand, + They reached the chieftain’s keep. + + A white-haired man + And long since blind, there sat he in his hall, + Untamed by age. At times a fiery gleam + Flashed from his sightless eyes; and oft the red + Burned on his forehead, while with splenetic speech + Stirred by ill news or memory stung, he banned + Foes and false friend. Pleased by his daughters’ tale, + At once he stretched his huge yet aimless hands + In welcome towards his guests. Beside him stood + His mate of forty years by that strong arm + From countless suitors won. Pensive her face: + With parted youth the confidence of youth + Had left her. Beauty, too, though with remorse, + Its seat had half relinquished on a cheek + Long time its boast, and on that willowy form, + So yielding now, where once in strength upsoared + The queenly presence. Tenderest grace not less + Haunted her life’s dim twilight—meekness, love— + That humble love, all-giving, that seeks nought, + Self-reverent calm, and modesty in age. + She turned an anxious eye on him she loved; + And, bending, kissed at times that wrinkled hand, + By years and sorrows made his wife far more + Than in her nuptial bloom. These two had lost + Five sons, their hope, in war. + + That eve it chanced + High feast was holden in the chieftain’s tower + To solemnise his birthday. In they flocked, + Each after each, the warriors of the clan, + Not without pomp heraldic and fair state + Barbaric, yet beseeming. Unto each + Seat was assigned for deeds or lineage old, + And to the chiefs allied. Where each had place + Above him waved his banner. Not for this + Unhonoured were the pilgrim guests. They sat + Where, fed by pinewood and the seeded cone, + The loud hearth blazed. Bathed were the wearied feet + By maidens of the place and nurses grey, + And dried in linen fragrant still with flowers + Of years when those old nurses too were fair. + And now the board was spread, and carved the meat, + And jests ran round, and many a tale was told, + Some rude, but none opprobrious. Banquet done, + Page-led the harper entered, old, and blind: + The noblest ranged his chair, and spread the mat; + The loveliest raised his wine cup, one light hand + Laid on his shoulder, while the golden hair + Commingled with the silver. “Sing,” they cried, + “The death of Deirdrè; or that desolate sire + That slew his son, unweeting; or that Queen + Who from her palace pacing with fixed eyes + Stared at those heads in dreadful circle ranged, + The heads of traitor-friends that slew her lord + Then mocked the friend they murdered. Leal and true, + The Bard who wrought that vengeance!” Thus he sang: + + +THE LAY OF THE HEADS. + + + The Bard returns to a stricken house: + What shape is that he rears on high? + A withe of the Willow, set round with Heads: + They blot that evening sky. + + A Widow meets him at the gates: + What fixes thus that Widow’s eye? + She names the name; but she sees not the man, + Nor beyond him that reddening sky. + + “Bard of the Brand, thou Foster-Sire + Of him they slew—their friend—my lord— + What Head is that—the first—that frowns + Like a traitor self-abhorred?” + + “Daughter of Orgill wounded sore, + Thou of the fateful eye serene, + Fergus is he. The feast he made + That snared thy Cuchullene.” + + “What Head is that—the next—half-hid + In curls full lustrous to behold? + They mind me of a hand that once + I saw amid their gold.” + + “’Tis Manadh. He that by the shore + Held rule, and named the waves his steeds: + ’Twas he that struck the stroke accursed— + Headless this day he bleeds.” + + “What Head is that close by—so still, + With half-closed lids, and lips that smile? + Methinks I know their voice: methinks + _His_ wine they quaffed erewhile!” + + “’Twas he raised high that severed head: + Thy head he raised, my Foster-Child! + That was the latest stroke I struck: + I struck that stroke, and smiled.” + + “What Heads are those—that twain, so like, + Flushed as with blood by yon red sky?” + “Each unto each, _his_ Head they rolled; + Red on that grass they lie.” + + “That paler twain, which face the East?” + “Laegar is one; the other Hilt; + Silent they watched the sport! they share + The doom, that shared the guilt.” + + “Bard of the Vengeance! well thou knew’st + Blood cries for blood! O kind, and true, + How many, kith and kin, have died + That mocked the man they slew?” + + “O Woman of the fateful eye, + The untrembling voice, the marble mould, + Seven hundred men, in house or field, + For the man they mocked, lie cold.” + + “Their wives, thou Bard? their wives? their wives? + Far off, or nigh, through Inisfail, + This hour what are they? Stand they mute + Like me; or make their wail?” + + “O Eimer! women weep and smile; + The young have hope, the young that mourn; + But I am old; my hope was he: + He that can ne’er return! + + “O Conal! lay me in his grave: + Oh! lay me by my husband’s side: + Oh! lay my lips to his in death;” + She spake, and, standing, died. + + She fell at last—in death she fell— + She lay, a black shade, on the ground; + And all her women o’er her wailed + Like sea-birds o’er the drowned. + + Thus to the blind chief sang that harper blind, + Hymning the vengeance; and the great hall roared + With wrath of those wild listeners. Many a heel + Smote the rough stone in scorn of them that died + Not three days past, so seemed it! Direful hands, + Together dashed, thundered the Avenger’s praise. + At last the tide of that fierce tumult ebbed + O’er shores of silence. From her lowly seat + Beside her husband’s spake the gentle Queen: + “My daughters, from your childhood ye were still + A voice of music in your father’s house— + Not wrathful music. Sing that song ye made + Or found long since, and yet in forest sing, + If haply Power Unknown may hear and help.” + She spake, and at her word her daughters sang. + + “Lost, lost, all lost! O tell us what is lost? + Behold, this too is hidden! Let him speak, + If any knows. The wounded deer can turn + And see the shaft that quivers in its flank; + The bird looks back upon its broken wing; + But we, the forest children, only know + Our grief is infinite, and hath no name. + What woman-prophet, shrouded in dark veil, + Whispered a Hope sadder than Fear? Long since, + What Father lost His children in the wood? + Some God? And can a God forsake? Perchance + His face is turned to nobler worlds new-made; + Perchance his palace owns some later bride + That hates the dead Queen’s children, and with charm + Prevails that they are exiled from his eyes, + The exile’s winter theirs—the exile’s song. + + “Blood, ever blood! The sword goes raging on + O’er hill and moor; and with it, iron-willed, + Drags on the hand that holds it and the man + To slake its ceaseless thirst for blood of men; + Fire takes the little cot beside the mere, + And leaps upon the upland village: fire + Up clambers to the castle on the crag; + And whom the fire has spared the hunger kills; + And earth draws all into her thousand graves. + + “Ah me! the little linnet knows the branch + Whereon to build; the honey-pasturing bee + Knows the wild heath, and how to shape its cell; + Upon the poisonous berry no bird feeds; + So well their mother, Nature, helps her own. + Mothers forsake not;—can a Father hate? + Who knows but that He yearns—that Sire Unseen— + To clasp His children? All is sweet and sane, + All, all save man! Sweet is the summer flower, + The day-long sunset of the autumnal woods; + Fair is the winter frost; in spring the heart + Shakes to the bleating lamb. O then what thing + Might be the life secure of man with man, + The infant’s smile, the mother’s kiss, the love + Of lovers, and the untroubled wedded home? + This might have been man’s lot. Who sent the woe? + Who formed man first? Who taught him first the ill way? + One creature, only, sins; and he the highest! + + “O Higher than the highest! Thou Whose hand + Made us—Who shaped’st that hand Thou wilt not clasp, + The eye Thou open’st not, the sealed-up ear! + Be mightier than man’s sin: for lo, how man + Seeks Thee, and ceases not: through noontide cave + And dark air of the dawn-unlighted peak + To Thee how long he strains the weak, worn eye + If haply he might see Thy vesture’s hem + On farthest winds receding! Yea, how oft + Against the blind and tremulous wall of cliff + Tormented by sea surge, he leans his ear + If haply o’er it name of Thine might creep; + Or bends above the torrent-cloven abyss, + If falling flood might lisp it! Power unknown! + He hears it not: Thou hear’st his beating heart + That cries to Thee for ever! From the veil + That shrouds Thee, from the wood, the cloud, the void, + O, by the anguish of all lands evoked, + Look forth! Though, seeing Thee, man’s race should die, + One moment let him see Thee! Let him lay + At least his forehead on Thy foot in death!” + + So sang the maidens: but the warriors frowned; + And thus the blind king muttered, “Bootless weed + Is plaint where help is none!” But wives and maids + And the thick-crowding poor, that many a time + Had wailed on war-fields o’er their brethren slain, + Went down before that strain as river reeds + Before strong wind, went down when o’er them passed + Its last word, “Death;” and grief’s infection spread + From least to first; and weeping filled the hall. + Then on Saint Patrick fell compassion great; + He rose amid that concourse, and with voice + And words now lost, alas, or all but lost, + Such that the chief of sight amerced, beheld + The imagined man before him crowned with light, + Proclaimed that God who hideth not His face, + His people’s King and Father; open flung + The portals of His realm, that inward rolled, + With music of a million singing spheres + Commanded all to enter. Who was He + Who called the worlds from nought? His name is Love! + In love He made those worlds. They have not lost, + The sun his splendour, nor the moon her light: + _That_ miracle survives. Alas for thee! + Thou better miracle, fair human love, + That splendour shouldst have been of home and hearth, + Now quenched by mortal hate! Whence come our woes + But from our lusts? O desecrated law + By God’s own finger on our hearts engraved, + How well art thou avenged! No dream it was, + That primal greatness, and that primal peace: + Man in God’s image at the first was made, + A God to rule below! + + He told it all— + Creation, and that Sin which marred its face; + And how the great Creator, creature made, + God—God for man incarnate—died for man: + Dead, with His Cross he thundered on the gates + Of Death’s blind Hades. Then, with hands outstretched + His Holy Ones that, in their penance prison + From hope in Him had ceased not, to the light + Flashed from His bleeding hands and branded brow + Through darkness soared: they reign with Him in heaven: + Their brethren we, the children of one Sire. + Long time he spake. The winds forbore their wail; + The woods were hushed. That wondrous tale complete, + Not sudden fell the silence; for, as when + A huge wave forth from ocean toiling mounts + High-arched, in solid bulk, the beach rock-strewn, + Burying his hoar head under echoing cliffs, + And, after pause, refluent to sea returns + Not all at once is stillness, countless rills + Or devious winding down the steep, or borne + In crystal leap from sea-shelf to sea-well, + And sparry grot replying; gradual thus + With lessening cadence sank that great discourse, + While round him gazed Saint Patrick, now the old + Regarding, now the young, and flung on each + In turn his boundless heart, and gazing longed + As only Apostolic heart can long + To help the helpless. + + “Fair, O friends, the bourn + We dwell in! Holy King makes happy land: + Our King is in our midst. He gave us gifts; + Laws that are Love, the sovereignty of Truth. + What, sirs, ye knew Him not! But ye by signs + Foresaw His coming, as, when buds are red + Ye say, ‘The spring is nigh us.’ Him, unknown, + Each loved who loved his brother! Shepherd youths, + Who spread the pasture green beneath your lambs + And freshened it with snow-fed stream and mist? + Who but that Love unseen? Grey mariners, + Who lulled the rough seas round your midnight nets, + And sent the landward breeze? Pale sufferers wan, + Rejoice! His are ye; yea, and His the most! + Have ye not watched the eagle that upstirs + Her nest, then undersails her falling brood + And stays them on her plumes, and bears them up + Till, taught by proof, they learn their unguessed powers + And breast the storm? Thus God stirs up His people; + Thus proves by pain. Ye too, O hearths well-loved! + How oft your sin-stained sanctities ye mourned! + Wives! from the cradle reigns the Bethelem Babe! + Maidens! henceforth the Virgin Mother spreads + Her shining veil above you! + + “Speak aloud, + Chieftains world-famed! I hear the ancient blood + That leaps against your hearts! What? Warriors ye! + Danger your birthright, and your pastime death! + Behold your foes! They stand before you plain: + Ill passions, base ambitions, falsehood, hate: + Wage war on these! A King is in your host! + His hands no roses plucked but on the Cross: + He came not hand of man in woman’s tasks + To mesh. In woman’s hand, in childhood’s hand, + Much more in man’s, He lodged His conquering sword; + Them too His soldiers named, and vowed to war. + Rise, clan of Kings, rise, champions of man’s race, + Heaven’s sun-clad army militant on earth, + One victory gained, the realm decreed is ours. + The bridal bells ring out, for Low with High + Is wed in endless nuptials. It is past, + The sin, the exile, and the grief. O man, + Take thou, renewed, thy sister-mate by hand; + Know well thy dignity, and hers: return, + And meet once more Thy Maker, for He walks + Once more within thy garden, in the cool + Of the world’s eve!” + + The words that Patrick spake + Were words of power, not futile did they fall: + But, probing, healed a sorrowing people’s wound. + Round him they stood, as oft in Grecian days, + Some haughty city sieged, her penitent sons + Thronging green Pnyx or templed Forum hushed + Hung listening on that People’s one true Voice, + The man that ne’er had flattered, ne’er deceived, + Nursed no false hope. It was the time of Faith; + Open was then man’s ear, open his heart: + Pride spurned not then that chiefest strength of man + The power, by Truth confronted, to believe. + Not savage was that wild, barbaric race: + Spirit was in them. On their knees they sank, + With foreheads lowly bent; and when they rose + Such sound went forth as when late anchored fleet + Touched by dawn breeze, shakes out its canvas broad + And sweeps into new waters. Man with man + Clasped hands; and each in each a something saw + Till then unseen. As though flesh-bound no more, + Their souls had touched. One Truth, the Spirit’s life, + Lived in them all, a vast and common joy. + And yet as when, that Pentecostal morn, + Each heard the Apostle in his native tongue, + So now, on each, that Truth, that Joy, that Life + Shone forth with beam diverse. Deep peace to one + Those tidings seemed, a still vale after storm; + To one a sacred rule, steadying the world; + A third exulting saw his youthful hope + Written in stars; a fourth triumphant hailed + The just cause, long oppressed. Some laughed, some wept: + But she, that aged chieftain’s mournful wife + Clasped to her boding breast his hoary head + Loud clamouring, “Death is dead; and not for long + That dreadful grave can part us.” Last of all, + He too believed. That hoary head had shaped + Full many a crafty scheme:—behind them all + Nature held fast her own. + + O happy night! + Back through the gloom of centuries sin-defaced + With what a saintly radiance thou dost shine! + They slept not, on the loud-resounding shore + In glory roaming. Many a feud that night + Lay down in holy grave, or, mockery made, + Was quenched in its own shame. Far shone the fires + Crowning dark hills with gladness: soared the song; + And heralds sped from coast to coast to tell + How He the Lord of all, no Power Unknown + But like a man rejoicing in his house, + Ruled the glad earth. That demon-haunted wood, + Sad Erin’s saddest region, yet, men say, + Tenderest for all its sadness, rang at last + With hymns of men and angels. Onward sailed + High o’er the long, unbreaking, azure waves + A mighty moon, full-faced, as though on winds + Of rapture borne. With earliest red of dawn + Northward once more the wingèd war-ships rushed + Swift as of old to that long hated shore— + Not now with axe and torch. His Name they bare + Who linked in one the nations. + + + On a cliff + Where Fochlut’s Wood blackened the northern sea + A convent rose. Therein those sisters twain + Whose cry had summoned Patrick o’er the deep, + Abode, no longer weepers. Pallid still, + In radiance now their faces shone; and sweet + Their psalms amid the clangour of rough brine. + Ten years in praise to God and good to men + That happy precinct housed them. In their morn + Grief had for them her great work perfected; + Their eve was bright as childhood. When the hour + Came for their blissful transit, from their lips + Pealed forth ere death that great triumphant chant + Sung by the Virgin Mother. Ages passed; + And, year by year, on wintry nights, _that_ song + Alone the sailors heard—a cry of joy. + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND KING LAEGHAIRE. + + + “THOU son of Calphurn, in peace go forth! + This hand shall slay them whoe’er shall slay thee! + The carles shall stand to their necks in earth + Till they die of thirst who mock or stay thee! + + “But my father, Nial, who is dead long since, + Permits not me to believe thy word; + For the servants of Jesus, thy heavenly Prince, + Once dead, lie flat as in sleep, interred: + But we are as men that through dark floods wade; + We stand in our black graves undismayed; + Our faces are turned to the race abhorred, + And at each hand by us stand spear or sword, + Ready to strike at the last great day, + Ready to trample them back into clay! + + “This is my realm, and men call it Eire, + Wherein I have lived and live in hate + Like Nial before me and Erc his sire, + Of the race Lagenian, ill-named the Great!” + + Thus spake Laeghaire, and his host rushed on, + A river of blood as yet unshed:— + At noon they fought: and at set of sun + That king lay captive, that host lay dead! + + The Lagenian loosed him, but bade him swear + He would never demand of them Tribute more: + So Laeghaire by the dread “God-Elements” swore, + By the moon divine and the earth and air; + He swore by the wind and the broad sunshine + That circle for ever both land and sea, + By the long-backed rivers, and mighty wine, + By the cloud far-seeing, by herb and tree, + By the boon spring shower, and by autumn’s fan, + By woman’s breast, and the head of man, + By Night and the noonday Demon he swore + He would claim the Boarian Tribute no more. + + But with time wrath waxed; and he brake his faith: + Then the dread “God-Elements” wrought his death; + For the Wind and Sun-Strength by Cassi’s side + Came down and smote on his head that he died. + Death-sick three days on his throne he sate; + Then died, as his father died, great in hate. + + They buried their king upon Tara’s hill, + In his grave upright—there stands he still: + Upright there stands he as men that wade + By night through a castle-moat, undismayed; + On his head is the crown, the spear in his hand; + And he looks to the hated Lagenian land. + + Such rites in the time of wrath and wrong + Were Eire’s: baptised, they were hers no longer: + For Patrick had taught her his sweet new song, + “Though hate is strong, yet love is stronger.” + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR; +OR, MAC KYLE OF MAN. + + +Mac Kyle, a child of death, dwells in a forest with other men like unto +himself, that slay whom they will. Saint Patrick coming to that wood, a +certain Impostor devises how he may be deceived and killed; but God +smites the Impostor through his own snare, and he dies. Mac Kyle +believes, and demanding penance is baptised. Afterwards he preaches in +Manann {77} Isle, and becomes a great Saint. + + IN Uladh, near Magh Inis, lived a chief, + Fierce man and fell. From orphaned childhood he + Through lawless youth to blood-stained middle age + Had rushed as stormy morn to stormier noon, + Working, except that still he spared the poor, + All wrongs with iron will; a child of death. + Thus spake he to his followers, while the woods + Snow-cumbered creaked, their scales of icy mail + Angered by winter winds: “At last he comes, + He that deceives the people with great signs, + And for the tinkling of a little gold + Preaches new Gods. Where rises yonder smoke + Beyond the pinewood, camps this Lord of Dupes: + How say ye? Shall he track o’er Uladh’s plains, + As o’er the land beside, his venomous way? + Forth with your swords! and if that God he serves + Can save him, let him prove it!” + + Dark with wrath + Thus spake Mac Kyle; and all his men approved, + Shouting, while downward fell the snows hard-caked Loosened by shock + of forest-echoed hands, + Save Garban. Crafty he, and full of lies, + That thing which Patrick hated. Sideway first + Glancing, as though some secret foe were nigh, + He spake: “Mac Kyle! a counsel for thine ear! + A man of counsel I, as thou of war! + The people love this stranger. Patrick slain, + Their wrath will blaze against us, and demand + An _eric_ for his head. Let us by craft + Unravel first _his_ craft: then safe our choice; + We slay a traitor, or great ransom take: + Impostors lack not gold. Lay me as dead + Upon a bier: above me spread yon cloth, + And make your wail: and when the seer draws nigh + Worship him, crying, ‘Lo, our friend is dead! + Kneel, prophet, kneel, and pray that God thou serv’st + To raise him.’ If he kneels, no prophet he, + But like the race of mortals. Sweep the cloth + Straight from my face; then, laughing, I will rise.” + + Thus counselled Garban; and the counsel pleased; + Yet pleased not God. Upon a bier, branch-strewn, + They laid their man, and o’er him spread a cloth; + Then, moving towards that smoke behind the pines, + They found the Saint and brought him to that bier, + And made their moan—and Garban ’neath that cloth + Smiled as he heard it—“Lo, our friend is dead! + Great prophet kneel; and pray the God thou serv’st + To raise him from the dead.” + + The man of God + Upon them fixed a sentence-speaking eye: + “Yea! he is dead. In this ye have not lied: + Behold, this day shall Garban’s covering be + The covering of the dead. Remove that cloth.” + + Then drew they from his face the cloth; and lo! + Beneath it Garban lay, a corpse stone-cold. + + Amazement fell upon that bandit throng, + Contemplating that corpse, and on Mac Kyle + Grief for his friend, remorse, and strong belief, + A threefold power: for she that at his birth, + Her brief life faithful to that Law she knew, + Had died, in region where desires are crowned + That hour was strong in prayer. “From God he came,” + Thus cried they; “and we worked a work accursed, + Tempting God’s prophet.” Patrick heard, and spake; + “Not me ye tempted, but the God I serve.” + At last Mac Kyle made answer: “I have sinned; + I, and this people, whom I made to sin: + Now therefore to thy God we yield ourselves + Liegemen henceforth, his thralls as slave to Lord, + Or horse to master. That which thou command’st + That will we do.” And Patrick said, “Believe; + Confess your sins; and be baptised to God, + The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit, + And live true life.” Then Patrick where he stood + Above the dead, with hands uplifted preached + To these in anguish and in terror bowed + The tidings of great joy from Bethlehem’s Crib + To Calvary’s Cross. Sudden upon his knees, + Heart-pierced, as though he saw that Head thorn-pierced, + Fell that wild chief, and was baptised to God; + And, lifting up his great strong hands, while still + The waters streamed adown his matted locks, + He cried, “Alas, my master, and my sire! + I sinned a mighty sin; for in my heart + Fixed was my purpose, soon as thou hadst knelt, + To slay thee with my sword. Therefore judge thou + What _eric_ I must pay to quit my sin?” + Him Patrick answered, “God shall be thy Judge: + Arise, and to the seaside flee, as one + That flies his foe. There shalt thou find a boat + Made of one hide: eat nought, and nothing take + Except one cloak alone: but in that boat + Sit thou, and bear the sin-mark on thy brow, + Facing the waves, oarless and rudderless; + And bind the boat chain thrice around thy feet, + And fling the key with strength into the main, + Far as thou canst: and wheresoe’er the breath + Of God shall waft thee, there till death abide + Working the Will Divine.” Then spake that chief, + “I, that commanded others, can obey; + Such lore alone is mine: but for this man + That sinned my sin, alas, to see him thus!” + To whom the Saint, “For him, when thou art gone, + My prayer shall rise. If God will raise the dead + He knows: not I.” + + Then rose that chief, and rushed + Down to the shore, as one that flies his foe; + Nor ate, nor drank, nor spake to wife or child, + But loosed a little boat, of one hide made, + And sat therein, and round his ankles wound + The boat chain thrice; and flung the key far forth + Above the ridged sea foam. The Lord of all + Gave ordinance to the wind, and, as a leaf + Swift rushed that boat, oarless and rudderless, + Over the on-shouldering, broad-backed, glaucous wave + Slow-rising like the rising of a world, + And purple wastes beyond, with funeral plume + Crested, a pallid pomp. All night the chief + Under the roaring tempest heard the voice + That preached the Son of Man; and when the morn + Shone out, his coracle drew near the surge + Reboant on Manann’s Isle. Not unbeheld + Rose it, and fell; not unregarded danced + A black spot on the inrolling ridge, then hung + Suspense upon the mile-long cataract + That, overtoppling, changed grass-green to light, + And drowned the shores in foam. Upon the sands + Two white-haired Elders in the salt air knelt, + Offering to God their early orisons, + Coninri and Romael. Sixty years + These two unto a hard and stubborn race + Had preached the Word; and gaining by their toil + But thirty souls, had daily prayed their God + To send ere yet they died some ampler arm, + And reap the ill-grown harvest of their youth. + Ten years they prayed, not doubting, and from God, + Who hastens not, this answer had received, + “Ye shall not die until ye see his face.” + Therefore, each morning, peered they o’er the waves, + Long-watching. These through breakers dragged the man, + Their wished-for prize, half-frozen, and nigh to death, + And bare him to their cell, and warmed and fed him, + And heaped his couch with skins. Deep sleep he slept + Till evening lay upon the level sea + With roses strewn like bridal chamber’s floor; + Within it one star shone. Rested, he woke + And sought the shore. From earth, and sea, and sky, + Then passed into his spirit the Spirit of Love; + And there he vowed his vow, fierce chief no more, + But soldier of the cross. + + The weeks ran on, + And daily those grey Elders ministered + God’s teaching to that chief, demanding still, + “Son, understandst thou? Gird thee like a man + To clasp, and hold, the total Faith of Christ, + And give us leave to die.” The months fled fast: + Ere violets bloomed, he knew the creed; and when + Far heathery hills purpled the autumnal air, + He sang the psalter whole. That tale he told + Had power, and Patrick’s name. His strenous arm + Labouring with theirs, reaped harvest heavy and sound, + Till wondering gazed their wearied eyes on barns + Knee-deep in grain. At last an eve there fell, + When, on the shore in commune, with such might + Discoursed that pilgrim of the things of God, + Such insight calm, and wisdom reverence-born, + Each on the other gazing in their hearts + Received once more an answer from the Lord, + “Now is your task completed: ye shall die.” + + Then on the red sand knelt those Elders twain + With hands upraised, and all their hoary hair + Tinged like the foam-wreaths by that setting sun, + And sang their “Nunc Dimittis.” At its close + High on the sandhills, ’mid the tall hard grass + That sighed eternal o’er the unbounded waste + With ceaseless yearnings like their own for death + They found the place where first, that bark descried, + Their sighs were changed to songs. That spot they marked, + And said, “Our resurrection place is here:” + And, on the third day dying, in that place + The man who loved them laid them, at their heads + Planting one cross because their hearts were one + And one their lives. The snowy-breasted bird + Of ocean o’er their undivided graves + Oft flew with wailing note; but they rejoiced + ’Mid God’s high realm glittering in endless youth. + + These two with Christ, on him, their son in Christ + Their mantle fell; and strength to him was given. + Long time he toiled alone; then round him flocked + Helpers from far. At last, by voice of all + He gat the Island’s great episcopate, + And king-like ruled the region. This is he, + Mac Kyle of Uladh, bishop, and Penitent, + Saint Patrick’s missioner in Manann’s Isle, + Sinner one time, and, after sinner, Saint + World-famous. May his prayer for sinners plead! + + + +SAINT PATRICK AT CASHEL; +OR, THE BAPTISM OF AENGUS. + + +ARGUMENT. + + +Saint Patrick goes to Cashel of the Rings to celebrate the Feast of the +Annunciation. Aengus, who reigns there, receives him with all honour. +He and his people believe, and by Baptism are added unto the Church. +Aengus desires to resign his sovereignty, and become a monk. The Saint +suffers not this, because he had discovered by two notable signs, both at +the baptism of Aengus and before it, that the Prince is of those who are +called by God to rule men. + + WHEN Patrick now o’er Ulster’s forest bound, + And Connact, echoing to the western wave, + And Leinster, fair with hill-suspended woods, + Had raised the cross, and where the deep night ruled, + Splendour had sent of everlasting light, + Sole peace of warring hearts, to Munster next, + Thomond and Desmond, Heber’s portion old, + He turned; and, fired by love that mocks at rest + Pushed on through raging storm the whole night long, + Intent to hold the Annunciation Feast + At Cashel of the Kings. The royal keep + High-seated on its Rock, as morning broke + Faced them at last; and at the selfsame hour + Aengus, in his father’s absence lord, + Rising from happy sleep and heaven-sent dreams + Went forth on duteous tasks. With sudden start + The prince stept back; for, o’er the fortress court + Like grove storm-levelled lay the idols huge, + False gods and foul that long had awed the land, + Prone, without hand of man. O’er-awed he gazed; + Then on the air there rang a sound of hymns, + And by the eastern gate Saint Patrick stood, + The brethren round him. On their shaggy garb + Auroral mist, struck by the rising sun, + Glittered, that diamond-panoplied they seemed, + And as a heavenly vision. At that sight + The youth, descending with a wildered joy, + Welcomed his guests: and, ere an hour, the streets + Sparkled far down like flowering meads in spring, + So thronged the folk in holiday attire + To see the man far-famed. “Who spurns our gods?” + Once they had cried in wrath: but, year by year, + Tidings of some deliverance great and strange, + Some life more noble, some sublimer hope, + Some regal race enthroned beyond the grave, + Had reached them from afar. The best believed, + Great hearts for whom nor earthly love sufficed + Nor earthly fame. The meaner scoffed: yet all + Desired the man. Delay had edged their thirst. + + Then Patrick, standing up among them, spake, + And God was with him. Not as when loose tongue + Babbles vain rumour, or the Sophist spins + Thought’s air-hung cobwebs gay with Fancy’s dews, + Spake he, but words of might, as when a man + Bears witness to the things which he has seen, + And tells of that he knows: and as the harp + Attested is by rapture of the ear, + And sunlight by consenting of the eye + That, seeing, knows it sees, and neither craves + Inferior demonstration, so his words + Self-proved, went forth and conquered: for man’s mind, + Created in His image who is Truth, + Challenged by truth, with recognising voice + Cries out “Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,” + And cleaves thereto. In all that listening host + One vast, dilating heart yearned to its God. + Then burst the bond of years. No haunting doubt + They knew. God dropped on them the robe of Truth + Sun-like: down fell the many-coloured weed + Of error; and, reclothed ere yet unclothed, + They walked a new-born earth. The blinded Past + Fled, vanquished. Glorious more than strange it seemed + That He who fashioned man should come to man, + And raise by ruling. They, His trumpet heard, + In glory spurned demons misdeemed for gods: + The great chief had returned: the clan enthralled + Trod down the usurping foe. + + Then rose the cry, + “Join us to Christ!” His strong eyes on them set, + Patrick replied, “Know ye what thing ye seek + Ye that would fain be house-mates with my King? + Ye seek His cross!” He paused, then added slow: + “If ye be liegeful, sirs, decree the day, + His baptism shall be yours.” + + That eve, while shone + The sunset on the green-touched woods, that, grazed + By onward flight of unalighting spring, + Caught warmth yet scarcely flamed, Aengus stood + With Patrick in a westward-facing tower + Which overlooked far regions town-besprent, + And lit with winding waters. Thus he spake: + “My Father! what is sovereignty of man? + Say, can I shield yon host from death, from sin, + Taking them up into my breast, like God? + I trow not so! Mine be the lowliest place + Following thy King who left his Father’s throne + To walk the lowliest!” Patrick answered thus: + “Best lot thou choosest, son. If thine that lot + Thou know’st not yet; nor I. The Lord, thy God, + Will teach us.” + + When the day decreed had dawned + Loud rang the bull-horn; and on every breeze + Floated the banners, saffron, green, and blue; + While issuing from the horizon’s utmost verge + The full-voiced People flocked. So swarmed of old + Some migratory nation, instinct-urged + To fly their native wastes sad winter’s realm; + So thronged on southern slopes when, far below, + Shone out the plains of promise. Bright they came! + No summer sea could wear a blithsomer sheen + Though every dancing crest and milky plume + Ran on with rainbows braided. Minstrel songs + Wafted like winds those onward hosts, or swayed + Or stayed them; while among them heralds passed + Lifting white wands of office. Foremost rode + Aileel, the younger brother of the prince: + He ruled a milk-white horse. Fluttered, breeze-borne + His mantle green, while all his golden hair + Streamed back redundant from the ring of gold + Circling his head uncovered. Loveliest light + Of innocence and joy was on that face: + Full well the young maids marked it! Brighter yet + Beamed he, his brother noting. On the verge + Of Cashel’s Rock that hour Aengus stood, + By Patrick’s side. That concourse nearer now + He gazed upon it, crying, with clasped hands, + “My Father, fair is sunrise, fair the sea, + The hills, the plains, the wind-stirred wood, the maid; + But what is like a People onward borne + In gladness? When I see that sight, my heart + Expands like palace-gates wide open flung + That say to all men, ‘Enter.’” Then the Saint + Laid on that royal head a hand of might, + And said, “The Will of God decrees thee King! + Son of this People art thou: Sire one day + Thou shalt be! Son and Sire in one are King. + Shepherd for God thy flock, thou Shepherd true!” + He spake: that word was ratified in Heaven. + + Meantime that multitude innumerable + Had reached the Rock, and, now the winding road + In pomp ascending, faced those fair-wrought gates + Which, by the warders at the prince’s sign + Drawn back, to all gave entrance. In they streamed, + Filling the central courtway. Patrick stood + High stationed on a prostrate idol’s base, + In vestments of the Vigil of that Feast + The Annunciation, which with annual boon + Whispers, while melting snows dilate those streams + Purer than snows, to universal earth + That Maiden Mother’s joy. The Apostle watched + The advancing throng, and gave them welcome thus; + “As though into the great Triumphant Church, + O guests of God, ye flock! Her place is Heaven: + Sirs! we this day are militant below: + Not less, advance in faith. Behold your crowns— + Obedience and Endurance.” + + There and then + The Rite began: his people’s Chief and Head + Beside the font Aengus stood; his face + Sweet as a child’s, yet grave as front of eld: + For reverence he had laid his crown aside, + And from the deep hair to the unsandalled feet + Was raimented in white. With mitred head + And massive book, forward Saint Patrick leaned, + Stayed by the gem-wrought crosier. Prayer on prayer + Went up to God; while gift on gift from God, + All Angel-like, invisibly to man, + Descended. Thrice above that princely brow + Patrick the cleansing waters poured, and traced + Three times thereon the Venerable Sign, + Naming the Name Triune. The Rite complete, + Awestruck that concourse downward gazed. At last + Lifting their eyes, they marked the prince’s face + That pale it was though bright, anguished and pale, + While from his naked foot a blood-stream gushed + And o’er the pavement welled. The crosier’s point, + Weighted with weight of all that priestly form, + Had pierced it through. “Why suffer’dst thou so long + The pain in silence?” Patrick spake, heart-grieved: + Smiling, Aengus answered, “O my Sire, + I thought, thus called to follow Him whose feet + Were pierced with nails, haply the blissful Rite + Bore witness to their sorrows.” + + At that word + The large eyes of the Apostolic man + Grew larger; and within them lived that light + Not fed by moon or sun, a visible flash + Of that invisible lightning which from God + Vibrates ethereal through the world of souls, + Vivific strength of Saints. The mitred brow + Uptowered sublime: the strong, yet wrinkled hands, + Ascending, ceased not, till the crosier’s head + Glittered above the concourse like a star. + At last his hands disparting, down he drew + From Heaven the Royal Blessing, speaking thus: + “For this cause may the blessing, Sire of kings, + Cleave to thy seed forever! Spear and sword + Before them fall! In glory may the race + Of Nafrach’s sons, Aengus, and Aileel, + Hold sway on Cashel’s summit! Be their kings + Great-hearted men, potent to rule and guard + Their people; just to judge them; warriors strong; + Sage counsellors; faithful shepherds; men of God, + That so through them the everlasting King + May flood their land with blessing.” Thus he spake; + And round him all that nation said, “Amen.” + + Thus held they feast in Cashel of the Kings + That day till all that land was clothed with Christ: + And when the parting came from Cashel’s steep + Patrick the People’s Blessing thus forth sent: + “The Blessing fall upon the pasture broad, + On fruitful mead, and every corn-clad hill, + And woodland rich with flowers that children love: + Unnumbered be the homesteads, and the hearths:— + A blessing on the women, and the men, + On youth, and maiden, and the suckling babe: + A blessing on the fruit-bestowing tree, + And foodful river tide. Be true; be pure, + Not living from below, but from above, + As men that over-top the world. And raise + Here, on this rock, high place of idols once, + A kingly church to God. The same shall stand + For aye, or, wrecked, from ruin rise restored, + His witness till He cometh. Over Eire + The Blessing speed till time shall be no more + From Cashel of the Kings.” + + The Saint fared forth: + The People bare him through their kingdom broad + With banner and with song; but o’er its bound + The women of that People followed still + A half day’s journey with lamenting voice; + Then silent knelt, lifting their babes on high; + And, crowned with two-fold blessing, home returned. + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDLESS MOTHER. + + +ARGUMENT. + + +Saint Patrick finds an aged Pagan woman making great lamentation above a +tomb which she believes to be that of her son. He kneels beside her in +prayer, while around them a wondrous tempest sweeps. After a long time, +he declares unto her the Death of Christ, and how, through that Death, +the Dead are blessed. Lastly, he dissuades her from her rage of grief, +and admonishes her to pray for her son on a tomb hard by, which is his +indeed. The woman believes, and, being consoled by a Sign of Heaven, +departs in peace. + + ACROSS his breast one hundred times each day + Saint Patrick drew the Venerable Sign, + And sixty times by night: and whensoe’er + In travel Cross was seen far off or nigh + On lonely moor, or rock, or heathy hill, + For Erin then was sown with Christian seed, + He sought it, and before it knelt. Yet once, + While cold in winter shone the star of eve + Upon their board, thus spake a youthful monk: + “Three times this day, my father, didst thou pass + The Cross of Christ unmarked. At morn thou saw’st + A last year’s lamb that by it sheltered lay, + At noon a dove that near it sat and mourned, + At eve a little child that round it raced, + Well pleased with each; yet saw’st thou not that Cross, + Nor mad’st thou any reverence!” At that word + Wondering, the Saint arose, and left the meat, + And, wondering, went to venerate that Cross. + + Dark was the earth and dank ere yet he reached + That spot; and lo! where lamb had lain, and dove + Had mourned, and child had raced, there stood indeed + High-raised, the Cross of Christ. Before it long + He prayed, and kneeling, marked that on a tomb + That Cross was raised. Then, inly moved by God, + The Saint demanded, “Who, of them that walked + The sun-warmed earth lies here in darkness hid?” + And answer made a lamentable Voice: + “Pagan I lived, my own soul’s bane:—when dead, + Men buried here my body.” Patrick then: + “How stands the Cross of Christ on Pagan grave?” + And answered thus the lamentable Voice: + “A woman’s work. She had been absent long; + Her son had died; near mine his grave was made; + Half blind was she through fleeting of her tears, + And, erring, raised the Cross upon my tomb, + Misdeeming it for his. Nightly she comes, + Wailing as only Pagan mothers wail; + So wailed my mother once, while pain tenfold + Ran through my bodiless being. For her sake, + If pity dwells on earth or highest heaven, + May it this mourner comfort! Christian she, + And capable of pity.” + + Then the Saint + Cried loud, “O God, Thou seest this Pagan’s heart, + That love within it dwells: therefore not his + That doom of Souls all hate, and self-exiled + To whom Thy Presence were a woe twice told. + Eternal Pity! pity Thou Thy work;— + Sole Peace of them that love Thee, grant him peace.” + Thus Patrick prayed; and in the heaven of heavens + God heard his servant’s prayer. Then Patrick mused + “Now know I why I passed that Cross unmarked; + It was not that it seemed.” + + As thus he knelt, + Behold, upon the cold and bitter wind + Rang wail on wail; and o’er the moor there moved + What seemed a woman’s if a human form. + That miserable phantom onward came + With cry succeeding cry that sank or swelled + As dipped or rose the moor. Arrived at last, + She heeded not the Saint, but on that grave + Dashed herself down. Long time that woman wailed; + And Patrick, long, for reverence of her woe + Forbore. At last he spake low-toned as when + Best listener knows not when the strain begins. + “Daughter! the sparrow falls not to the ground + Without his Maker. He that made thy son + Hath sent His Son to bear all woes of men, + And vanquish every foe—the latest, Death.” + Then rolled that woman on the Saint an eye + As when the last survivor of a host + Glares on some pitying conqueror. “Ho! the man + That treads upon my grief! He ne’er had sons; + And thou, O son of mine, hast left no sons, + Though oft I said, ‘When I am old, his babes + Shall climb my knees.’ My boast was mine in youth; + But now mine age is made a barren stock + And as a blighted briar.” In grief she turned; + And as on blackening tarn gust follows gust, + Again came wail on wail. On strode the night: + The jagged forehead of that forest old + Alone was seen: all else was gloom. At last + With voice, though kind, upbraiding, Patrick spake: + “Daughter, thy grief is wilful and it errs; + Errs like those sad and tear-bewildered eyes + That for a Christian’s take a Pagan’s grave, + And for a son’s a stranger’s. Ah! poor child, + Thy pride it was to raise, where lay thy son, + A Cross, his memory’s honour. By thee close + All dewed and glimmering in yon rising moon, + Low lies a grave unhonoured, and unknown: + No cross stands on it; yet upon its breast + Graved shalt thou find what Christian tomb ne’er lacks, + The Cross of Christ. Woman, there lies thy son.” + + She rose; she found that other tomb; she knelt; + And o’er it went her wandering palms, as though + Some stone-blind mother o’er an infant’s face + Should spread an agonising hand, intent + To choose betwixt her own and counterfeit; + She found that cross deep-grav’n, and further sign + Close by, to her well known. One piercing shriek— + Another moment, and her body lay + Along that grave with kisses, and wild hands + As when some forest beast tears up the ground, + Seeking its prey there hidden. Then once more + Rang the wild wail above that lonely heath, + While roared far off the vast invisible woods, + And with them strove the blast, in eddies dire + Whirling both branch and bough. Through hurrying clouds + The scared moon rushed like ship that naked glares + One moment, lightning-lighted in the storm, + Anon in wild waves drowned. An hour went by: + Still wailed that woman, and the tempest roared; + While in the heart of ruin Patrick prayed. + He loved that woman. Unto Patrick dear, + Dear as God’s Church was still the single Soul, + Dearest the suffering Soul. He gave her time; + He let the floods of anguish spend themselves: + But when her wail sank low; when woods were mute, + And where the skiey madness late had raged + Shone the blue heaven, he spake with voice in strength + Gentle like that which calmed the Syrian lake, + “My sister, God hath shown me of thy wound, + And wherefore with the blind old Pagan’s cry + Hopeless thou mourn’st. Returned from far, thou found’st + Thy son had Christian died, and saw’st the Cross + On Christian graves: and ill thy heart endured + That tomb so dear should lack its reverence meet. + To him thou gav’st the Cross, albeit that Cross + Inly thou know’st not yet. That knowledge thine, + Thou hadst not left thy son amerced of prayer, + And given him tears, not succour.” “Yea,” she said, + “Of this new Faith I little understand, + Being an aged woman and in woe: + But since my son was Christian, such am I; + And since the Christian tomb is decked with Cross + He shall not lack his right.” + + Then Patrick spake: + “O woman, hearken, for through me thy son + Invokes thee. All night long for thee, unknown, + My hands have risen: but thou hast raised no prayer + For him, thy dearest; nor from founts of God, + Though brimful, hast thou drawn for lips that thirst. + Arise, and kneel, and hear thy loved one’s cry: + Too long he waiteth. Blessed are the dead: + They rest in God’s high Will. But more than peace, + The rapturous vision of the Face of God, + Won by the Cross of Christ—for that they thirst + As thou, if viewless stood thy son close by, + Wouldst thirst to see his countenance. Eyes sin-sealed + Not yet can see their God. Prayer speeds the time: + The living help the dead; all praise to Him + Who blends His children in a league of help, + Making all good one good. Eternal Love! + Not thine the will that love should cease with life, + Or, living, cease from service, barren made, + A stagnant gall eating the mourner’s heart + That hour when love should stretch a hand of might + Up o’er the grave to heaven. O great in love, + Perfect love’s work: for well, sad heart, I know, + Hadst thou not trained thy son in virtuous ways, + Christian he ne’er had been.” + + Those later words + That solitary mourner understood, + The earlier but in part, and answered thus: + “A loftier Cross, and farther seen, shall rise + Upon this grave new-found! No hireling hands— + Mine own shall raise it; yea, though thirty years + Should sweat beneath the task.” And Patrick said: + “What means the Cross? That lore thou lack’st now learn.” + + Then that which Kings desired to know, and seers + And prophets vigil-blind—that Crown of Truths, + Scandal of fools, yet conqueror of the world, + To her, that midnight mourner, he divulged, + Record authentic: how in sorrow and sin + The earth had groaned; how pity, like a sword, + Had pierced the great Paternal Heart in heaven; + How He, the Light of Light, and God of God, + Had man become, and died upon the Cross, + Vanquishing thus both sorrow and sin, and risen, + The might of death o’erthrown; and how the gates + Of heaven rolled inwards as the Anointed King + Resurgent and ascending through them passed + In triumph with His Holy Dead; and how + The just, thenceforth death-freed, the selfsame gates + Entering, shall share the everlasting throne. + Thus Patrick spake, and many a stately theme + Rehearsed beside, higher than heaven, and yet + Near as the farthest can alone be near. + Then in that grief-worn creature’s bosom old + Contentions rose, and fiercer fires than burn + In sultry breasts of youth: and all her past, + Both good and evil, woke, in sleep long sealed; + And all the powers and forces of her soul + Rushed every way through darkness seeking light, + Like winds or tides. Beside her Patrick prayed, + And mightier than his preaching was his prayer, + Sheltering that crisis dread. At last beneath + The great Life-Giver’s breath that Human Soul, + An inner world vaster than planet worlds, + In undulation swayed, as when of old + The Spirit of God above the waters moved + Creative, while the blind and shapeless void + Yearned into form, and form grew meet for life, + And downward through the abysses Law ran forth + With touch soul-soft, and seas from lands retired, + And light from dark, and wondering Nature passed + Through storm to calm, and all things found their home. + + Silence long time endured; at last, clear-voiced, + Her head not turning, thus the woman spake: + “That God who Man became—who died, and lives,— + Say, died He for my son?” And Patrick said, + “Yea, for thy son He died. Kneel, woman, kneel! + Nor doubt, for mighty is a mother’s prayer, + That He who in the eternal light is throned, + Lifting the roseate and the nail-pierced palm, + Will make in heaven the Venerable Sign, + For He it is prays in us, and that Soul + Thou lov’st pass on to glory.” + + At his word + She knelt, and unto God, with help of God, + Uprushed the strength of prayer, as when the cloud + Uprushes past some beetling mountain wall + From billowy deeps unseen. Long time she prayed; + While heaven and earth grew silent as that night + When rose the Saviour. Sudden ceased the prayer: + And rang upon the night her jubilant cry, + “I saw a Sign in Heaven. Far inward rolled + The gates; and glory flashed from God; and he + I love his entrance won.” Then, fair and tall, + That woman stood with hands upraised to heaven + The dusky shadow of her youth renewed, + And instant Patrick spake, “Give thanks to God, + And speed thee home, and sleep; and since thy son + No children left, take to thee orphans twain + And rear them, in his honour, unto Christ; + And yearly, when the death-day of thy son + Returns, his birth-day name it; call thy friends; + Give alms; and range the poor around thy door, + So shall they feast, and pray. Woman, farewell: + All night the dark upon thy face hath lain; + Yet shall we know each other, met in heaven.” + + Then blithe of foot that Mother crossed the moor; + And when she reached her door a zone of white + Loosening along a cloud that walled the east + Revealed the coming dawn. That dawn ere long + Lay, unawaking, on a face serene, + On tearless lids, and quiet, open palms, + On stormless couch and raiment calm that hid + A breast if faded now, yet happier far + Than when in prime its youthful wave first heaved + Rocking a sleeping Infant. + + + +SAINT PATRICK AT THE FEAST OF KNOCK CAE; +OR, THE FOUNDING OF MUNGRET. + + +ARGUMENT. + + +Saint Patrick, being bidden to a feast, discourses on the way against the +pride of the Bards, for whom Fiacc pleads. Derball, a scoffer, requires +the Saint to remove a mountain. He kneels down and prays, and Derball +avers that the mountain moved. Notwithstanding, Derball believes not, +but departs. The Saint declares that he saw not whether the mountain +moved. He places Nessan over his convent at Mungret because he had given +a little wether to the hungry. Nessan’s mother grudged the gift; and +Saint Patrick prophesies that her grave shall not be in her son’s church. + + IN Limneach, {101} ere he reached it, fame there ran + Of Patrick’s words and works. Before his foot + Aileel had fallen, loud wailing, with his wife, + And cried, “Our child is slain by savage beasts; + But thou, O prophet, if that God thou serv’st + Be God indeed, restore him!” Patrick turned + To Malach, praised of all men. “Brother, kneel, + And raise yon child.” But Malach answered, “Nay, + Lest, tempting God, His service I should shame.” + Then Patrick, “Answer of the base is thine; + And base shall be that house thou build’st on earth, + Little, and low. A man may fail in prayer: + What then? Thank God! the fault is ours not His, + And ours alone the shame.” The Apostle turned + To Ibar, and to Ailbè, bishops twain, + And bade them raise the child. They heard and knelt: + And Patrick knelt between them; and these three + Upheaved a wondrous strength of prayer; and lo! + All pale, yet shining, rose the child, and sat, + Lifting small hands, and preached to those around, + And straightway they believed, and were baptized. + + Thus with loud rumour all the land was full, + And some believed; some doubted; and a chief, + Lonan, the son of Eire, that half believed, + Willing to draw from Patrick wonder and sign, + By messengers besought him, saying, “Come, + For in thy reverence waits thy servant’s feast + Spread on Knock Cae.” That pleasant hill ascends + Westward of Ara, girt by rivers twain, + Maigue, lily-lighted, and the “Morning Star” + Once “Samhair” named, that eastward through the woods + Winding, upon its rapids earliest meets + The morn, and flings it far o’er mead and plain. + + From Limneach therefore Patrick, while the dawn + Still dusk, its joyous secret kept, went forth, + O’er dustless road soon lost in dewy fields, + And groves that, touched by wakening winds, began + To load damp airs with scent. That time it was + When beech leaves lose their silken gloss, and maids + From whitest brows depose the hawthorn white, + Red rose in turn enthroning. Earliest gleams + Glimmered on leaves that shook like wings of birds: + Saint Patrick marked them well. He turned to Fiacc— + “God might have changed to Pentecostal tongues + The leaves of all the forests in the world, + And bade them sing His love! He wrought not thus: + A little hint He gives us and no more. + Alone the willing see. Thus they sin less + Who, if they saw, seeing would disbelieve. + Hark to that note! O foolish woodland choirs! + Ye sing but idle loves; and, idler far, + The bards sing war—war only!” + + Answered thus + The monk bard-loving: “Sing it! Ay, and make + The keys of all the tempests hang on zones + Of those cloud-spirits! They, too, can ‘bind and loose:’ + A bard incensed hath proved a kingdom’s doom! + Such Aidan. Upon cakes of meal his host, + King Aileach, fed him in a fireless hall: + The bard complained not—ay, but issuing forth, + Sang in dark wood a keen and venomed song + That raised on the king’s countenance plague-spots three; + Who saw him named them Scorn, Dishonour, Shame, + And blighted those three oak trees nigh his door. + What next? Before a month that realm lay drowned + In blood; and fire went o’er the opprobrious house!” + Thus spake the youth, and blushed at his own zeal + For bardic fame; then added, “Strange the power + Of song! My father, do I vainly dream + Oft thinking that the bards, perchance the birds, + Sing something vaster than they think or know? + Some fire immortal lives within their strings: + Therefore the people love them. War divine, + God’s war on sin—true love-song best and sweetest— + Perforce they chaunt in spirit, not wars of clans: + Yea, one day, conscious, they shall sing that song; + One day by river clear of south or north, + Pagan no more, the laurelled head shall rise, + And chaunt the Warfare of the Realm of Souls, + The anguish and the cleansing, last the crown— + Prelude of songs celestial!” + + Patrick smiled: + “Still, as at first, a lover of the bards! + Hard task was mine to win thee to the cowl! + Dubtach, thy master, sole in Tara’s hall + Who made me reverence, mocked my quest. He said, + ‘Fiacc thou wouldst?—my Fiacc? Few days gone by + I sent the boy with poems to the kings; + He loves me: hardly will he leave the songs + To wear thy tonsure!’ As he spake, behold, + Thou enter’dst. Sudden hands on Dubtach’s head + I laid, as though to gird with tonsure crown: + Then rose thy clamour, ‘Erin’s chief of bards + A tonsured man! Me, father, take, not him! + Far less the loss to Erin and the songs!’ + Down knelt’st thou; and, ere long, old Dubtach’s floor + Shone with thy vernal locks, like forest paths + Made gold by leaves of autumn!” + + As he spake, + The sun, new-risen, flashed on a breast of wood + That answered from a thousand jubilant throats: + Then Fiacc, with all their music in his face, + Resumed: “My father, upon Tara’s steep + Patient thou sat’st whole months, sifting with care + The laws of Eire, recasting for all time, + Ill laws from good dissevering, as that Day + Shall sever tares from wheat. I see thee still, + As then we saw—thy clenched hand lost in beard + Propping thy chin; thy forehead wrinkle-trenched + Above that wondrous tome, the ‘Senchus Mohr,’ + Like his, that Hebrew lawgiver’s, who sat + Throned on the clouded Mount, while far below + The Tribes waited in awe. Now answer make! + Three bishops, and three brehons, and three kings. + Ye toiled—who helped thee best?” “Dubtach, the bard,” + Patrick replied—“Yea, wise was he, and knew + Man’s heart like his own strings.” “All bards are wise,” + Shouted the youth, “except when war they wage + On thee, the wisest. In their music bath + They cleanse man’s heart, not less, and thus prepare, + Though hating thee, thy way. The bards are wise + For all except themselves. Shall God not save them, + He who would save the worst? Such grace were hard + Unless, death past, their souls to birds might change, + And in the darksomest grove of Paradise + Lament, amerced, their error, yet rejoice + In souls that walked obedient!” “Darksomest grove,” + Patrick made answer; “darksome is their life; + Darksome their pride, their love, their joys, their hopes; + Darksome, though gleams of happier lore they have, + Their light! Seest thou yon forest floor, and o’er it, + The ivy’s flash—earth-light? Such light is theirs: + By such can no man walk.” + + Thus, gay or grave, + Conversed they, while the Brethren paced behind; + Till now the morn crowded each cottage door + With clustered heads. They reached ere long in woods + A hamlet small. Here on the weedy thatch + White fruit-bloom fell: through shadow, there, went round + The swinging mill-wheel tagged with silver fringe; + Here rang the mallet; there was heard remote + The one note of the love-contented bird. + Though warm the sun, in shade the young spring morn + Was edged with winter yet, and icy film + Glazed the deep ruts. The swarthy smith worked hard, + And working sang; the wheelwright toiled close by; + An armourer next to these: through flaming smoke + Glared the fierce hands that on the anvil fell + In thunder down. A sorcerer stood apart + Kneading Death’s messenger, that missile ball, + The _Lia Laimbhè_. To his heart he clasped it, + And o’er it muttered spells with flatteries mixed: + “Hail, little daughter mine! ’Twixt hand and heart + I knead thee! From the Red Sea came that sand + Which, blent with viper’s poison, makes thy flesh! + Be thou no shadow wandering on the air! + Rush through the battle gloom as red-combed snake + Cleaves the blind waters! On! like Witch’s glance, + Or forkèd flash, or shaft of summer pest, + And woe to him that meets thee! Mouth blood-red + My daughter hath:—not healing be her kiss!” + Thus he. In shade he stood, and phrensy-fired; + And yet he marked who watched him. Without word + Him Patrick passed; but spake to all the rest + With voice so kindly reverent, “Is not this,” + Men asked, “the preacher of the ‘Tidings Good?’” + “What tidings? Has he found a mine?” “He speaks + To princes as to brothers; to the hind + As we to princes’ children! Yea, when mute, + Saith not his face ‘Rejoice’?” + + At times the Saint + Laid on the head of age his strong right hand, + Gentle as touch of soft-accosting eyes; + And once before an open door he stopped, + Silent. Within, all glowing like a rose, + A mother stood for pleasure of her babes + That—in them still the warmth of couch late left— + Around her gambolled. On his face, as hers, + Their sport regarding, long time lay the smile; + Then crept a shadow o’er it, and he spake + In sadness: “Woman! when a hundred years + Have passed, with opening flower and falling snow, + Where then will be thy children?” Like a cloud + Fear and great wrath fell on her. From the wall + She snatched a battle-axe and raised it high + In both hands, clamouring, “Wouldst thou slay my babes?” + He answered, “I would save them. Woman, hear! + Seest thou yon floating shape? It died a worm; + It lives, the blue-winged angel of spring meads. + Thy children, likewise, if they serve my King, + Death past, shall find them wings.” Then to her cheek + The bloom returned, and splendour to her eye; + And catching to her breast, that larger swelled, + A child, she wept, “Oh, would that he might live + For ever! Prophet, speak! thy words are good! + Their father, too, must hear thee.” Patrick said, + “Not so; nor falls this seed on every road;” + Then added thus: “You child, by all the rest + Cherished as though he were some infant God, + Is none of thine.” She answered, “None of ours; + A great chief sent him here for fosterage.” + Then he: “All men on earth the children are + Of One who keeps them here in fosterage: + They see not yet His face; but He sees them, + Yea, and decrees their seasons and their times: + Like infants, they must learn Him first by touch, + Through nature, and her gifts—by hearing next, + The hearing of the ear, and that is Faith— + By Vision last. Woman, these things are hard; + But thou to Limneach come in three days’ time, + Likewise thy husband; there, by Sangul’s Well, + Thou shalt know all.” + + The Saint had reached ere long + That festal mount. Thousands with bannered line + Scaled it light-hearted. Never favourite lamb + In ribands decked shone brighter than that hour + The fair flank of Knock Cae. Heath-scented airs + Lightened the clambering toil. At times the Saint + Stayed on their course the crowds, and towards the Truth + Drew them by parable, or record old, + Oftener by question sage. Not all believed: + Of such was Derball. Man of wealth and wit, + Nor wise, nor warlike, toward the Saint he strode + With bubble-seething brain, and head high tossed, + And cried, “Great Seer! remove yon mountain blue, + Cenn Abhrat, by thy prayer! That done, to thee + Fealty I pledge.” Saint Patrick knelt in prayer: + Soon Derball cried, “The central ridge descends;— + Southward, beyond it, Longa’s lake shines out + In sunlight flashing!” At his word drew near + The men of Erin. Derball homeward turned, + Mocking: “Believe who will, believe not I! + Me more imports it o’er my foodful fields + To draw the Maigue’s rich waters than to stare + At moving hills.” But certain of that throng, + Light men, obsequious unto Derball’s laugh, + Questioned of Patrick if the mountain moved. + He answered, “On the ground mine eyes were fixed; + Nought saw I. Haply, through defect of mine, + It moved not. Derball said the mountain moved; + Yet kept he not his pledge, but disbelieved. + ‘Faith can move mountains.’ Never said my King + That mountains moved could move reluctant faith + In unbelieving heart.” With sad, calm voice + He spake; and Derball’s laughter frustrate died. + + Meantime, high up on that thyme-scented hill + By shadows swept, and lights, and rapturous winds, + Lonan prepared the feast, and, with that chief, + Mantan, a deacon. Tables fair were spread; + And tents with branches gay. Beside those tents + Stood the sweet-breathing, mournful, slow-eyed kine + With hazel-shielded horns, and gave their milk + Gravely to merry maidens. Low the sun + Had fallen, when, Patrick near the summit now, + There burst on him a wandering troop, wild-eyed, + With scant and quaint array. O’er sunburnt brows + They wore sere wreaths; their piebald vests were stained, + And lean their looks, and sad: some piped, some sang, + Some tossed the juggler’s ball. “From far we came,” + They cried; “we faint with hunger; give as food!” + Upon them Patrick bent a pitying eye, + And said, “Where Lonan and where Mantan toil + Go ye, and pray them, for mine honour’s sake, + To gladden you with meat.” But Lonan said, + And Mantan, “Nay, but when the feast is o’er, + The fragments shall be yours.” With darkening brow + The Saint of that denial heard, and cried, + “He cometh from the North, even now he cometh, + For whom the Blessing is reserved; he cometh + Bearing a little wether at his back:” + And, straightway, through the thicket evening-dazed + A shepherd—by him walked his mother—pushed, + Bearing a little wether. Patrick said, + “Give them to eat. They hunger.” Gladly then + That shepherd youth gave them the wether small: + With both his hands outstretched, and liberal smile, + He gave it, though, with angry eye askance + His mother grudged it sore. The wether theirs, + As though earth-swallowed, vanished that wild tribe, + Fearing that mother’s eye. + + Then Patrick spake + To Lonan, “Zealous is thy service, friend; + Yet of thy house no king shall sit on throne, + No bishop bless the people.” Turning then + To Mantan, thus he spake, “Careful art thou + Of many things; not less that church thou raisest + Shall not be of the honoured in the land; + And in its chancel waste the mountain kine + Shall couch above thy grave.” To Nessan last + Thus spake he: “Thou that didst the hungry feed, + The poor of Christ, that know not yet His name, + And, helping them that cried to me for help, + Cherish mine honour, like a palm, one day, + Shall rise thy greatness.” Nessan’s mother old + For pardon knelt. He blessed her hoary head, + Yet added, mournful, “Not within the Church + That Nessan serves shall lie his mother’s grave.” + Then Nessan he baptized, and on him bound + Ere long the deacon’s grade, and placed him, later, + Priest o’er his church at Mungret. Centuries ten + It stood, a convent round it as a star + Forth sending beams of glory and of grace + O’er woods Teutonic and the Tyrrhene Sea. + Yet Nessan’s mother in her son’s great church + Slept not; nor where the mass bell tinkled low: + West of the church her grave, to his—her son’s— + Neighbouring, yet severed by the chancel wall. + + Thus from the morning star to evening star + Went by that day. In Erin many such + Saint Patrick lived, using well pleased the chance, + Or great or small, since all things come from God: + And well the people loved him, being one + Who sat amid their marriage feasts, and saw, + Where sin was not, in all things beauty and love. + But, ere he passed from Munster, longing fell + On Patrick’s heart to view in all its breadth + Her river-flood, and bless its western waves; + Therefore, forth journeying, to that hill he went, + Highest among the wave-girt, heathy hills, + That still sustains his name, and saw the flood + At widest stretched, and that green Isle {111} hard by, + And northern Thomond. From its coasts her sons + Rushed countless forth in skiff and coracle + Smiting blue wave to white, till Sheenan’s sound + Ceased, in their clamour lost. That hour from God + Power fell on Patrick; and in spirit he saw, + Invisible to flesh, the western coasts, + And the ocean way, and, far beyond, that land + The Future’s heritage, and prophesied + Of Brendan who ere long in wicker boat + Should over-ride the mountains of the deep, + Shielded by God, and tread—no fable then— + Fabled Hesperia. Last of all he saw + More near, thy hermit home, Senanus;—“Hail, + Isle of blue ocean and the river’s mouth! + The People’s Lamp, their Counsel’s Head, is thine!” + That hour shone out through cloud the westering sun + And paved the wave with fire: that hour not less + Strong in his God, westward his face he set, + Westward and north, and spread his arms abroad, + And drew the blessing down, and flung it far: + “A blessing on the warriors, and the clans, + A blessing on high field, and golden vales, + On sea-like plain and on the showery ridge, + On river-ripple, cliff, and murmuring deep, + On seaward peaks, harbours, and towns, and ports; + A blessing on the sand beneath the ships: + On all descend the Blessing!” Thus he prayed, + Great-hearted; and from all the populous hills + And waters came the People’s vast “Amen!” + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND KING EOCHAID. + + +ARGUMENT. + + +King Eochaid submits himself to the Christian Law because Saint Patrick +has delivered his son from bonds, yet only after making a pact that he is +not, like the meaner sort, to be baptized. In this stubbornness he +persists, though otherwise a kindly king; and after many years, he dies. +Saint Patrick had refused to see his living face; yet after death he +prays by the death-bed. Life returns to the dead; and sitting up, like +one sore amazed, he demands baptism. The Saint baptizes him, and offers +him a choice either to reign over all Erin for fifteen years, or to die. +Eochaid chooses to die, and so departs. + + EOCHAID, son of Crimther, reigned, a King + Northward in Clochar. Dearer to his heart + Than kingdom or than people or than life + Was he, the boy long wished for. Dear was she, + Keinè, his daughter. Babyhood’s white star, + Beauteous in childhood, now in maiden dawn + She witched the world with beauty. From her eyes + A light went forth like morning o’er the sea; + Sweeter her voice than wind on harp; her smile + Could stay men’s breath. With wingèd feet she trod + The yearning earth that, if it could, like waves + Had swelled to meet their pressure. Ah, the pang! + Beauty, the immortal promise, like a cheat + If unwed glides into the shadow land, + Childless and twice defeated. Beauty wed + To mate unworthy, suffers worse eclipse— + “Ill choice between two ills!” thus spleenfull cried + Eochaid; but not his the pensive grief: + He would have kept his daughter in his house + For ever; yet, since better might not be, + Himself he chose her out a mate, and frowned, + And said, “The dog must have her.” But the maid + Wished not for marriage. Tender was her heart; + Yet though her twentieth year had o’er her flown, + And though her tears had dewed a mother’s grave, + In her there lurked, not flower of womanhood, + But flower of angel texture. All around + To her was love. The crown of earthly love + Seemed but its crown of mockery. Love Divine— + For that she yearned, and yet she knew it not; + Knew less that love she feared. + + She walked in woods + While all the green leaves, drenched by sunset’s gold, + Upon a shower-bespangled sycamore + Shivered, and birds among them choir on choir + Chanted her praise—or spring’s. “Ill sung,” she laughed, + “My dainty minstrels! Grant to me your wings, + And I for them will teach you song of mine: + Listen!” A carol from her lip there gushed + That, ere its time, might well have called the spring + From winter’s coldest cave. It ceased; she turned. + Beside her Patrick stood. His hand he raised + To bless her. Awed, though glad, upon her knees + The maiden sank. His eye, as if through air, + Saw through that stainless soul, and, crystal-shrined + Therein, its inmate, Truth. That other Truth + Instant to her he preached—the Truth Divine— + (For whence is caution needful, save from sin?) + And those two Truths, each gazing upon each, + Embraced like sisters, thenceforth one. For her + No arduous thing was Faith, ere yet she heard + In heart believing: and, as when a babe + Marks some bright shape, if near or far, it knows not, + And stretches forth a witless hand to clasp + Phantom or form, even so with wild surmise + And guesses erring first, and questions apt, + She chased the flying light, and round it closed + At last, and found it substance. “This is He.” + Then cried she, “This, whom every maid should love, + Conqueror self-sacrificed of sin and death: + How shall we find, how please Him, how be nigh?” + Patrick made answer: “They that do His will + Are nigh Him.” And the virgin: “Of the nigh, + Say, who is nighest?” Thus, that wingèd heart + Rushed to its rest. He answered: “Nighest they + Who offer most to Him in sacrifice, + As when the wedded leaves her father’s house + And cleaveth to her husband. Nighest they + Who neither father’s house nor husband’s house + Desire, but live with Him in endless prayer, + And tend Him in His poor.” Aloud she cried, + “The nearest to the Highest, that is love;— + I choose that bridal lot!” He answered, “Child, + The choice is God’s. For each, that lot is best + To which He calls us.” Lifting then pure hands, + Thus wept the maiden: “Call me, Virgin-born! + Will not the Mother-Maid permit a maid + To sit beside those nail-pierced feet, and wipe, + With hair untouched by wreaths of mortal love, + The dolorous blood-stains from them? Stranger guest, + Come to my father’s tower! Against my will, + Against his own, in bridal bonds he binds me: + My suit he might resist: he cannot thine!” + + She spake; and by her Patrick paced with feet + To hers accordant. Soon they reached that fort: + Central within a circling rath earth-built + It stood; the western tower of stone; the rest, + Not high, but spreading wide, of wood compact; + For thither many a forest hill had sent + His wind-swept daughter brood, relinquishing + Converse with cloud and beam and rain forever + To echo back the revels of a Prince. + Mosaic was the work, beam laced with beam + In quaint device: high up, o’er many a door + Shone blazon rich of vermeil, or of green, + Or shield of bronze, glittering with veinèd boss, + Chalcedony or agate, or whate’er + The wave-lipped marge of Neagh’s broad lake might boast, + Or ocean’s shore, northward from Brandon’s Head + To where the myriad-pillared cliffs hang forth + Their stony organs o’er the lonely main. + And trembles yet the pilgrim, noting at eve + The pride Fomorian, and that Giant Way {116} + Trending toward eastern Alba. From his throne + Above the semicirque of grassy seats + Whereon by Brehons and by Ollambs girt + Daily be judged his people, rose the king + And bade the stranger welcome. + + Day to day + And night to night succeeded. In fit time, + For Patrick, sometimes sudden, oft was slow, + He spoke his Master’s message. At the close, + As though in trance, the warriors circling stood + With hands outstretched; the Druids downward frowned, + Silent; and like a strong man awed for once, + Eochaid round him stared. A little while, + And from him passed the amazement. Buoyant once more, + And bright like trees fresher for thunder-shower, + With all his wonted aspect, bold and keen, + He answered: “O my prophet, words, words, words! + We too have Prophets. Better thrice our Bards; + Yet, being no better these than trumpet’s blast, + The trumpet more I prize. Had words been work, + Myself in youth had led the loud-voiced clan! + Deeds I preferred. What profit e’er had I + From windy marvels? Once with me in war + A seer there camped that, bending back his head, + Fit rites performed, and upward gazing, blew + With rounded lips into the heaven of heavens + Druidic breath. That heaven was changed to cloud, + Cloud that on borne to Clairè’s hated bound + Down fell, a rain of blood! To me what gain? + Within three weeks my son was trapped and snared + By Aodh of Hy Brinin, king whose hosts + Number my warriors fourfold. Three long years + Beyond those purple mountains in the west + Hostage he lies.” Lightly Eochaid spake, + And turned: but shaken chin betrayed that grief + Which lived beneath his lightness. + + Sudden thronged + High on the neighbouring hills a jubilant troop, + Their banners waving, while the midway vale + With harp and horn resounded. Patrick spake: + “Rejoice! thy son returns! not sole he comes, + But in his hand a princess, fair and good, + A kingdom for her dowry. Aodh’s realm, + By me late left, welcomed _my_ King with joy: + All fire the mountains shone. ‘The God I serve,’ + Thus spake I, Aodh pointing to those fires, + ‘In mountains of rejoicing hath no joy + While sad beyond them sits a childless man, + His only son thy captive. Captive groaned + Creation; Bethlehem’s Babe set free the slave. + For His sake loose thy thrall!’ A sweeter voice + Pleaded with mine, his daughter’s ’mid her tears. + ‘Aodh,’ I said, ‘these two each other love! + What think’st thou? He who shaped the linnet’s nest, + Indifferent unto Him are human loves? + Arise! thy work make perfect! Righteous deeds + Are easier whole than half.’ In thought awhile + Old Aodh sat; then to his daughter turned, + And thus, imperious even in kindness, spake: + ‘Well fought the youth ere captured, like the son + Of kings, and worthy to be sire of kings: + Wed him this hour: and in three days, at eve, + Restore him to his father!’ King, this hour + Thou know’st if Christ’s strong Faith be empty words, + Or truth, and armed with power.” + + That night was passed + In feasting and in revel, high and low + Rich with a common gladness. Many a torch + Flared in the hand of servitors hill-sent, + That standing, each behind a guest, retained + Beneath that roof clouded by banquet steam + Their mountain wildness. Here, the splendour glanced + On goblet jewel-chased and dark with wine, + Swift circling; there, on walls with antlers spread, + And rich with yew-wood carvings, flower or bud, + Or clustered grape pendent in russet gleam + As though from nature’s hand. A hall hard by + Echoed the harp that now nor kindled rage, + Nor grief condoled, nor sealed with slumber’s balm + Tempestuous spirits, triumphs three of song, + But raised to rapture, mirth. Far shone that hall + Glowing with hangings steeped in every tinct + The boast of Erin’s dyeing-vats, now plain, + Now pranked with bird or beast or fish, whate’er + Fast-flying shuttle from the craftsman’s thought + Catching, on bore through glimmering warp and woof, + A marvellous work; now traced by broiderer’s hand + With legends of Ferdìadh and of Meave, + Even to the golden fringe. The warriors paced + Exulting. Oft they showed their merit’s prize, + Poniard or cup, tribute ordained of tribes + From age to age, Eochaid’s right, on them + With equal right devolving. Slow they moved + In mantle now of crimson, now of blue, + Clasped with huge torque of silver or of gold + Just where across the snowy shirt there strayed + Tendril of purple thread. With jewelled fronts + Beauteous in pride ’mid light of winsome smiles, + Over the rushes green with slender foot + In silver slipper hid, the ladies passed, + Answering with eyes not lips the whispered praise, + Or loud the bride extolling—“When was seen + Such sweetness and such grace?” + + Meantime the king + Conversed with Patrick. Vexed he heard announced + His daughter’s high resolve: but still his looks + Went wandering to his son. “My boy! Behold him! + His valour and his gifts are all from me: + My first-born!” From the dancing throng apart + His daughter stood the while, serene and pale, + Down-gazing on that lily in her hand + With face of one who notes not shapes around, + But dreams some happy dream. The king drew nigh, + And on her golden head the sceptre staff + Leaning, but not to hurt her, thus began: + “Your prophets of the day, I trust them not! + If sent from God, why came they not long since? + Our Druids came before them, and, belike, + Shall after them abide! With these new seers + I count not Patrick. Things that Patrick says + I ofttimes thought. His lineage too is old— + Wide-browed, grey-eyed, with downward lessening face, + Not like your baser breeds, with questing eyes + And jaw of dog. But for thy Heavenly Spouse, + I like not Him! At least, wed Cormac first! + If rude his ways, yet noble is his name, + And being but poor the man will bide with me: + He’s brave, and likeliest soon in fight may fall! + When Cormac dies, wed next—” a music clash + Forth bursting drowned his words. + + Three days passed by: + To Patrick, then preparing to depart, + Thus spake Eochaid in the ears of all: + “Herald Heaven-missioned of the Tidings Good! + Those tidings I have pondered. They are true: + I for that truth’s sake, and in honour bound + By reason of my son set free, resolve + The same, upon conditions, to believe, + And suffer all my people to believe, + Just terms exacted. Briefly these they are: + First, after death, I claim admittance frank + Into thy Heavenly Kingdom: next, till death + For me exemption from that Baptism Rite, + Imposed on kerne and hind. Experience-taught, + I love not rigid bond and written pledge: + ’Tis well to brand your mark on sheep or lamb: + Kings are of lion breed; and of my house + ’Tis known there never yet was king baptized. + This pact concluded, preach within my realm + Thy Faith; and wed my daughter to thy God. + Not scholarly am I to know what joy + A maid can find in psalm, and cell, and spouse + Unseen: yet ever thus my sentence stood, + ‘Choose each his way.’ My son restored, her loss + To me is loss the less.” Thus spake the king. + + Then Patrick, on whose face the princess bent + The supplication softly strong of eyes + Like planets seen through mist, Eochaid’s heart + Knowing, which miracle had hardened more, + Made answer, “King, a man of jests art thou, + Claiming free range in heaven, and yet its gate + Thyself close barring! In thy daughter’s prayers + Belike thou trustest, that where others creep + Thou shalt its golden bastions over-fly. + Far otherwise than in that way thou ween’st, + That daughter’s prayers shall speed thee. With thy word + I close, that word to frustrate. God be with thee! + Thou living, I return not. Fare thee well.” + + Thus speaking, by the hand he took the maid, + And led her through the concourse. At her feet + The poor fell low, kissing her garment’s hem, + And many brought their gifts, and all their prayers, + And old men wept. A maiden train snow-garbed, + Her steps attending, whitened plain and field, + As when at times dark glebe, new-turned, is changed + To white by flock of ocean birds alit, + Or inland blown by storm, or hunger-urged + To filch the late-sown grain. Her convent home + Ere long received her. There Ethembria ruled, + Green Erin’s earliest nun. Of princely race, + She in past years before the font of Christ + Had knelt at Patrick’s feet. Once more she sought him: + Over the lovely, lovelier change had passed, + As when on childish girlhood, ’mid a shower + Of lilies earthward wafted, maidenhood + In peacefuller state assumes her spotless throne; + So, from that maiden, vestal now had risen:— + Lowlier she seemed, more tender, soft, and grave, + Yet loftier; hushed in quiet more divine, + Yet wonder-awed. Again she knelt, and o’er + The bending queenly head, till then unbent, + He flung that veil which woman bars from man + To make her more than woman. Nigh to death + The Saint forgat not her. With her remained + Keinè; but Patrick dwelt far off at Saul. + + Years came and went: yet neither chance nor change, + Nor war, nor peace, nor warnings from the priests, + Nor whispers ’mid the omen-mongering crowd, + Might from Eochaid charm his wayward will, + Nor reasonings of the wise that still preferred + Safe port to victory’s pride. He reasoned too, + For confident in his reasonings was the king, + Reckoning on pointed fingers every link + That clenched his mail of proof. “On Patrick’s word + Ye tell me Baptism is the gate of Heaven: + Attend, Sirs! I have Patrick’s word no less + That I shall enter Heaven. What need I more? + If, Death, truth-speaker, shows that Patrick lied, + Plain is my right against him! Heaven not won, + Patrick bare hence my daughter through a fraud: + He must restore her fourfold—daughters four, + As fair and good. If not, the prophet’s pledge + For honour’s sake his Master must redeem, + And unbaptized receive me. Dupes are ye! + Doomed ’mid the common flock, with branded fleece + Bleating to enter Heaven!” + + The years went by; + And weakness came. No more his small light form + To reverent eyes seemed taller than it was: + No more the shepherd watched him from the hill + Heading his hounds, and hoped to catch his smile, + Yet feared his questions keen. The end drew near. + Some wept, some railed; restless the warriors tramped; + The Druids conned their late discountenanced spells; + The bard his lying harpstrings spurned, so long + Healing, unhelpful now. But far away, + Within that lonely convent tower from her + Who prayed for ever, mightier rose the prayer. + + Within the palace, now by usage old + To all flung open, all were sore amazed, + All save the king. The leech beside the bed + Sobbed where he stood, yet sware, “The fit will pass: + Ten years the King may live.” Eochaid frowned: + “Shall I, to patch thy fame, live ten years more, + My death-time come? My seventy years are sped: + My sire and grandsire died at sixty-nine. + Like Aodh, shall I lengthen out my days + Toothless, nor fit to vindicate my clan, + Some losel’s song? The kingdom is my son’s! + Strike from my little milk-white horse the shoes, + And loose him where the freshets make the mead + Greenest in springtide. He must die ere long; + And not to him did Patrick open Heaven. + Praise be to Patrick’s God! May He my sins, + Known and unknown, forgive!” + + Backward he sank + Upon his bed, and lay with eyes half closed, + Murmuring at times one prayer, five words or six; + And twice or thrice he spake of trivial things; + Then like an infant slumbered till the sun, + Sinking beneath a great cloud’s fiery skirt, + Smote his old eyelids. Waking, in his ears + The ripening cornfields whispered ’neath the breeze, + For wide were all the casements that the soul + By death delivered hindrance none might find + (Careful of this the king); and thus he spake: + “Nought ever raised my heart to God like fields + Of harvest, waving wide from hill to hill, + All bread-full for my people. Hale me forth: + When I have looked once more upon that sight + My blessing I will give them, and depart.” + + Then in the fields they laid him, and he spake. + “May He that to my people sends the bread, + Send grace to all who eat it!” With that word + His hands down-falling, back once more he sank, + And lay as dead; yet, sudden, rising not, + Nor moving, nor his eyes unclosing, said, + “My body in the tomb of ancient kings + Inter not till beside it Patrick stands + And looks upon my brow.” He spake, then sighed + A little sigh, and died. + + Three days, as when + Black thunder cloud clings fast to mountain brows, + So to the nation clung the grief: three days + The lamentation sounded on the hills + And rang around the pale blue meres, and rose + Shrill from the bleeding heart of vale and glen, + And rocky isle, and ocean’s moaning shore; + While by the bier the yellow tapers stood, + And on the right side knelt Eochaid’s son, + Behind him all the chieftains cloaked in black; + And on his left his daughter knelt, the nun, + Behind her all her sisterhood, white-veiled, + Like tombstones after snowstorm. Far away, + At “Saul of Patrick,” dwelt the Saint when first + The king had sickened. Message sent he none + Though knowing all; and when the end was nigh, + And heralds now besought him day by day, + He made no answer till o’er eastern seas + Advanced the third fair morning. Then he rose, + And took the Staff of Jesus, and at eve + Beside the dead king standing, on his brow + Fixed a sad eye. Aloud the people wept; + The kneeling warriors eyed their lord askance; + The nuns intoned their hymn. Above that hymn + A cry rang out: it was the daughter’s prayer; + And after that was silence. By the dead + Still stood the Saint, nor e’er removed his gaze. + Then—seen of all—behold, the dead king’s hands + Rose slowly, as the weed on wave upheaved + Without its will; and all the strengthless shape + In cerements wrapped, as though by mastering voice + From the white void evoked and realm of death, + Without its will, a gradual bulk half rose, + The hoar head gazing forth. Upon the face + Had passed a change, the greatest earth may know; + For what the majesty of death began + The majesties of worlds unseen, and life + Resurgent ere its time, had perfected, + All accidents of flesh and sorrowful years + Cancelled and quelled. Yet horror from his eyes + Looked out as though some vision once endured + Must cling to them for ever. Patrick spake: + “Soul from the dead sent back once more to earth + What seek’st thou from God’s Church?” He answer made, + “Baptism.” Then Patrick o’er him poured the might + Of healing waters in the Name Triune, + The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit; + And from his eyes the horror passed, and light + Went from them, as the light of eyes that rest + On the everlasting glory, while he spake: + “Tempest of darkness drave me past the gates + Celestial, and, a moment’s space, within + I heard the hymning of the hosts of God + That feed for ever on the Bread of Life + As feed the nations on the harvest wheat. + Tempest of darkness drave me to the gates + Of Anguish: then a cry came up from earth, + Cry like my daughter’s when her mother died, + That stayed the on-rushing whirlwind; yet mine eyes + Perforce looked in, and, many a thousand years, + Branded upon them lay that woful sight + Now washed from them for ever.” Patrick spake: + “This day a twofold choice I give thee, son; + For fifteen years the rule o’er Erin’s land, + Rule absolute, Ard-Righ o’er lesser kings; + Or instant else to die, and hear once more + That hymn celestial, and that Vision see + They see who sing that anthem.” Light from God + Over that late dead countenance streamed amain, + Like to his daughter’s now—more beauteous thrice— + Yet awful, more than beauteous. “Rule o’er earth, + Rule without end, were nought to that great hymn + Heard but a single moment. I would die.” + + Then Patrick, on him gazing, answered, “Die!” + And died the king once more, and no man wept; + But on her childless breast the nun sustained + Softly her father’s head. + + That night discourse + Through hall and court circled in whispers low. + First one, “Was that indeed our king? But where + The sword-scar and the wrinkles?” “Where,” rejoined, + Wide-eyed, the next, “his little cranks and girds + The wisdom, and the whim?” Then Patrick spake: + “Sirs, till this day ye never saw your king; + The man ye doted on was but his mask, + His picture—yea, his phantom. Ye have seen + At last the man himself.” That night nigh sped, + While slowly o’er the darkling woods went down, + Warned by the cold breath of the up-creeping morn + Invisible yet nigh, the August moon, + Two vestals, gliding past like moonlight gleams, + Conversed: one said, “His daughter’s prayer prevailed!” + The second, “Who may know the ways of God? + For this, may many a heart one day rejoice + In hope! For this, the gift to many a man + Exceed the promise; Faith’s invisible germ + Quickened with parting breath; and Baptism given, + It may be, by an angel’s hand unseen!” + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND THE FOUNDING OF ARMAGH CATHEDRAL. + + +ARGUMENT. + + +Saint Patrick repairs to Ardmacha, there to found the chief church of +Erin. For that purpose he demands of Dairè, the king, a certain woody +hill. The king refuses it, and afterwards treats him with alternate +scorn and reverence; while the Saint, in each event alike, makes the same +answer, “Deo Gratias.” At last the king concedes to him the hill; and on +the summit of it Saint Patrick finds a little white fawn asleep. The men +of Erin would have slain that fawn; but the Saint carries it on his +shoulder, and restores it to its dam. Where the fawn lay, he places the +altar of his cathedral. + + AT Cluain Cain, in Ross, unbent yet old, + Dwelt Patrick long. Its sweet and flowery sward + He to the rock had delved, with fixed resolve + To build thereon Christ’s chiefest church in Eire. + Then by him stood God’s angel, speaking thus: + “Not here, but northward.” He replied, “O, would + This spot might favour find with God! Behold! + Fair is it, and as meet to clasp a church + As is a true heart in a virgin breast + To clasp the Faith of Christ. The hinds around + Name it ‘the beauteous meadow.’” “Fair it is,” + The angel answered, “nor shall lack its crown. + Another’s is its beauty. Here, one day + A pilgrim from the Britons sent shall build, + And, later, what he builds shall pass to thine; + But thou to Macha get thee.” + + Patrick then, + Obedient as that Patriarch Sire who faced + At God’s command the desert, northward went + In holy silence. Soon to him was lost + That green and purple meadow-sea, embayed + ’Twixt two descending woody promontories, + Its outlet girt with isles of rock, its shores + Cream-white with meadow-sweet. Not once he turned, + Climbing the uplands rough, or crossing streams + Swoll’n by the melted snows. The Brethren paced + Behind; Benignus first, his psalmist; next + Secknall, his bishop; next his brehon Erc; + Mochta, his priest; and Sinell of the Bells; + Rodan, his shepherd; Essa, Bite, and Tassach, + Workers of might in iron and in stone, + God-taught to build the churches of the Faith + With wisdom and with heart-delighting craft; + Mac Cairthen last, the giant meek that oft + On shoulders broad bare Patrick through the floods: + His rest was nigh. That hour they crossed a stream; + ’Twas deep, and, ’neath his load, the giant sighed. + Saint Patrick said, “Thou wert not wont to sigh!” + He answered, “Old I grow. Of them my mates + How many hast thou left in churches housed + Wherein they rule and rest!” The Saint replied, + “Thee also will I leave within a church + For rule and rest; not to mine own too near + For rarely then should we be seen apart, + Nor yet remote, lest we should meet no more.” + At Clochar soon he placed him. There, long years + Mac Cairthen sat, its bishop. + + As they went, + Oft through the woodlands rang the battle-shout; + And twice there rose above the distant hill + The smoke of hamlet fired. Yet, none the less, + Spring-touched, the blackbird sang; the cowslip changed + Green lawn to green and golden; and grey rock + And river’s marge with primroses were starred; + Here shook the windflower; there the blue-bells gleamed, + As though a patch of sky had fallen on earth. + + Then to Benignus spake the Saint: “My son, + If grief were lawful in a world redeemed + The blood-stains on a land so strong in faith, + So slack in love, might cloud the holiest brow, + Yea, his whose head lay on the breast of Christ. + Clan wars with clan: no injury is forgiven; + Like to the joy in stag-hunts is the war: + Alas! for such what hope!” Benignus answered + “O Father, cease not for this race to hope, + Lest they should hope no longer! Hope they have; + Still say they, ‘God will snare us in the end + Though wild.’” And Patrick, “Spirits twain are theirs: + The stranger, and the poor, at every door + They meet, and bid him in. The youngest child + Officious is in service; maids prepare + The bath; men brim the wine-cup. Then, forth borne, + Cities they fire and rich in spoil depart, + Greed mixed with rage—an industry of blood!” + He spake, and thus the younger made reply: + “Father, the stranger is the brother-man + To them; the poor is neighbour. Septs remote + To them are alien worlds. They know not yet + That rival clans are men.” + + “That know they shall,” + Patrick made answer, “when a race far off + Tramples their race to clay! God sends abroad + His plague of war that men on earth may know + Brother from foe, and anguish work remorse.” + He spake, and after musings added thus: + “Base of God’s kingdom is Humility— + I have not spared to thunder o’er their pride; + Great kings have I rebuked and signs sent forth, + And banned for their sake fruitful plain, and bay; + Yet still the widow’s cry is on the air, + The orphan’s wail!” Benignus answered mild, + “O Father, not alone with sign and ban + Hast thou rebuked their madness. Oftener far + Thy sweetness hath reproved them. Once in woods + Northward of Tara as we tracked our way + Round us there gathered slaves who felled the pines + For ship-masts. Scarred their hands, and red with blood, + Because their master, Trian, thus had sworn, + ‘Let no man sharpen axe!’ Upon those hands + Gazing, they wept soon as thy voice they heard, + Because that voice was soft. Thou heard’st their tale; + Straight to that chieftain’s castle went’st thou up, + And bound’st him with thy fast, beside his gate + Sitting in silence till his heart should melt; + And since he willed it not to melt, he died. + Then, in her arms two babes, came forth the queen + Black-robed, and freed her slaves, and gave them hire; + And, we returning after many years, + Filled was that wood with homesteads; plots of corn + Rustled around them; here were orchards; there + In trench or tank they steeped the bright blue flax; + The saw-mill turned to use the wanton brook; + Murmured the bee-hive; murmured household wheel; + Soft eyes looked o’er it through the dusk; at work + The labourers carolled; matrons glad and maids + Bare us the pail head-steadied, children flowers: + Last, from her castle paced the queen, and led + In either hand her sons whom thou hadst blest, + Thenceforth to stand thy priests. The land believed; + And not through ban, or word, sharp-edged or soft, + But silence and thy fast the ill custom died.” + + He answered, “Christ, in Christ-like life expressed, + This, this, not words, subdues a land to Christ; + And in this best Apostolate all have part. + Ah me! that flower thou hold’st is strong to preach + Creative Love, because itself is lovely; + But we, the heralds of Redeeming Love, + Because we are unlovely in our lives, + Preach to deaf ears! Yet theirs, theirs too, the sin.” + Benignus made reply: “The race is old; + Not less their hearts are young. Have patience with them! + For see, in spring the grave old oaks push forth + Impatient sprays, wine-red: their strength matured, + These sober down to verdure.” Patrick paused, + Then, brooding, spake, as one who thinks, not speaks: + “A priest there walked with me ten years and more; + Warrior in youth was he. One day we heard + The shock of warring clans—I hear it still: + Within him, as in darkening vase you note + The ascending wine, I watched the passion mount:— + Sudden he dashed him down into the fight, + Nor e’er to Christ returned.” Benignus answered; + “I saw above a dusky forest roof + The glad spring run, leaving a track sea-green: + Not straight she ran; and yet she reached her goal: + Later I saw above green copse of thorn + The glad spring run, leaving a track foam-white: + Not straight she ran; yet soon she conquered all! + O Father, is it sinful to be glad + Here amid sin and sorrow? Joy is strong, + Strongest in spring-tide! Mourners I have known + That, homeward wending from the new-dug grave, + Against their will, where sang the happy birds + Have felt the aggressive gladness stir their hearts, + And smiled amid their tears.” So babbled he, + Shamed at his spring-tide raptures. + + As they went, + Far on their left there stretched a mighty land + Of forest-girdled hills, mother of streams: + Beyond it sank the day; while round the west + Like giants thronged the great cloud-phantoms towered. + Advancing, din they heard, and found in woods + A hamlet and a field by war unscathed, + And boys on all sides running. Placid sat + The village Elders; neither lacked that hour + The harp that gently tranquillises age, + Yet wakes young hearts with musical unrest, + Forerunner oft of love’s unrest. Ere long + The measure changed to livelier: maid with maid + Danced ’mid the dancing shadows of the trees, + And youth with youth; till now, the strangers near, + Those Elders welcomed them with act benign; + And soon was slain the fatted kid, and soon + The lamb; nor any asked till hunger’s rage + Was quelled, “Who art thou?” Patrick made reply, + “A Priest of God.” Then prayed they, “Offer thou + To Him our sacrifice! Belike ’tis He + Who saves from war this hamlet hid in woods: + Unblest be he who finds it!” Thus they spake, + The matrons, not the youths. In friendly talk + The hours went by with laughter winged and tale; + But when the moon, on rolling through the heavens, + Showered through the leaves a dew of sprinkled light + O’er the dark ground, the maidens garments brought + Woven in their quiet homes when nights were long, + Red cloak and kirtle green, and laid them soft, + Still with the wearers’ blameless beauty warm, + For coverlet upon the warm dry grass, + Honouring the stranger guests. For these they deemed + Their low-roofed cots too mean. Glad-hearted rose + The Christian hymn, not timid: far it rang + Above the woods. Ere long, their blissful rites + Fulfilled, the wanderers laid them down and slept. + + At midnight by the side of Patrick stood + Victor, God’s Angel, saying, “Lo! thy work + Hath favour found and thou ere long shalt die: + Thus therefore saith the Lord, ‘So long as sea + Girdeth this isle, so long thy name shall hang + In splendour o’er it, like the stars of God.’” + Then Patrick said, “A boon! I crave a boon!” + The angel answered, “Speak;” and Patrick said, + “Let them that with me toiled, or in the years + To come shall toil, building o’er all this land + The Fortress-Temple and great House of Christ, + Equalled with me my name in Erin share.” + And Victor answered, “Half thy prayer is thine; + With thee shall they partake. Not less, thy name + Higher than theirs shall rise, and wider spread, + Since thus more plainly shall His glory shine + Whose glory is His justice.” + + With the morn + Those pilgrims rose, and, prime entoned and lauds, + Poured out their blessing on that woodland clan + Which, round them pressing, kissed them, robe and knee; + Then on they journeyed till at set of sun + Shone out the roofs of Macha, and that tower + Where Dairè dwelt, its lord. + + Saint Patrick sent + To Dairè embassage, vouchsafing prayer + As sire might pray of son; “Give thou yon hill + To Christ, that we may build His church thereon.” + And Dairè answered with a brow of storms + Bent forward darkly, and long, sneering lips, + “Your master is a mighty man, we know. + Garban, that lied to God, he slew through prayer, + And banned full many a lake, and many a plain, + For trespass there committed! Let it be! + A Chief of souls he is! No signs we work, + Rulers earth-born: yet somewhat are we here— + Depart! By others answer we will send.” + + So Dairè sent to Patrick men of might, + Fierce men, the battle’s nurslings. Thus they spake: + “High region for high heads! If build ye must, + Build on the plain: the hill is Dairè’s right: + Church site he grants you, and the field around.” + And Patrick, glancing from his Office Book, + Made answer, “Deo Gratias,” and no more. + + Upon that plain he built a little church + Ere long, a convent likewise, girt with mound + Banked from the meadow loam, and deftly set + With stone, and fence, and woody palisade, + That neither warring clans, far heard by day, + Might hurt his cloistered charge, nor wolves by night, + Howling in woods; and there he served the Lord. + + But Dairè scorned the Saint, and grudged his gift, + Though small; and half in spleen, and half in greed, + Sent down two stately coursers all night long + To graze the deep sweet pasture round the church: + Ill deed:—and so, for guerdon of that sin, + Dead lay the coursers twain at the break of dawn. + + Then fled the servants back, and told their lord, + Fearing for negligence rebuke and scath, + “Thy Christian slew the coursers!” and the king + Gave word to slay or bind him. But from God + A sickness fell on Dairè nigh to death + That day and night. When morning brake, the queen, + A woman leal with kind barbaric heart, + Her bosom from the sick man’s head withdrew + A moment while he slept; and, round her gazing, + Closed with both hands upon a liegeman’s arm, + And sped him to the Saint for pardon and peace. + Then Patrick, dipping in the inviolate fount + A chalice, blessed the water, with command + “Sprinkle the stately coursers and the king;” + And straightway as from death the king arose, + And rose from death the coursers. + + Dairè then, + His tall frame boastful with that life renewed, + Took with him men, and down the stone-paved hill + Rode from his tower, and through the woodlands green, + And bare with him an offering of those days, + A brazen cauldron vast. Embossed it shone + With sculptured shapes. On one side hunters rode: + Low stretched their steeds: the dogs pulled down the stag + Unseen, except the branching horns that rose + Like hands in protest. Feasters, on the other, + Raised high the cup pledging the safe return. + This offering Dairè brought, and, entering, spake: + “A gift for guerdon and for grace, O Priest!” + And Patrick, upward glancing from his book, + Made answer, “Deo Gratias!” and no more. + + King Dairè, homeward riding with knit brow + Muttered, “Churl’s welcome for a kingly boon!” + And, drinking late that night the stormy breath + Of others’ anger blent with his, commanded, + “Ride forth at morn and bring me back my gift! + Spurn it he shall not, though he prize it not.” + They heard him, and obeyed. At noon the king + Demanded thus, “What answer made the Saint?” + They said, “His eyes he raised not from his book, + But answered, ‘Deo Gratias!’ and no more.” + + Then Dairè stamped his foot, like war-horse stung + By gadfly: musing next, and mute he sat + A space, and lastly roared great laughter peals + Till roared in mockery back the raftered roof, + And clashed his hands together shouting thus: + “A gift, and ‘Deo Gratias!’—gift withdrawn, + And ‘Deo Gratias!’ Sooth, the word is good! + Madman is this, or man of God? We’ll know!” + So from his frowning fortress once again + Adown the resonant road o’er street and bridge + Rode Dairè, at his right the queen in fear, + With dumbly pleading countenance; close behind, + With tangled locks and loose-hung battle-axe + Ran the wild kerne; and loud the bull-horn blew. + The convent reached, King Dairè from his horse + Flung his great limbs, and at the doorway towered + In gazing stern: the queen beside him stood, + Her lustrous violet eyes all lost in tears: + One hand on Dairè’s garment lay like light + Wandering on dusky ripple; one, upraised, + Held in the high-necked horse that champed the bit, + His head near hers. Within, the man of God, + Sole-sitting, read his office book unmoved, + And ending fixed his keen eye on the king, + Not rising from his seat. + + Then fell from God + Insight on Dairè, and aloud he cried, + “A kingly man, of mind unmovable + Art thou; and as the rock beneath my tower + Shakes not in storm so shakes not heart of thine: + Such men are of the height and not the plain: + Therefore that hill to thee I grant unsought + Which whilome I refused. Possession take + This day, lest hostile demon warp my mood; + And build thereon thy church. The same shall stand + Strong mother-church of all thy great clan Christ!” + + Thus Dairè spake; and Patrick, at his word + Rising, gave thanks to God, and to the king + High blessing heard in heaven; and making sign + Went forth, attended by his priestly train, + Benignus first, his dearest, then the rest. + In circuit thrice they girt that hill, and sang + Anthem first heard when unto God was vowed + That House which David offered in his heart + His son in act, and hymn of holy Church + Hailing that city like a bride attired, + From heaven to earth descending. With them sang + An angel choir above them borne. The birds + Forbore their songs, listening that angel strain, + Ethereal music and by men unheard + Except the Elect. The king in reverence paced + Behind, his liegemen next, a mass confused + With saffron standard gay and spears upheld + Flashing through thickets green. These kept not line, + For Alp was still recounting battles old, + Aodh of wizards sang, and Ir of love; + While bald-pate Conan, sharpening from his eye + The sneering light, shot from his plastic mouth + Shrill taunt and biting gibe. The younger sort + Eyed the dense copse and launched full many a shaft + Through it at flying beast. From ledge to ledge + Clomb Angus, keen of sight, with hand o’er brow, + Forth gazing on some far blue ridge of war + With nostril wide outblown, and snorting cried, + “Would I were there!” + + Meantime, the man of God + Had reached the fair crown of that sacred hill, + A circle girt with woodland branching low, + And roofed with heaven. Beyond its tonsure fringe, + Birch trees and oaks, there pushed a thorn milk-white, + And close beside it slept in shade a fawn + Whiter. The startled dam had left its side, + And through the dark stems fled like flying gleam. + Minded they were, the kernes, to kill that fawn, + And all the priests stood silent; but the Saint + Put forth his hand, and o’er her signed the Cross, + And, stooping, on his shoulder placed her firm, + And bade the brethren mark with stones her lair + Dewless and dusk: then, singing as he went + “Like as the hart desires the water brooks,” + He walked, that hill descending. Light from God + O’ershone his face. Meantime the awakened fawn + Now rolled her dark eye on the silver head + Close by, now turning licked the wrinkled hand, + Unfearing. Soon, with little whimpering sob, + The doe drew near and paced at Patrick’s side. + At last they reached a little field low down + Beneath that hill: there Patrick laid the fawn. + + King Dairè questioned Patrick of that deed, + Incensed; and scornful asked, “Shall mitred man + Play thus the shepherd and the forester?” + And Patrick answered, “Aged men, O king, + Forget their reasons oft. Benignus seek, + If haply God has shown him for what cause + I wrought this thing.” Then Dairè turned him back + And faced Benignus; and with lifted hand, + Pure as a maid’s, and dimpled like a child’s, + Picturing his thoughts on air, the little monk + Thus glossed that deed. “Great mystery, king, is Love: + Poets its worthiness have sung in lays + Unread by ruder ones like me; and yet + Thus much the simplest and the rudest know, + Dear is the fawn to her that gave it birth, + And to the sceptred monarch dear the child + That mounts his knee. Nor here the marvel ends; + For, like yon star, the great Paternal Heart + Through all the unmeted, unimagined years, + While yet Creation uncreated hung, + A thought, a dawn-streak on the verge extreme + Of lonely Godhead’s inner Universe, + Panted and pants with splendour of its love, + The Eternal Sire rejoicing in the Son + And Both in Him Who still from Both proceeds, + Bond of their love. Moreover, king, that Son + Who, Virgin-born, raised from the ruinous gulf + Our world, and made it footstool to God’s throne, + The same is Love, and died for Love, and reigns: + Loveless, His Church were but a corse stone-cold; + Loveless, her creed were but a winter leaf + Network of barren thoughts, the cerement wan + Of Faith extinct. Therefore our Saint revered + The love and anguish of that mother doe, + And inly vowed that where her offspring couched + Christ’s chiefest church should stand, from age to age + Confession plain ’mid raging of the clans + That God is Love;—His worship void and vain + Disjoined from Love that, rising to the heights + Even to the depths descends.” + + Conversing thus, + Macha they reached. Ere long where lay the fawn + Stood God’s new altar; and, ere many years, + Far o’er the woodlands rose the church high-towered, + Preaching God’s peace to still a troubled world. + The Saint who built it found not there his grave + Though wished for; him God buried otherwhere, + Fulfilling thus the counsels of His Will: + But old, and grey, when many a winter’s frost + To spring had yielded, bent by wounds and woes + Upon that church’s altar looked once more + King Dairè; at its font was joined to Christ; + And, midway ’twixt that altar and that font, + Rejoined his beauteous mate a later day. + + + +THE ARRAIGNMENT OF SAINT PATRICK. + + +ARGUMENT. + + +Secknall, the poet, brings, in sport, three heavy charges against Saint +Patrick, who, supposing them to be serious, defends himself against them. +Lastly Secknall sings a hymn written in praise of a Saint. Saint Patrick +commends it, affirming that for once Fame has dispensed her honours +honestly. Upon this, Secknall recites the first stave, till then +craftily reserved, which offers the whole homage of that hymn to Patrick, +who, though the humblest of men, has thus arrogated to himself the +saintly Crown. There is laughter among the brethren. + + WHEN Patrick now was old and nigh to death + Undimmed was still his eye; his tread was strong; + And there was ever laughter in his heart, + And music in his laughter. In a wood + Nigh to Ardmacha dwelt he with his monks; + And there, like birds that cannot stay their songs + Love-touched in Spring, or grateful for their nests, + They to the woodsmen preached of Christ, their King, + To swineherds, and to hinds that tended sheep, + Yea, and to pilgrim guests from distant clans; + His shepherd-worshipped birth when breath of kine + Went o’er the Infant; all His wondrous works + Or words from mount, or field, or anchored boat, + And Christendom upreared for weal of men + And Angel-wonder. Daily preached the monks + And daily built their convent. Wildly sweet + The season, prime of unripe spring, when March + Distils from cup half gelid yet some drops + Of finer relish than the hand of May + Pours from her full-brimmed beaker. Frost, though gone, + Had left its glad vibration on the air; + Laughed the blue heavens as though they ne’er had frowned, + Through leafless oak-boughs; limes of kindlier grace + And swifter to believe Spring’s “tidings good” + Took the sweet lights upon a breast bud-swoll’n, + And crimson as the redbreast’s; while, as when + Clear rings a flute-note through sea-murmurs harsh, + At intervals ran out a streak of green + Across the dim-hued forest. + + From their wood + The strong arms of the monks had hewn them space + For all their convent needed; farmyard stored + With stacks that all the winter long had clutched + Their hoarded harvest sunshine; pasture green + Whitened with sheep; fair garden fenceless still + With household herbs new-sprouting: but, as oft + Some conquered race, forth sallying in its spleen + When serves the occasion, wins a province back, + Or flouts at least the foe, so here once more + Wild flowers, a clan unvanquished, raised their heads + ’Mid sprouting wheat; and where from craggy height + Pushed the grey ledge, the woodland host recoiled + As though in Parthian flight; while many a bird, + Barbaric from the inviolate forest launched + Wild warbled scorn on all that life reclaimed, + Mute garth-still orchard. Child of distant hills, + A proud stream, swollen by midnight rains, down leaped + From rock to rock. It spurned the precinct now + With airy dews silvering the bramble green + And redd’ning more the beech-stock. + + ’Twas the hour + Of rest, and every monk was glad at heart, + For each had wrought with might. With hands upheld, + Mochta, the priest, had thundered against sin, + Wrath-roused, as when some prince too late returned + Stares at his sea-side village all in flames, + The slave-thronged ship escaped. The bishop, Erc, + Had reconciled old feuds by Brehon Law + Where Brehon Law was lawful. Boys wild-eyed + Had from Benignus learned the church’s song, + Boys brightened now, yet tempered, by that age + Gracious to stripling as to maid, that brings + Valour to one and modesty to both + Where youth is loyal to the Virgin-born. + The giant meek, Mac Cairthen, on bent neck + Had carried beam on beam, while Criemther felled + The oaks, and from the anvil Laeban dashed + The sparks in showers. A little way removed, + Beneath a pine three vestals sat close-veiled: + A song these childless sang of Bethlehem’s Child, + Low-toned, and worked their Altar-cloth, a Lamb + All white on golden blazon; near it bled + The bird that with her own blood feeds her young: + Red drops affused her holy breast. These three + Were daughters of three kings. The best and fairest, + King Dairè’s daughter, Erenait by name, + Had loved Benignus in her Pagan years. + He knew it not: full sweet to her his voice + Chaunting in choir. One day through grief of love + The maiden lay as dead: Benignus shook + Dews from the font above her, and she woke + With heart emancipate that outsoared the lark + Lost in blue heavens. She loved the Spouse of Souls. + It was as though some child that, dreaming, wept + Its childish playthings lost, awaked by bells, + Bride-bells, had found herself a queen new wed + Unto her country’s lord. + + While monk with monk + Conversed, the son of Patrick’s sister sat, + Secknall by name, beside the window sole + And marked where Patrick from his hill of prayer + Approached, descending slowly. At the sight + He, maker blithe of songs, and wild as hawk + Albeit a Saint, whose wont it was at times + Or shy, or strange, or shunning flattery’s taint, + To attempt with mockery those whom most he loved, + Whispered a brother, “Speak to Patrick thus: + ‘When all men praised thee, Secknall made reply + “A blessed man were Patrick save for this, + Alms deeds he preaches not.”’” The brother went: + Ere long among them entered Patrick, wroth, + Or, likelier, feigning wrath:—“What man is he + Who saith I preach not alms deeds?” Secknall rose: + “I said it, Father, and the charge is true.” + Then Patrick answered, “Out of Charity + I preach not Charity. This people, won + To Christ, ere long will prove a race of Saints; + To give will be its passion, not to gain: + Its heart is generous; but its hand is slack + In all save war: herein there lurks a snare: + The priest will fatten, and the beggar feast: + But the lean land will yield nor chief nor prince + Hire of two horses yoked to chariot beam.” + Then Secknall spake, “O Father, dead it lies + Mine earlier charge against thee. Hear my next, + Since in our Order’s equal Brotherhood + Censure uncensured is the right of all. + You press to the earth your converts! gold you spurn; + Yet bind upon them heavier load than when + Conqueror his captive tasks. Have shepherds three + Bowed them to Christ? ‘Build up a church,’ you cry; + So one must draw the sand, and one the stone + And one the lime. Honouring the seven great Gifts, + You raise in one small valley churches seven. + Who serveth you fares hard!” The Saint replied, + “Second as first! I came not to this land + To crave scant service, nor with shallow plough + Cleave I this glebe. The priest that soweth much + For here the land is fruitful, much shall reap: + Who soweth little nought but weeds shall bind + And poppies of oblivion.” Secknall next: + “Yet man to man will whisper, and the face + Of all this people darken like a sea + When pipes the coming storm.” He answered, “Son, + I know this people better. Fierce they are + In anger; neither flies their thought direct; + For some, though true to Nature, lie to men, + And others, true to men, are false to God: + Yet as the prince’s is the poor man’s heart; + Burthen for God sustained no burden is + To him; and those who most have given to Christ + Largeliest His fulness share.” + + Secknall replied, + “Low lies my second charge; a third remains, + Which, as a shaft from seasoned bow, not green, + Shall pierce the marl. With convents still you sow + The land: in other countries sparse and small + They swell to cities here. A hundred monks + On one late barren mountain dig and pray: + A hundred nuns gladden one woodland lawn, + Or sing in one small island. Well—’tis well! + Yet, balance lost and measure, nought is well. + The Angelic Life more common will become + Than life of mortal men.” The Saint replied, + “No shaft from homicidal yew-tree bow + Is thine, but winged of thistle-down! Now hear! + Measure is good; but measure’s law with scale + Changeth; nor doth the part reflect the whole. + Each nation hath its gift, and each to all + Not equal ministers. If all were eye, + Where then were ear? If all were ear or hand, + Where then were eye? The nation is the part; + The Church the whole”—But Criemther where he stood, + Old warrior, shouted like a chief war-waked, + “This land is Eire! No nation lives like her! + A part! Who portions Eire?” The Saint, with smile + Resumed: “The whole that from the part receives, + Repaying still that part, till man’s whole race + Grow to the fulness of Mankind redeemed. + What gift hath God in eminence given to Eire? + Singly, her race is feeble; strong when knit: + Nought knits them truly save a heavenly aim. + I knit them as an army unto God, + Give them God’s War! Yon star is militant! + Its splendour ’gainst the dark must fight or die: + So wars that Faith I preach against the world; + And nations fitted least for this world’s gain + Can speed Faith’s triumph best. Three hundred years, + Well used, should make of Eire a northern Rome. + Criemther! her destiny is this, or nought; + Secknall! the highest only can she reach; + Alone the Apostle’s crown is hers: for this, + A Rule I give her, strong, yet strong in Love; + Monastic households build I far and wide; + Monastic clans I plant among her clans, + With abbots for their chiefs. The same shall live, + Long as God’s love o’errules them.” + + Secknall then + Knelt, reverent; yet his eye had in it mirth, + And round the full bloom of the red rich mouth, + No whit ascetic, ran a dim half smile. + “Father, my charges three have futile fallen, + And thrice, like some great warrior of the bards, + Your conquering wheels above me you have driven. + Brought low, I make confession. Once, in woods + Wandering, we heard a sound, now loud, now low, + As he that treads the sand-hills hears the sea + High murmuring while he climbs the seaward slope, + Low, as he drops to landward. ’Twas a throng + Awed, yet tumultuous, wild-eyed, wondering, fierce, + That, standing round a harper, stave on stave + Acclaimed as each had ending. ‘War, still war!’ + Thou saidst; ‘the bards but sing of War and Death! + Ah! if they sang that Death which conquered Death, + Then, like a tide, this people, music-drawn, + Would mount the shores of Christ! Bards love not us, + Prescient that power, that power wielded elsewhere + By priest, but here by them, shall pass to us: + Yet we love them for good one day their gift.’ + Then didst thou turn on me an eye of might + Such as on Malach, when thou had’st him raise + By miracle of prayer that babe boar-slain, + And said’st, ‘Go, fell thy pine, and frame thy harp, + And in the hearing of this people sing + Some Saint, the friend of Christ.’ Too long the attempt + Shame-faced, I shunned; at last, like him of old, + That better brother who refused, yet went, + I made my hymn. ’Tis called ‘A Child of Life.’” + Then Patrick, “Welcome is the praise of Saints: + Sing thou thy hymn.” + + From kneeling Secknall rose + And stood, and singing, raised his hand as when + Her cymbal by the Red Sea Miriam raised + While silent stood God’s hosts, and silent lay + Those host-entombing waters. Shook, like hers, + His slight form wavering ’mid the gusts of song. + He sang the Saint of God, create from nought + To work God’s Will. As others gaze on earth, + Her vales, her plains, her green meads ocean-girt, + So gazed the Saint for ever upon God + Who girds all worlds—saw intermediate nought— + And on Him watched the sunshine and the storm, + And learned His Countenance, and from It alone, + Drew in upon his heart its day and night. + That contemplation was for him no dream: + It hurled him on his mission. As a sword + He lodged his soul within the Hand Divine + And wrought, keen-edged, God’s counsel. Next to God + Next, and how near, he loved the souls of men: + Yea, men to him were Souls; the unspiritual herd + He saw as magic-bound, or chained to beast, + And groaned to free them. For their sakes, unfearing, + He faced the ravening waves, and iron rocks, + Hunger, and poniard’s edge, and poisoned cup, + And faced the face of kings, and faced the host + Of demons raging for their realm o’erthrown. + This was the Man of Love. Self-love cast out, + The love made spiritual of a thousand hearts + Met in his single heart, and kindled there + A sun-like image of Love Divine. Within + That Spirit-shadowed heart was Christ conceived + Hourly through faith, hourly through Love was born; + Sole secret this of fruitfulness to Christ. + Who heard him heard with his a lordlier Voice, + Strong as that Voice which said, “Let there be light,” + And light o’erflowed their beings. He from each + His secret won; to each God’s secret told: + He touched them, and they lived. In each, the flesh + Subdued to soul, the affections, vassals proud + By conscience ruled, and conscience lit by Christ, + The whole man stood, planet full-orbed of powers + In equipoise, Image restored of God. + A nation of such men his portion was; + That nation’s Patriarch he. No wrangler loud; + No sophist; lesser victories knew he none: + No triumph his of sect, or camp, or court; + The Saint his great soul flung upon the world, + And took the people with him like a wind + Missioned from God that with it wafts in spring + Some wingèd race, a multitudinous night, + Into new sun-bright climes. + + As Secknall sang, + Nearer the Brethren drew. On Patrick’s right + Benignus stood; old Mochta on his left, + Slow-eyed, with solemn smile and sweet; next Erc, + Whose ever-listening countenance that hour + Beyond its wont was listening; Criemther near + The workman Saint, his many-wounded hands + Together clasped: forward each mighty arm + On shoulders propped of Essa and of Bite, + Leaned the meek giant Cairthen: twelve in all + Clustering they stood and in them was one soul. + When Secknall ceased, in silence still they hung + Each upon each, glad-hearted since the meed + Of all their toils shone out before them plain, + Gold gates of heaven—a nation entering in. + A light was on their faces, and without + Spread a great light, for sunset now had fallen + A Pentecostal fire upon the woods, + Or else a rain of angels streamed o’er earth. + In marvel gazed the twelve: yea, clans far off + Stared from their hills, deeming the site aflame. + That glory passed away, discourse arose + On Secknall’s hymn. Its radiance from his face + Had, like the sunset’s, vanished as he spake. + “Father, what sayst thou?” Patrick made reply, + “My son, the hymn is good; for Truth is gold; + And Fame, obsequious often to base heads, + For once is loyal, and its crown hath laid + Where honour’s debt was due.” Then Secknall raised + In triumph both his hands, and chaunted loud + That hymn’s first stave, earlier through craft withheld, + Stave that to Patrick’s name, and his alone, + Offered that hymn’s whole incense! Ceasing, he stood + Low-bowed, with hands upon his bosom crossed. + Great laughter from the brethren came, their Chief + Thus trapped, though late—he meekest man of men— + To claim the saintly crown. First young, then old, + Later the old, and sore against their will, + That laughter raised. Last from the giant chest + Of Cairthen forth it rolled its solemn bass, + Like sea-sound swallowing lighter sounds hard by. + But Patrick laughed not: o’er his face there passed + Shade lost in light; and thus he spake, “O friends + That which I have to do I know in part: + God grant I work my work. That which I am + He knows Who made me. Saints He hath, good store: + Their names are written in His Book of Life; + Kneel down, my sons, and pray that if thus long + I seem to stand, I fall not at the end.” + + Then in a circle kneeling prayed the twelve. + But when they rose, Secknall with serious brow + Advanced, and knelt, and kissed Saint Patrick’s foot, + And said, “O Father, at thy hest that hymn + I made, long labouring, and thy crown it stands: + Thou, therefore, grant me gifts, for strong thy prayer.” + + And Patrick said, “The house wherein thy hymn + Is sung at morn or eve shall lack not bread: + And if men sing it in a house new-built, + Where none hath dwelt, nor bridegroom yet, nor bride, + Nor hath the cry of babe been heard therein, + Upon that house the watching of the Saints + Of Eire, and Patrick’s watching, shall be fixed + Even as the stars.” And Secknall said, “What more?” + + Then Patrick added, “They that night and morn + Down-lying and up-rising, sing that hymn, + They too that softly whisper it, nigh death, + If pure of heart, and liegeful unto Christ, + Shall see God’s face; and, since the hymn is long, + Its grace shall rest for children and the poor + Full measure on the last three lines; and thou + Of this dear company shalt die the first, + And first of Eire’s Apostles.” Then his cheek + Secknall laid down once more on Patrick’s foot, + And answered, “Deo Gratias.” + + Thus in mirth, + And solemn talk, and prayer, that brother band + In the golden age of Faith with great free heart + Gave thanks to God that blissful eventide, + A thousand and four hundred years and more + Gone by. But now clear rang the compline bell, + And two by two they wended towards their church + Across a space for cloister set apart, + Yet still with wood-flowers sweet, and scent beside + Of sod that evening turned. The night came on; + A dim ethereal twilight o’er the hills + Deepened to dewy gloom. Against the sky + Stood ridge and rock unmarked amid the day: + A few stars o’er them shone. As bower on bower + Let go the waning light, so bird on bird + Let go its song. Two songsters still remained, + Each feebler than a fountain soon to cease, + And claimed somewhile across the dusking dell + Rivals unseen in sleepy argument, + Each, the last word:—a pause; and then, once more, + An unexpected note:—a longer pause; + And then, past hope, one other note, the last. + A moment more the brethren stood in prayer: + The rising moon upon the church-roof new + Glimmered; and o’er it sang an angel choir, + “Venite Sancti.” Entering, soon were said + The psalm, “He giveth sleep,” and hymn, “Lætare;” + And in his solitary cell each monk + Lay down, rejoicing in the love of God. + + The happy years went by. When Patrick now + And all his company were housed with God + That hymn, at morning sung, and noon, and eve, + Even as it lulled the waves of warring clans + So lulled with music lives of toil-worn men + And charmed their ebbing breath. One time it chanced + When in his convent Kevin with his monks + Had sung it thrice, the board prepared, a guest, + Foot-sore and hungered, murmured, “Wherefore thrice?” + And Kevin answered, “Speak not thus, my son, + For while we sang it, visible to all, + Saint Patrick was among us. At his right + Benignus stood, and, all around, the Twelve, + God’s light upon their brows; while Secknall knelt + Demanding meed of song. Moreover, son, + This self-same day and hour, twelve months gone by, + Patrick, our Patriarch, died; and happy Feast + Is that he holds, by two short days alone + Severed from his of Hebrew Patriarchs last, + And Chief. The Holy House at Nazareth + He ruled benign, God’s Warder with white hairs; + And still his feast, that silver star of March, + When snows afflict the hill and frost the moor, + With temperate beam gladdens the vernal Church— + All praise to God who draws that Twain so near.” + + + +THE STRIVING OF SAINT PATRICK ON MOUNT CRUACHAN. + + +ARGUMENT. + + +Saint Patrick, seeing that now Erin believes, desires that the whole land +should stand fast in belief till Christ returns to judge the world. For +this end he resolves to offer prayer on Mount Cruachan; but Victor, the +Angel who has attended him in all his labours, restrains him from that +prayer as being too great. Notwithstanding, the Saint prays three times +on the mountain, and three times all the demons of Erin contend against +him, and twice Victor, the Angel, rebukes his prayers. In the end Saint +Patrick scatters the demons with ignominy, and God’s Angel bids him know +that his prayer hath conquered through constancy. + + FROM realm to realm had Patrick trod the Isle; + And evermore God’s work beneath his hand, + Since God had blessed that hand, ran out full-sphered, + And brighter than a new-created star. + The Island race, in feud of clan with clan + Barbaric, gracious else and high of heart, + Nor worshippers of self, nor dulled through sense, + Beholding, not alone his wondrous works; + But, wondrous more, the sweetness of his strength + And how he neither shrank from flood nor fire, + And how he couched him on the wintry rocks, + And how he sang great hymns to One who heard, + And how he cared for poor men and the sick, + And for the souls invisible of men, + To him made way—not simple hinds alone, + But chiefly wisest heads, for wisdom then + Prime wisdom saw in Faith; and, mixt with these, + Chieftains and sceptred kings. Nigh Tara, first, + Scorning the king’s command, had Patrick lit + His Paschal fire, and heavenward as it soared, + The royal fire and all the Beltaine fires + Shamed by its beam had withered round the Isle + Like fires on little hearths whereon the sun + Looks in his greatness. Later, to that plain + Central ’mid Eire, “of Adoration” named, + Down-trampled for two thousand years and more + By erring feet of men, the Saint had sped + In Apostolic might, and kenned far off + Ill-pleased, the nation’s idol lifting high + His head, and those twelve vassal gods around + All mailed in gold and shining as the sun, + A pomp impure. Ill-pleased the Saint had seen them, + And raised the Staff of Jesus with a ban: + Then he, that demon named of men Crom-dubh, + With all his vassal gods, into the earth + That knew her Maker, to their necks had sunk + While round the island rang three times the cry + Of fiends tormented. + + Not for this as yet + Had Patrick perfected his strength: as yet + The depths he had not trodden; nor had God + Drawn forth His total forces in the man + Hidden long since and sealed. For this cause he, + Who still his own heart in triumphant hour + Suspected most, remembering Milchoe’s fate, + With fear lest aught of human mar God’s work, + And likewise from his handling of the Gael + Knowing not less their weakness than their strength, + Paused on his conquering way, and lonely sat + In cloud of thought. The great Lent Fast had come: + Its first three days went by; the fourth, he rose, + And meeting his disciples that drew nigh + Vouchsafed this greeting only: “Bide ye here + Till I return,” and straightway set his face + Alone to that great hill “of eagles” named + Huge Cruachan, that o’er the western deep + Hung through sea-mist, with shadowing crag on crag, + High-ridged, and dateless forest long since dead. + + That forest reached, the angel of the Lord + Beside him, as he entered, stood and spake: + “The gifts thy soul demands, demand them not; + For they are mighty and immeasurable, + And over great for granting.” And the Saint: + “This mountain Cruachan I will not leave + Alive till all be granted, to the last.” + + Then knelt he on the shrouded mountain’s base, + And was in prayer; and, wrestling with the Lord, + Demanded wondrous things immeasurable, + Not easy to be granted, for the land; + Nor brooked repulse; and when repulse there came, + Repulse that quells the weak and crowns the strong, + Forth from its gloom like lightning on him flashed + Intelligential gleam and insight winged + That plainlier showed him all his people’s heart, + And all the wound thereof: and as in depth + Knowledge descended, so in height his prayer + Rose, and far spread; nor roused alone those Powers + Regioned with God; for as the strength of fire + When flames some palace pile, or city vast, + Wakens a tempest round it dragging in + Wild blast, and from the aggression mightier grows, + So wakened Patrick’s prayer the demon race, + And drew their legions in upon his soul + From near and far. First came the Accursed encamped + On Connact’s cloudy hills and watery moors; + Old Umbhall’s Heads, Iorras, and Arran Isle, + And where Tyrawley clasps that sea-girt wood + Fochlut, whence earliest rang the Children’s Cry, + To demons trump of doom. In stormy rack + They came, and hung above the invested Mount + Expectant. But, their mutterings heeding not, + When Patrick still in puissance rose of prayer, + O’er all their armies round the realm dispersed + There ran prescience of fate; and, north and south, + From all the mountain-girdled coasts—for still + Best site attracts worst Spirit—on they came, + From Aileach’s shore and Uladh’s hoary cliffs, + Which held the aeries of that eagle race + More late in Alba throned, “Lords of the Isles”— + High chiefs whose bards, in strong transmitted line, + Filled with the name of Fionn, and thine, Oiseen, + The blue glens of that never-vanquished land— + From those purpureal mountains that o’ergaze + Rock-bowered Loch Lene broidered with sanguine bead, + They came, and many a ridge o’er sea-lake stretched + That, autumn-robed in purple and in gold, + Pontific vestment, guard the memories still + Of monks who reared thereon their mystic cells, + Finian and Kieran, Fiacre, and Enda’s self + Of hermits sire, and that sea-facing Saint + Brendan, who, in his wicker boat of skins + Before that Genoese a thousand years + Found a new world; and many more that now + Under wind-wasted Cross of Clonmacnoise + Await the day of Christ. + + So rushed they on + From all sides, and, close met, in circling storm + Besieged the enclouded steep of Cruachan, + That scarce the difference knew ’twixt night and day + More than the sunless pole. Him sought they, him + Whom infinitely near they might approach, + Not touch, while firm his faith—their Foe that dragged, + Sole-kneeling on that wood-girt mountain’s base, + With both hands forth their realm’s foundation stone. + Thus ruin filled the mountain: day by day + The forest torment deepened; louder roared + The great aisles of the devastated woods; + Black cave replied to cave; and oaks, whole ranks, + Colossal growth of immemorial years, + Sown ere Milesius landed, or that race + He vanquished, or that earliest Scythian tribe, + Fell in long line, like deep-mined castle wall, + At either side God’s warrior. Slowly died + At last, far echoed in remote ravines, + The thunder: then crept forth a little voice + That shrilly whispered to him thus in scorn: + “Two thousand years yon race hath walked in blood + Neck-deep; and shall it serve thy Lord of Peace?” + That whisper ceased. Again from all sides burst + Tenfold the storm; and as it waxed, the Saint + Waxed in strong heart; and, kneeling with stretched hands, + Made for himself a panoply of prayer, + And wound it round his bosom twice and thrice, + And made a sword of comminating psalm, + And smote at them that mocked him. Day by day, + Till now the second Sunday’s vesper bell + Gladdened the little churches round the isle, + That conflict raged: then, maddening in their ire, + Sudden the Princedoms of the Dark, that rode + This way and that way through the tempest, brake + Their sceptres, and with one great cry it fell: + At once o’er all was silence: sunset lit + The world, that shone as though with face upturned + It gazed on heavens by angel faces thronged + And answered light with light. A single bird + Carolled; and from the forest skirt down fell, + Gem-like, the last drops of the exhausted storm. + + Then bowed the Saint his forehead to the ground + Thanking his God; and there in sacred trance, + Which was not sleep, abode not hours alone + But silent nights and days; and, ’mid that trance, + God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments, + Immortal food. Awaking, Patrick felt + Yearnings for nearer commune with his God, + Though great its cost; and gat him on his feet, + And, mile by mile, ascended through the woods + Till stunted were its growths; and still he clomb + Printing with sandalled foot the dewy steep: + But when above the mountain rose the moon + Brightening each mist, while sank the prone morass + In double night, he came upon a stone + Tomb-shaped, that flecked that steep: a little stream + Dropped by it from the summits to the woods: + Thereon he knelt; and was once more in prayer. + + Nor prayed unnoticed by that race abhorred. + No sooner had his knees the mountain touched + Than through their realm vibration went; and straight + His prayer detecting back they trooped in clouds + And o’er him closed, blotting with bat-like wing + And inky pall, the moon. Then thunder pealed + Once more, nor ceased from pealing. Over all + Night ruled, except when blue and forkèd flash + Revealed the on-circling waterspout or plunge + Of rain beneath the blown cloud’s ravelled hem, + Or, huge on high, that lion-coloured steep + Which, like a lion, roared into the night + Answering the roaring from sea-caves far down. + Dire was the strife. That hour the Mountain old, + An anarch throned ’mid ruins flung himself + In madness forth on all his winds and floods, + An omnipresent wrath! For God reserved, + Too long the prey of demons he had been; + Possession foul and fell. Now nigh expelled + Those demons rent their victim freed. Aloft, + They burst the rocky barrier of the tarn + That downward dashed its countless cataracts, + Drowning far vales. On either side the Saint + A torrent rushed—mightiest of all these twain— + Peeling the softer substance from the hills + Their flesh, till glared, deep-trenched, the mountain’s bones; + And as those torrents widened, rocks down rolled + Showering upon that unsubverted head + Sharp spray ice-cold. Before him closed the flood, + And closed behind, till all was raging flood, + All but that tomb-like stone whereon he knelt. + + Unshaken there he knelt with hands outstretched, + God’s Athlete! For a mighty prize he strove, + Nor slacked, nor any whit his forehead bowed: + Fixed was his eye and keen; the whole white face + Keen as that eye itself, though—shapeless yet— + The infernal horde to ear not eye addressed + Their battle. Back he drave them, rank on rank, + Routed, with psalm, and malison, and ban, + As from a sling flung forth. Revolt’s blind spawn + He named them; one time Spirits, now linked with brute, + Yea, bestial more and baser: and as a ship + Mounts with the mounting of the wave, so he + O’er all the insurgent tempest of their wrath + Rising rode on triumphant. Days went by, + Then came a lull; and lo! a whisper shrill, + Once heard before, again its poison cold + Distilled: “Albeit to Christ this land should bow, + Some conqueror’s foot one day would quell her Faith.” + It ceased. Tenfold once more the storm burst forth: + Once more the ecstatic passion of his prayer + Met it, and, breasting, overbore, until + Sudden the Princedoms of the dark that rode + This way and that way through the whirlwind, dashed + Their vanquished crowns of darkness to the ground + With one long cry. Then silence came; and lo! + The white dawn of the fourth fair Day of God + O’erflowed the world. Slowly the Saint upraised + His wearied eyes. Upon the mountain lawns + Lay happy lights; and birds sang; and a stream + That any five-years’ child might overleap, + Beside him lapsed crystalline between banks + With violets all empurpled, and smooth marge + Green as that spray which earliest sucks the spring. + + Then Patrick raised to God his orison + On that fair mount, and planted in the grass + His crozier staff, and slept; and in his sleep + God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments, + Manna of might divine. Three days he slept; + The fourth he woke. Upon his heart there rushed + Yearning for closer converse with his God + Though great its cost; and on his feet he gat, + And high, and higher yet, that mountain scaled, + And reached at noon the summit. Far below + Basking the island lay, through rainbow shower + Gleaming in part, with shadowy moor, and ridge + Blue in the distance looming. Westward stretched + A galaxy of isles, and, these beyond, + Infinite sea with sacred light ablaze, + And high o’erhead there hung a cloudless heaven. + + Upon that summit kneeling, face to sea + The Saint, with hands held forth and thanks returned, + Claimed as his stately heritage that realm + From north to south: but instant as his lip + Printed with earliest pulse of Christian prayer + That clear aërial clime Pagan till then; + The Host Accursed, sagacious of his act, + Rushed back from all the isle and round him met + With anger seven times heated, since their hour, + And this they knew, was come. Nor thunder din + And challenge through the ear alone, sufficed + That hour their rage malign that, craving sore + Material bulk to rend his bulk—their foe’s— + Through fleshly strength of that their murder-lust + Flamed forth in fleshly form phantoms night-black + Though bodiless yet to bodied mass as nigh + As Spirits can reach. More thick than vultures winged + To fields with carnage piled, the Accursèd thronged + Making thick night which neither earth nor sky + Could pierce, from sense expunged. In phalanx now, + Anon in breaking legion, or in globe, + With clang of iron pinion on they rushed + And spectral dart high-held. Nor quailed the Saint, + Contending for his people on that Mount, + Nor spared God’s foes; for as old minster towers + Besieged by midnight storm send forth reply + In storm outrolled of bells, so sent he forth + Defiance from fierce lip, vindictive chaunt, + And blight and ban, and maledictive rite + Potent on face of Spirits impure to raise + These plague-spots three, Defeat, Madness, Despair; + Nor stinted flail of taunt—“When first my bark + Threatened your coasts, as now upon the hills + Hung ye in cloud; as now, I raised this Cross; + Ye fled before it and again shall fly!” + So hurled he back their squadrons. Day by day + The hurricanes of war shook earth and heaven: + Till now, on Holy Saturday, that hour + Returned which maketh glad the Church of God + When over Christendom in widowed fanes + Two days by penance stripped, and dumb as though + Some Antichrist had trodd’n them down, once more + Swells forth amid the new-lit paschal lights + The “Gloria in Excelsis:” sudden then + That mighty conflict ceased, save one low voice + Twice heard before, now edged with bitterer scoff, + “That race thou lov’st, though fierce in wrath, is soft: + Plenty and peace will melt their Faith one day:” + Then with that whisper dying, died the night: + Then forth from darkness issued earth and sky: + Then fled the phantoms far o’er ocean’s wave, + Thence to return not till the day of doom. + + But he, their conqueror wept, upon that height + Standing; nor of his victory had he joy, + Nor of that jubilant isle restored to light, + Nor of that heaven relit; so worked that scoff + Winged from the abyss; and ever thus the man + With darkness communed and that poison cold: + “If Faith indeed should flood the land with peace, + And peace with gold, and gold eat out her heart + Once true, till Faith one day through Faith’s reward + Or die, or live diseased, the shame of Faith, + Then blacker were this land and more accursed + Than lands that knew no Christ.” And musing thus + The whole heart of the man was turned to tears, + A fount of bale and chalice brimmed with death— + For oft a thought chance-born more racks than truth + Proven and sure—and, weeping, still he wept + Till drenched was all his sad monastic cowl + As sea-weed on the dripping shelf storm-cast + Latest, and tremulous still. + + As thus he wept + Sudden beside him on that summit broad, + Ran out a golden beam like sunset path + Gilding the sea: and, turning, by his side + Victor, God’s angel, stood with lustrous brow + Fresh from that Face no man can see and live. + He, putting forth his hand, with living coal + Snatched from God’s altar, made that dripping cowl + Dry as an Autumn sheaf. The angel spake: + “Rejoice, for they are fled that hate thy land, + And those are nigh that love it.” Then the Saint + Upraised his head; and lo! in snowy sheen + Cresting high rock, and ridge, and airy peak, + Innumerable the Sons of God all round + Vested the invisible mountain with white light, + As when the foam-white birds of ocean throng + Sea-rock so close that none that rock may see. + In trance the Living Creatures stood, with wings + That pointing crossed upon their breasts; nor seemed + As new arrived but native to that site + Though veiled till now from mortal vision. Song + They sang to soothe the vexed heart of the Saint— + Love-song of Heaven: and slowly as it died + Their splendours waned; and through that vanishing light + Earth, sea, and heaven returned. + + To Patrick then, + Thus Victor spake: “Depart from Cruachan, + Since God hath given thee wondrous gifts, immense, + And through thy prayer routed that rebel host.” + And Patrick, “Till the last of all my prayers + Be granted, I depart not though I die:— + One said, ‘Too fierce that race to bend to faith.’” + Then spake God’s angel, mild of voice, and kind: + “Not all are fierce that fiercest seem, for oft + Fierceness is blindfold love, or love ajar. + Souls thou wouldst have: for every hair late wet + In this thy tearful cowl and habit drenched + God gives thee myriads seven of Souls redeemed + From sin and doom; and Souls, beside, as many + As o’er yon sea in legioned flight might hang + Far as thine eye can range. But get thee down + From Cruachan, for mighty is thy prayer.” + And Patrick made reply: “Not great thy boon! + Watch have I kept, and wearied are mine eyes + And dim; nor see they far o’er yonder deep.” + And Victor: “Have thou Souls from coast to coast + In cloud full-stretched; but, get thee down: this Mount + God’s Altar is, and puissance adds to prayer.” + And Patrick: “On this Mountain wept have I; + And therefore giftless will I not depart: + One said, ‘Although that People should believe + Yet conqueror’s heel one day would quell their Faith.’” + To whom the angel, mild of voice, and kind: + “Conquerors are they that subjugate the soul: + This also God concedes thee; conquering foe + Trampling this land, shall tread not out her Faith + Nor sap by fraud, so long as thou in heaven + Look’st on God’s Face; nay, by that Faith subdued, + That foe shall serve and live. But get thee down + And worship in the vale.” Then Patrick said, + “Live they that list! Full sorely wept have I, + Nor will I hence depart unsatisfied: + One said; ‘Grown soft, that race their Faith will shame;’ + Say therefore what the Lord thy God will grant, + Nor stint His hand; since never scanter grace + Fell yet on head of nation-taming man + Than thou to me hast portioned till this hour.” + + Then answer made the angel, soft of voice: + “Not all men stumble when a Nation falls; + There are that stand upright. God gives thee this: + They that are faithful to thy Faith, that walk + Thy way, and keep thy covenant with God, + And daily sing thy hymn, when comes the Judge + With Sign blood-red facing Jehosaphat, + And fear lays prone the many-mountained world, + The same shall ’scape the doom.” And Patrick said, + “That hymn is long, and hard for simple folk, + And hard for children.” And the angel thus: + “At least from ‘Christum Illum’ let them sing, + And keep thy Faith: when comes the Judge, the pains + Shall take not hold of such. Is that enough?” + And Patrick answered, “That is not enough.” + Then Victor: “Likewise this thy God accords: + The Dreadful Coming and the Day of Doom + Thy land shall see not; for before that day + Seven years, a great wave arched from out the deep, + Ablution pure, shall sweep the isle and take + Her children to its peace. Is that enough?” + And Patrick answered, “That is not enough.” + + Then spake once more that courteous angel kind: + “What boon demand’st then?” And the Saint, “No less + Than this. Though every nation, ere that day + Recreant from creed and Christ, old troth forsworn, + Should flee the sacred scandal of the Cross + Through pride, as once the Apostles fled through fear, + This Nation of my love, a priestly house, + Beside that Cross shall stand, fate-firm, like him + That stood beside Christ’s Mother.” Straightway, as one + Who ends debate, the angel answered stern: + “That boon thou claimest is too great to grant: + Depart thou from this mountain, Cruachan, + In peace; and find that Nation which thou lov’st, + That like thy body is, and thou her head, + For foes are round her set in valley and plain, + And instant is the battle.” Then the Saint: + “The battle for my People is not there, + With them, low down, but here upon this height + From them apart, with God. This Mount of God + Dowerless and bare I quit not till I die; + And dying, I will leave a Man Elect + To keep its keys, and pray my prayer, and name + Dying in turn, his heir, successive line, + Even till the Day of Doom.” + + Then heavenward sped + Victor, God’s angel, and the Man of God + Turned to his offering; and all day he stood + Offering in heart that Offering Undefiled + Which Abel offered, and Melchisedek, + And Abraham, Patriarch of the faithful race, + In type, and which in fulness of the times + The Victim-Priest offered on Calvary, + And, bloodless, offers still in Heaven and Earth, + Whose impetration makes the whole Church one. + Thus offering stood the man till eve, and still + Offered; and as he offered, far in front + Along the aërial summit once again + Ran out that beam like fiery pillar prone + Or sea-path sunset-paved; and by his side + That angel stood. Then Patrick, turning not + His eyes in prayer upon the West close held + Demanded, “From the Maker of all worlds + What answer bring’st thou?” Victor made reply: + “Down knelt in Heaven the Angelic Orders Nine, + And all the Prophets and the Apostles knelt, + And all the Creatures of the hand of God + Visible, and invisible, down knelt, + While thou thy mighty Mass, though altarless, + Offeredst in spirit, and thine Offering joined; + And all God’s Saints on earth, or roused from sleep + Or on the wayside pausing, knelt, the cause + Not knowing; likewise yearned the Souls to God + In that fire-clime benign that clears from sin; + And lo! the Lord thy God hath heard thy prayer, + Since fortitude in prayer—and this thou know’st,”— + Smiling the Bright One spake, “is that which lays + Man’s hand upon God’s sceptre. That thou sought’st + Shall lack not consummation. Many a race + Shrivelling in sunshine of its prosperous years, + Shall cease from faith, and, shamed though shameless, sink + Back to its native clay; but over thine + God shall extend the shadow of His Hand, + And through the night of centuries teach to her + In woe that song which, when the nations wake, + Shall sound their glad deliverance: nor alone + This nation, from the blind dividual dust + Of instincts brute, thoughts driftless, warring wills + By thee evoked and shapen by thy hands + To God’s fair image which confers alone + Manhood on nations, shall to God stand true; + But nations far in undiscovered seas, + Her stately progeny, while ages fleet + Shall wear the kingly ermine of her Faith, + Fleece uncorrupted of the Immaculate Lamb, + For ever: lands remote shall raise to God + _Her_ fanes; and eagle-nurturing isles hold fast + _Her_ hermit cells: thy nation shall not walk + Accordant with the Gentiles of this world, + But as a race elect sustain the Crown + Or bear the Cross: and when the end is come, + When in God’s Mount the Twelve great Thrones are set, + And round it roll the Rivers Four of fire, + And in their circuit meet the Peoples Three + Of Heaven, and Earth, and Hell, fulfilled that day + Shall be the Saviour’s word, what time He stretched + Thy crozier-staff forth from His glory-cloud + And sware to thee, ‘When they that with Me walked + Sit with Me on their everlasting thrones + Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine Israel, + Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness.’ + + Thou therefore kneel, and bless thy Land of Eire.” + + Then Patrick knelt, and blessed the land, and said, + “Praise be to God who hears the sinner’s prayer.” + + + +EPILOGUE. + + +THE CONFESSION OF SAINT PATRICK. + +ARGUMENT. + + +Before his death, Saint Patrick makes confession to his brethren +concerning his life; of his love for that land which had been his House +of Bondage; of his ceaseless prayer in youth: of his sojourn at Tours, +where St. Martin had made abode, at Auxerres with St. Germanus, and at +Lerins with the Contemplatives: of that mystic mountain where the +Redeemer Himself lodged the Crozier Staff in his hand; of Pope Celestine +who gave him his Mission; of his Visions; of his Labours. His last +charge to the sons of Erin is that they should walk in Truth; that they +should put from them the spirit of Revenge; and that they should hold +fast to the Faith of Christ. + + AT Saul then, by the inland-spreading sea, + There where began my labour, comes the end: + I, blind and witless, willed it otherwise: + God willed it thus. When prescience came of death + I said, “My Resurrection place I choose”— + O fool, for ne’er since boyhood choice was mine + Save choice to subject will of mine to God— + “At great Ardmacha.” Thitherward I turned; + But in my pathway, with forbidding hand, + Victor, God’s angel stood. “Not so,” he said, + “For in Ardmacha stands thy princedom fixed, + Age after age, thy teaching, and thy law, + But not thy grave. Return thou to that shore + Thy place of small beginnings, and thereon + Lessen in body and mind, and grow in spirit: + Then sing to God thy little hymn and die.” + + Yea, Lord, my mouth would praise Thee ere I die, + The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit + Who knittest in His Church the just to Christ: + Help me, my sons—mine orphans soon to be— + Help me to praise Him; ye that round me sit + On those grey rocks; ye that have faithful been, + Honouring, despite dishonour of my sins, + His servant: I would praise Him yet once more, + Though mine the stammerer’s voice, or as a child’s; + For it is written, “Stammerers shall speak plain + Sounding Thy Gospel.” “They whom Christ hath sent + Are Christ’s Epistle, borne to ends of earth, + Writ by His Spirit, and plain to souls elect:” + Lord, am not I of Thine Apostolate? + + Yea, by abjection Thine, by suffering Thine! + Till I was humbled I was as a stone + In deep mire sunk. Then, stretched from heaven, Thy hand + Slid under me in might, and lifted me, + And fixed me in Thy Temple where Thou wouldst. + Wonder, ye great ones, wonder, ye the wise! + On me, the last and least, this charge was laid + This crown, that I in humbleness and truth + Should walk this nation’s Servant till I die. + + Therefore, a youth of sixteen years, or less, + With others of my land by pirates seized + I stood on Erin’s shore. Our bonds were just; + Our God we had forsaken, and His Law, + And mocked His priests. Tending a stern man’s swine + I trod those Dalaraida hills that face + Eastward to Alba. Six long years went by; + But—sent from God—Memory, and Faith, and Fear + Moved on my spirit as winds upon the sea, + And the Spirit of Prayer came down. Full many a day + Climbing the mountain tops, one hundred times + I flung upon the storm my cry to God. + Nor frost, nor rain might harm me, for His love + Burned in my heart. Through love I made my fast; + And in my fasts one night I heard this voice, + “Thou fastest well: soon shalt thou see thy Land.” + Later, once more thus spake it: “Southward fly, + Thy ship awaits thee.” Many a day I fled, + And found the black ship dropping down the tide, + And entered with those Gentiles by Thy grace + Vanquished, though first they spurned me, and was free. + It was Thy leading, Lord; the Hand was Thine! + For now when, perils past, I walked secure, + Kind greetings round me, and the Christian Rite, + There rose a clamorous yearning in my heart, + And memories of that land so far, so fair, + And lost in such a gloom. And through that gloom + The eyes of little children shone on me, + So ready to believe! Such children oft + Ran by me naked in and out the waves, + Or danced in circles upon Erin’s shores, + Like creatures never fallen! Thought of such + Passed into thought of others. From my youth + Both men and women, maidens most, to me + As children seemed; and O the pity then + To mark how oft they wept, how seldom knew + Whence came the wound that galled them! As I walked, + Each wind that passed me whispered, “Lo, that race + Which trod thee down! Requite with good their ill! + Thou know’st their tongue; old man to thee, and youth, + For counsel came, and lambs would lick thy foot; + And now the whole land is a sheep astray + That bleats to God.” + + Alone one night I mused, + Burthened with thought of that vocation vast. + O’er-spent I sank asleep. In visions then, + Satan my soul plagued with temptation dire. + Methought, beneath a cliff I lay, and lo! + Thick-legioned demons o’er me dragged a rock, + That falling, seemed a mountain. Near, more near, + O’er me it blackened. Sudden from my heart + This thought leaped forth: “Elias! Him invoke!” + That name invoked, vanished the rock; and I, + On mountains stood watching the rising sun, + As stood Elias once on Carmel’s crest, + Gazing on heaven unbarred, and that white cloud, + A thirsting land’s salvation. + + Might Divine! + Thou taught’st me thus my weakness; and I vowed + To seek Thy strength. I turned my face to Tours, + There where in years gone by Thy soldier-priest + Martin had ruled, my kinsman in the flesh. + Dead was the lion; but his lair was warm: + In it I laid me, and a conquering glow + Rushed up into my heart. I heard discourse + Of Martin still, his valour in the Lord, + His rugged warrior zeal, his passionate love + For Hilary, his vigils, and his fasts, + And all his pitiless warfare on the Powers + Of darkness; and one day, in secrecy, + With Ninian, missioned then to Alba’s shore, + I peered into his branch-enwoven cell, + Half-way between the river and the rocks, + From Tours a mile and more. + + So passed eight years + Till strengthened was my heart by discipline: + Then spake a priest, “Brother, thy will is good, + Yet rude thou art of learning as a beast; + Fare thee to great Germanus of Auxerres, + Who lightens half the West!” I heard, and went, + And to that Saint was subject fourteen years. + He from my mind removed the veil; “Lift up,” + He said, “thine eyes!” and like a mountain land + The Queenly Science stood before me plain, + From rocky buttress up to peak of snow: + The great Commandments first, Edicts, and Laws + That bastion up man’s life:—then high o’er these + The forest huge of Doctrine, one, yet many, + Forth stretching in innumerable aisles, + At the end of each, the self-same glittering star:— + Lastly, the Life God-hidden. Day by day, + With him for guide, that first and second realm + I tracked, and learned to shun the abyss flower-veiled, + And scale heaven-threatening heights. This, too, he taught, + Himself long time a ruler and a prince, + The regimen of States from chaos won + To order, and to Christ. Prudence I learned, + And sageness in the government of men, + By me sore needed soon. O stately man, + In all things great, in action and in thought, + And plain as great! To Britain called, the Saint + Trod down that great Pelagian Blasphemy, + Chief portent of the age. But better far + He loved his cell. There sat he vigil-worn, + In cowl and dusky tunic hued like earth + Whence issued man and unto which returns; + I marvelled at his wrinkled brows, and hands + Still tracing, enter or depart who would, + From morn to night his parchments. + + There, once more, + O God, Thine eye was on me, or my hand + Once more had missed the prize. Temptation now + Whispered in softness, “Wisdom’s home is here: + Here bide untroubled.” Almost I had fallen; + But, by my side, in visions of the night, + God’s angel, Victor, stood as one that hastes, + On travel sped. Unnumbered missives lay + Clasped in his hands. One stretched he forth, inscribed + “The wail of Erin’s Children.” As I read + The cry of babes, from Erin’s western coast + And Fochlut’s forest, and the wintry sea, + Shrilled o’er me, clamouring, “Holy youth, return! + Walk then among us!” I could read no more. + + Thenceforth rose up renewed mine old desire: + My kinsfolk mocked me. “What! past woes too scant! + Slave of four masters, and the best a churl! + Thy Gospel they will trample under foot, + And rend thee! Late to them Palladius preached: + They drave him as a leper from their shores.” + I stood in agony of staggering mind + And warring wills. Then, lo! at dead of night + I heard a mystic voice, till then unheard, + I knew not if within me or close by + That swelled in passionate pleading; nor the words + Grasped I, so great they seemed and wonderful, + Till sank that tempest to a whisper:—“He + Who died for thee is He that in thee groans.” + Then fell, methought, scales from mine inner eyes: + Then saw I—terrible that sight, yet sweet— + Within me saw a Man that in me prayed + With groans unutterable. That Man was girt + For mission far. My heart recalled that word, + “The Spirit helpeth our infirmities; + That which we lack we know not, but the Spirit + Himself for us doth intercession make + With groanings which may never be revealed.” + That hour my vow was vowed; and he approved, + My master and my guide. “But go,” he said, + “First to that island in the Tyrrhene Sea, + Where live the high Contemplatives to God: + There learn perfection; there that Inner Life + Win thou, God’s strength amid the world’s loud storm: + Nor fear lest God should frown on such delay, + For Heavenly Wisdom is compassionate: + Slowly before man’s weakness moves it on; + Softly: so moved of old the Wise Men’s Star, + Which curbed its lightning ardours and forbore + Honouring the pensive tread of hoary Eld, + Honouring the burthened slave, the camel line + Long-linked, with level head and foot that fell + As though in sleep, printing the silent sands.” + Thus, smiling, spake Germanus, large in lore. + + So in that island-Eden I sojourned, + Lerins, and saw where Vincent lived, and his, + Life fountained from on high. That life was Love; + For all their mighty knowledge food became + Of Love Divine, and took, by Love absorbed, + Shape from his flame-like body. Hard their beds; + Ceaseless their prayers. They tilled a sterile soil; + Beneath their hands it blossomed like the rose: + O’er thymy hollows blew the nectared airs; + Blue ocean flashed through olives. They had fled + From praise of men; yet cities far away + Rapt those meek saints to fill the bishop’s throne. + I saw the light of God on faces calm + That blended with man’s meditative might + Simplicity of childhood, and, with both + The sweetness of that flower-like sex which wears + Through love’s Obedience twofold crowns of Love. + O blissful time! In that bright island bloomed + The third high region on the Hills of God, + Above the rock, above the wood, the cloud:— + There laughs the luminous air, there bursts anew + Spring bud in summer on suspended lawns; + There the bell tinkles while once more the lamb + Trips by the sun-fed runnel: there green vales + Lie lost in purple heavens. + + Transfigured Life! + This was thy glory, that, without a sigh, + Who loved thee yet could leave thee! Thus it fell: + One morning I was on the sea, and lo! + An isle to Lerins near, but fairer yet, + Till then unseen! A grassy vale sea-lulled + Wound inward, breathing balm, with fruited trees, + And stream through lilies gliding. By a door + There stood a man in prime, and others sat + Not far, some grey; and one, a weed of years, + Lay like a withered wreath. An old man spake: + “See what thou seest, and scan the mystery well! + The man who stands so stately in his prime + Is of this company the eldest born. + The Saviour in His earthly sojourn, Risen, + Perchance, or ere His Passion, who can tell, + Stood up at this man’s door; and this man rose, + And let Him in, and made for Him a feast; + And Jesus said, ‘Tarry, till I return.’ + Moreover, others are there on this isle, + Both men and maids, who saw the Son of Man, + And took Him in, and shine in endless youth; + But we, the rest, in course of nature fade, + For we believe, yet saw not God, nor touched.” + Then spake I, “Here till death my home I make, + Where Jesus trod.” And answered he in prime, + “Not so; the Master hath for thee thy task. + Parting, thus spake He: ‘Here for Mine Elect + Abide thou. Bid him bear this crozier staff; + My blessing rests thereon: the same shall drive + The foes of God before him.’” Answer thus + I made, “That crozier staff I will not touch + Until I take it from that nail-pierced Hand.” + From these I turned, and clomb a mountain high, + Hermon by name; and there—was this, my God, + In visions of the Lord, or in the flesh?— + I spake with Him, the Lord of Life, Who died; + He from the glory stretched the Hand nail-pierced, + And placed in mine that crozier staff, and said: + “Upon that day when they that with Me walked + Sit with Me on their everlasting Thrones, + Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine Israel, + Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness.” + + Forthwith to Rome I fled; there knelt I down + Above the bones of Peter and of Paul, + And saw the mitred embassies from far, + And saw Celestine with his head high held + As though it bore the Blessed Sacrament; + Chief Shepherd of the Saviour’s flock on earth. + Tall was the man, and swift; white-haired; with eye + Starlike and voice a trumpet clear that pealed + God’s Benediction o’er the city and globe; + Yea, and whene’er his palm he lifted, still + Blessing before it ran. Upon my head + He laid both hands, and “Win,” he said, “to Christ + One realm the more!” Moreover, to my charge + Relics he gave, unnumbered, without price; + And when those relics lost had been, and found, + And at his feet I wept, he chided not; + But, smiling, said, “Thy glorious task fulfilled, + House them in thy new country’s stateliest church + By cresset girt of ever-burning lamps, + And never-ceasing anthems.” + + Northward then + Returned I, missioned. Yet once more, but once, + That old temptation proved me. When they sat, + The Elders, making inquest of my life, + Sudden a certain brother rose, and spake, + “Shall this man be a Bishop, who hath sinned?” + My dearest friend was he. To him alone + One time had I divulged a sin by me + Through ignorance wrought when fifteen years of age; + And after thirty years, behold, once more, + That sin had found me out! He knew my mission: + When in mine absence slander sought my name, + Mine honour he had cleared. Yet now—yet now— + That hour the iron passed into my soul: + Yea, well nigh all was lost. I wept, “Not one, + No heart of man there is that knows my heart, + Or in its anguish shares.” + + Yet, O my God! + I blame him not: from Thee that penance came: + Not for man’s love should Thine Apostle strive, + Thyself alone his great and sole reward. + Thou laid’st that hour a fiery hand of love + Upon a faithless heart; and it survived. + + At dead of night a Vision gave me peace. + Slowly from out the breast of darkness shone + Strange characters, a writing unrevealed: + And slowly thence and infinitely sad, + A Voice: “Ill-pleased, this day have we beheld + The face of the Elect without a name.” + It said not, “Thou hast grieved,” but “We have grieved;” + With import plain, “O thou of little faith! + Am I not nearer to thee than thy friends? + Am I not inlier with thee than thyself?” + Then I remembered, “He that touches you + Doth touch the very apple of mine eye.” + Serene I slept. At morn I rose and ran + Down to the shore, and found a boat, and sailed. + + That hour true life’s beginning was, O Lord, + Because the work Thou gav’st into my hands + Prospered between them. Yea, and from the work + The Power forth issued. Strength in me was none, + Nor insight, till the occasion: then Thy sword + Flamed in my grasp, and beams were in mine eyes + That showed the way before me, and nought else. + Thou mad’st me know Thy Will. As taper’s light + Veers with a wind man feels not, o’er my heart + Hovered thenceforth some Pentecostal flame + That bent before that Will. Thy Truth, not mine, + Lightened this People’s mind; Thy Love inflamed + Their hearts; Thy Hope upbore them as on wings. + Valiant that race, and simple, and to them + Not hard the godlike venture of belief: + Conscience was theirs: tortuous too oft in life + Their thoughts, when passionate most, then most were true, + Heart-true. With naked hand firmly they clasped + The naked Truth: in them Belief was Act. + A tribe from Thy far East they called themselves: + Their clans were Patriarch households, rude through war: + Old Pagan Rome had known them not; their Isle + Virgin to Christ had come. Oh how unlike + Her sons to those old Roman Senators, + Scorn of Germanus oft, who breathed the air + Fouled by dead Faiths successively blown out, + Or Grecian sophist with his world of words, + That, knowing all, knew nothing! Praise to Thee, + Lord of the night-time as the day, Who keep’st + Reserved in blind barbaric innocence, + Pure breed, when boastful lights corrupt the wise, + With healthier fruit to bless a later age. + + I to that people all things made myself + For Christ’s sake, building still that good they lacked + On good already theirs. In courts of kings + I stood: before mine eye their eye went down, + For Thou wert with me. Gentle with the meek, + I suffered not the proud to mock my face: + Thus by the anchors twain of Love and Fear, + Since Love, not perfected, gains strength from Fear, + I bound to thee This nation. Parables + I spake in; parables in act I wrought + Because the people’s mind was in the sense. + At Imbher Dea they scoffed Thy word: I raised + Thy staff, and smote with barrenness that flood: + Then learned they that the world was Thine, not ruled + By Sun or Moon, their famed “God-Elements:” + Yea, like Thy Fig-tree cursed, that river banned + Witnessed Thy Love’s stern pureness. From the grass + The little three-leaved herb, I stooped and plucked, + And preached the Trinity. Thy Staff I raised, + And bade—not ravening beast—but reptiles foul + Flee to the abyss like that blind herd of old; + Then spake I: “Be not babes, but understand: + Thus in your spirit lift the Cross of Christ: + Banish base lusts; so God shall with you walk + As once with man in Eden.” With like aim + Convents I reared for holy maids, then sought + The marriage feast, and cried, “If God thus draws + Close to Himself those virgin hearts, and yet + Blesses the bridal troth, and infant’s font, + How white a thing should be the Christian home!” + Marvelling, they learned what heritage their God + Possessed in them! how wide a realm, how fair. + + Lord, save in one thing only, I was weak— + I loved this people with a mother’s love, + For their sake sanctified my spirit to thee + In vigil, fast, and meditation long, + On mountain and on moor. Thus, Lord, I wrought, + Trusting that so Thy lineaments divine, + Deeplier upon my spirit graved, might pass + Thence on that hidden burthen which my heart + Still from its substance feeding, with great pangs + Strove to bring forth to Thee. O loyal race! + Me too they loved. They waited me all night + On lonely roads; and, as I preached, the day + To those high listeners seemed a little hour. + Have I not seen ten thousand brows at once + Flash in the broad light of some Truth new risen, + And felt like him, that Saint who cried, flame-girt, + “At last do I begin to be a Christian?” + Have I not seen old foes embrace? Seen him, + That white-haired man who dashed him on the ground, + Crying aloud, “My buried son, forgive! + Thy sire hath touched the hand that shed thy blood?” + Fierce chiefs knelt down in penance! Lord! how oft + Shook I their tear-drop sparkles from my gown! + ’Twas the forgiveness taught them all the debt, + Great-hearted penitents! How many a youth + Contemned the praise of men! How many a maid— + O not in narrowness, but Love’s sweet pride + And love-born shyness—jealous for a mate + Himself not jealous—spurned terrestrial love, + Glorying in heavenly Love’s fair oneness! Race + High-dowered! God’s Truth seemed some remembered thing + To them; God’s Kingdom smiled, their native haunt + Prophesied then their daughters and their sons: + Each man before the face of each upraised + His hand on high, and said, “The Lord hath risen!” + Then, like a stream from ice released, forth fled + And wafted far the tidings, flung them wide, + Shouted them loud from rocky ridge o’er bands + Marching far down to war! The sower sowed + With happier hope; the reaper bending sang, + “Thus shall God’s Angels reap the field of God + When we are ripe for heaven.” Lovers new-wed + Drank of that water changed to wine, thenceforth + Breathing on earth heaven’s sweetness. Unto such + More late, whate’er of brightness time or will + Infirm had dimmed, shone back from infant brows + By baptism lit. Each age its garland found: + Fair shone on trustful childhood faith divine: + Eld, once a weight of wrinkles now upsoared + In venerable lordship of white hairs, + Seer-like and sage. Healed was a nation’s wound: + All men believed who willed not disbelief; + And sat in that oppugnancy steel-mailed: + They cried, “Before thy priests our bards shall bow, + And all our clans put on thy great Clan Christ!” + + For your sake, O my brethren, and my sons + These things have I recorded. Something I wrought: + Strive ye in loftier labours; strive, and win: + Your victory shall be mine: my crown are ye. + My part is ended now. I lived for Truth: + I to this people gave that truth I knew; + My witnesses ye are I grudged it not: + Freely did I receive, freely I gave; + Baptising, or confirming, or ordaining, + I sold not things divine. Of mine own store + Ofttimes the hire of fifteen men I paid + For guard where bandits lurked. When prince or chief + Laid on God’s altar ring, or torque, or gold, + I sent them back. Too fortunate, too beloved, + I said, “Can he Apostle be who bears + Such scanty marks of Christ’s Apostolate, + Hunger, and thirst, and scorn of men?” For this, + Those pains they spared I spared not to myself, + The body’s daily death. I make not boast: + What boast have I? If God His servant raised, + He knoweth—not ye—how oft I fell; how low; + How oft in faithless longings yearned my heart + For faces of His Saints in mine own land, + Remembered fields far off. This, too, He knoweth, + How perilous is the path of great attempts, + How oft pride meets us on the storm-vexed height, + Pride, or some sting its scourge. My hope is He: + His hand, my help so long, will loose me never: + And, thanks to God, the sheltering grave is near. + + How still this eve! The morn was racked with storm: + ’Tis past; the skylark sings; the tide at flood + Sighs a soft joy: alone those lines of weed + Report the wrath foregone. Yon watery plain + Far shines, a mingled sea of glass and fire, + Even as that Beatific Sea outspread + Before the Throne of God. ’Tis Paschal Tide;— + O sorrowful, O blissful Paschal Tide! + Fain would I die on Holy Saturday; + For then, as now, the storm is past—the woe; + And, somewhere ’mid the shades of Olivet + Lies sealed the sacred cave of that Repose + Watched by the Holy Women. Earth, that sing’st, + Since first He made thee, thy Creator’s praise, + Sing, sing, thy Saviour’s! Myriad-minded sea, + How that bright secret thrills thy rippling lips + Which shake, yet speak not! Thou that mad’st the worlds, + Man, too, Thou mad’st; within Thy Hands the life + Of each was shapen, and new-wov’n ran out, + New-willed each moment. What makes up that life? + Love infinite, and nothing else save love! + Help ere need came, deliverance ere defeat; + At every step an angel to sustain us, + An angel to retrieve! My years are gone: + Sweet were they with a sweetness felt but half + Till now;—not half discerned. Those blessèd years + I would re-live, deferring thus so long + The Vision of Thy Face, if thus with gaze + Cast backward I might _see_ that guiding hand + Step after step, and kiss it. + + Happy isle! + Be true; for God hath graved on thee His Name: + God, with a wondrous ring, hath wedded thee; + God on a throne divine hath ’stablished thee:— + Light of a darkling world! Lamp of the North! + My race, my realm, my great inheritance, + To lesser nations leave inferior crowns; + Speak ye the thing that is; be just, be kind; + Live ye God’s Truth, and in its strength be free! + + This day to Him, the Faithful and the True, + For Whom I toiled, my spirit I commend. + That which I am, He knoweth: I know not now: + But I shall know ere long. If I have loved Him + I seek but this for guerdon of my love + With holier love to love Him to the end: + If I have vanquished others to His love + Would God that this might be their meed and mine + In witness for His love to pour our blood + A glad stream forth, though vultures or wild beasts + Rent our unburied bones! Thou setting sun, + That sink’st to rise, that time shall come at last + When in thy splendours thou shalt rise no more; + And, darkening with the darkening of thy face, + Who worshipped thee with thee shall cease; but those + Who worshipped Christ shall shine with Christ abroad, + Eternal beam, and Sun of Righteousness, + In endless glory. For His sake alone + I, bondsman in this land, re-sought this land. + All ye who name my name in later times, + Say to this People, since vindictive rage + Tempts them too often, that their Patriarch gave + Pattern of pardon ere in words he preached + That God who pardons. Wrongs if they endure + In after years, with fire of pardoning love + Sin-slaying, bid them crown the head that erred: + For bread denied let them give Sacraments, + For darkness light, and for the House of Bondage + The glorious freedom of the sons of God: + This is my last Confession ere I die. + + + + +NOTES. + + +{10a} Cotton MSS., Nero, E.’; Codex Salisburiensis; and a MS. in the +Monastery of St. Vaast. + +{10b} The Book of Armagh, preserved at Trinity College, Dublin, contains +a Life of St. Patrick, with his writings, and consists in chief part of a +description of all the books of the New Testament, including the Epistle +of Paul to the Laodiceans. Traces found here and there of the name of +the copyist and of the archbishop for whom the copy was made, fix its +date almost to a year as 807 or 811–812. + +{77} The Isle of Man. + +{101} Now Limerick. + +{111} Foynes. + +{116} The Giant’s Causeway. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK*** + + +******* This file should be named 7165-0.txt or 7165-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/1/6/7165 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Legends of Saint Patrick + + +Author: Aubrey De Vere + +Editor: Henry Morley + +Release Date: July 28, 2014 [eBook #7165] +[This file was first posted on March 18, 2003] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK*** +</pre> +<p>This eBook was prepared by Les Bowler.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY.</span></p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<h1><span class="smcap">The Legends</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">of</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Saint Patrick</span></h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +AUBREY DE VERE, LL.D.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">CASSELL & COMPANY, <span +class="smcap">Limited</span>:<br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><i>LONDON</i></span><span +class="GutSmall">, </span><span class="GutSmall"><i>PARIS & +MELBOURNE</i></span><span class="GutSmall">.</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1892</span></p> +<h2>INTRODUCTION.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Once</span> more our readers are indebted +to a living poet for wide circulation of a volume of delightful +verse. The name of Aubrey de Vere is the more pleasantly +familiar because its association with our highest literature has +descended from father to son. In 1822, sixty-seven years +ago, Sir Aubrey de Vere, of Curragh Chase, by Adare, in the +county of Limerick—then thirty-four years old—first +made his mark with a dramatic poem upon “Julian the +Apostate.” In 1842 Sir Aubrey published Sonnets, +which his friend Wordsworth described as “the most perfect +of our age;” and in the year of his death he completed a +dramatic poem upon “Mary Tudor,” published in the +next year, 1847, with the “Lamentation of Ireland, and +other Poems.” Sir Aubrey de Vere’s “Mary +Tudor” should be read by all who have read Tennyson’s +play on the same subject.</p> +<p>The gift of genius passed from Sir Aubrey to his third son, +Aubrey Thomas de Vere, who was born in 1814, and through a long +life has put into music only noble thoughts associated with the +love of God and man, and of his native land. His first +work, published forty-seven years ago, was a lyrical piece, in +which he gave his sympathy to devout and persecuted men whose +ways of thought were not his own. Aubrey de Vere’s +poems have been from time to time revised by himself, and they +were in 1884 finally collected into three volumes, published by +Messrs. Kegan Paul. Left free to choose from among their +various contents, I have taken this little book of “Legends +of St. Patrick,” first published in 1872, but in so doing I +have unwillingly left many a piece that would please many a +reader.</p> +<p>They are not, however, inaccessible. Of the three +volumes of collected works, each may be had separately, and is +complete in itself. The first contains “The Search +after Proserpine, and other Poems—Classical and +Meditative.” The second contains the “Legends +of St. Patrick, and Legends of Ireland’s Heroic Age,” +including a version of the “Tain Bo.” The third +contains two plays, “Alexander the Great,” “St. +Thomas of Canterbury,” and other Poems.</p> +<p>For the convenience of some readers, the following extract +from the second volume of my “English Writers,” may +serve as a prosaic summary of what is actually known about St. +Patrick.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">H. M.</p> +<h2>ST. PATRICK.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><i>FROM</i></span><span class="GutSmall"> +“</span><span class="GutSmall"><i>ENGLISH +WRITERS</i></span><span class="GutSmall">.”</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> birth of St. Patrick, Apostle +and Saint of Ireland, has been generally placed in the latter +half of the fourth century; and he is said to have died at the +age of a hundred and twenty. As he died in the year +493—and we may admit that he was then a very old +man—if we may say that he reached the age of eighty-eight, +we place his birth in the year 405. We may reasonably +believe, therefore, that he was born in the early part of the +fifth century. His birthplace, now known as Kilpatrick, was +at the junction of the Levin with the Clyde, in what is now the +county of Dumbarton. His baptismal name was Succath. +His father was Calphurnius, a deacon, son of Potitus, who was a +priest. His mother’s name was Conchessa, whose family +may have belonged to Gaul, and who may thus have been, as it is +said she was, of the kindred of St. Martin of Tours; for there is +a tradition that she was with Calphurnius as a slave before he +married her. Since Eusebius spoke of three bishops from +Britain at the Council of Arles, Succath, known afterwards in +missionary life by his name in religion, Patricius (<i>pater +civium</i>), might very reasonably be a deacon’s son.</p> +<p>In his early years Succath was at home by the Clyde, and he +speaks of himself as not having been obedient to the teaching of +the clergy. When he was sixteen years old he, with two of +his sisters and other of his countrymen, was seized by a band of +Irish pirates that made descent on the shore of the Clyde and +carried him off to slavery. His sisters were taken to +another part of the island, and he was sold to Milcho MacCuboin +in the north, whom he served for six or seven years, so learning +to speak the language of the country, while keeping his +master’s sheep by the Mountain of Slieve Miss. +Thoughts of home and of its Christian life made the youth feel +the heathenism that was about him; his exile seemed to him a +punishment for boyish indifference; and during the years when +young enthusiasm looks out upon life with new sense of a +man’s power—growing for man’s work that is to +do—Succath became filled with religious zeal.</p> +<p>Three Latin pieces are ascribed to St. Patrick: a +“Confession,” which is in the Book of Armagh, and in +three other manuscripts; <a name="citation10a"></a><a +href="#footnote10a" class="citation">[10a]</a> a letter to +Coroticus, and a few “Dieta Patricii,” which are also +in the Book of Armagh. <a name="citation10b"></a><a +href="#footnote10b" class="citation">[10b]</a> There is no +strong reason for questioning the authenticity of the +“Confession,” which is in unpolished Latin, the +writer calling himself “indoctus, rusticissimus, +imperitus,” and it is full of a deep religious +feeling. It is concerned rather with the inner than the +outer life, but includes references to the early days of trial by +which Succath’s whole heart was turned to God. He +says, “After I came into Ireland I pastured sheep daily, +and prayed many times a day. The love and fear of God, and +faith and spirit, wrought in me more and more, so that in one day +I reached to a hundred prayers, and in the night almost as many, +and stayed in the woods and on the mountains, and was urged to +prayer before the dawn, in snow, in frost, in rain, and took no +harm, nor, I think, was there any sloth in me. And there +one night I heard a voice in a dream saying to me, ‘Thou +hast well fasted; thou shalt go back soon to thine own +land;’ and again after a little while, ‘Behold! thy +ship is ready.’” In all this there is the +passionate longing of an ardent mind for home and Heaven.</p> +<p>At the age of twenty-two Succath fled from his slavery to a +vessel of which the master first refused and finally consented to +take him on board. He and the sailors were then cast by a +storm upon a desert shore of Britain, possibly upon some region +laid waste by ravages from over sea. Having at last made +his way back, by a sea passage, to his home on the Clyde, Succath +was after a time captured again, but remained captive only for +two months, and went back home. Then the zeal for his +Master’s service made him feel like the Seafarer in the +Anglo-Saxon poem; and all the traditions of his home would have +accorded with the rise of the resolve to cross the sea, and to +spread Christ’s teaching in what had been the land of his +captivity.</p> +<p>There were already centres of Christian work in Ireland, where +devoted men were labouring and drew a few into their +fellowship. Succath aimed at the gathering of all these +scattered forces, by a movement that should carry with it the +whole people. He first prepared himself by giving about +four years to study of the Scriptures at Auxerre, under Germanus, +and then went to Rome, under the conduct of a priest, Segetius, +and probably with letters from Germanus to Pope Celestine. +Whether he received his orders from the Pope seems doubtful; but +the evidence is strong that Celestine sent him on his Irish +mission. Succath left Rome, passed through North Italy and +Gaul, till he met on his way two followers of Palladius, +Augustinus and Benedictus, who told him of their master’s +failure, and of his death at Fordun. Succath then obtained +consecration from Amathus, a neighbouring bishop, and as +Patricius, went straight to Ireland. He landed near the +town of Wicklow, by the estuary of the River Varty, which had +been the landing-place of Palladius. In that region he was, +like Palladius, opposed; but he made some conversions, and +advanced with his work northward that he might reach the home of +his old master, Milcho, and pay him the purchase-money of his +stolen freedom. But Milcho, it is said, burnt himself and +his goods rather than bear the shame of submission to the growing +power of his former slave.</p> +<p>St. Patrick addressed the ruling classes, who could bring with +them their followers, and he joined tact with his zeal; +respecting ancient prejudices, opposing nothing that was not +directly hostile to the spirit of Christianity, and handling +skilfully the chiefs with whom he had to deal. An early +convert—Dichu MacTrighim—was a chief with influential +connections, who gave the ground for the religious house now +known as Saul. This chief satisfied so well the inquiries +of Laeghaire, son of Niall, King of Erin, concerning the +stranger’s movements, that St. Patrick took ship for the +mouth of the Boyne, and made his way straight to the king +himself. The result of his energy was that he met +successfully all the opposition of those who were concerned in +the maintenance of old heathen worship, and brought King +Laeghaire to his side.</p> +<p>Then Laeghaire resolved that the old laws of the country as +established by the judges, whose order was named Brehon, should +be revised, and brought into accord with the new teaching. +So the Brehon laws of Ireland were revised, with St. +Patrick’s assistance, and there were no ancient customs +broken or altered, except those that could not be harmonised with +Christian teaching. The good sense of St. Patrick enabled +this great work to be done without offence to the people. +The collection of laws thus made by the chief lawyers of the +time, with the assistance of St. Patrick, is known as the +“Senchus Mor,” and, says an old poem—</p> +<p class="poetry">“Laeghaire, Corc Dairi, the brave;<br /> +Patrick, Beuen, Cairnech, the just;<br /> +Rossa, Dubtach, Fergus, the wise;<br /> +These are the nine pillars of the Senchus Mor.”</p> +<p>This body of laws, traditions, and treatises on law is found +in no manuscript of a date earlier than the fourteenth +century. It includes, therefore, much that is of later date +than the fifth century.</p> +<p>St. Patrick’s greatest energies are said to have been +put forth in Ulster and Leinster. Among the churches or +religious communities founded by him in Ulster was that of +Armagh. If he was born about the year 405, when he was +carried to Ireland as a prisoner at the age of sixteen the date +would have been 421. His age would have been twenty-two +when he escaped, after six or seven years of captivity, and the +date 427. A year at home, and four years with Germanus at +Auxerre, would bring him to the age of twenty-seven, and the year +432, when he began his great endeavour to put Christianity into +the main body of the Irish people. That work filled all the +rest of his life, which was long. If we accept the +statement, in which all the old records agree, that the time of +Patrick’s labour in Ireland was not less than sixty years; +sixty years bring him to the age of eighty-eight in the year +493. And in that year he died.</p> +<p>The “Letter to Coroticus,” ascribed to St. +Patrick, is addressed to a petty king of Brittany who persecuted +Christians, and was meant for the encouragement of Christian +soldiers who served under him. It may, probably, be +regarded as authentic. The mass of legend woven into the +life of the great missionary lies outside this piece and the +“Confession.” The “Confession” only +expresses heights and depths of religious feeling haunted by +impressions and dreams, through which, to the fervid nature out +of which they sprang heaven seemed to speak. St. Patrick +did not attack heresies among the Christians; he preached to +those who were not Christians the Christian faith and +practice. His great influence was not that of a writer, but +of a speaker. He must have been an orator, profoundly +earnest, who could put his soul into his voice; and, when his +words bred deeds, conquered all difficulties in the way of action +with right feeling and good sense.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Henry +Morley</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">TO THE +MEMORY</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OF</span><br /> +WORDSWORTH.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2>AUTHOR’S PREFACE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">“THE LEGENDS OF SAINT +PATRICK.”</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> ancient records of Ireland +abound in legends respecting the greatest man and the greatest +benefactor that ever trod her soil; and of these the earlier are +at once the more authentic and the nobler. Not a few have a +character of the sublime; many are pathetic; some have a profound +meaning under a strange disguise; but their predominant character +is their brightness and gladsomeness. A large tract of +Irish history is dark: but the time of Saint Patrick, and the +three centuries which succeeded it, were her time of joy. +That chronicle is a song of gratitude and hope, as befits the +story of a nation’s conversion to Christianity, and in it +the bird and the brook blend their carols with those of angels +and of men. It was otherwise with the later legends +connecting Ossian with Saint Patrick. A poet once remarked, +while studying the frescoes of Michael Angelo in the Sistine +Chapel, that the Sibyls are always sad, while the Prophets +alternated with them are joyous. In the legends of the +Patrician Cycle the chief-loving old Bard is ever mournful, for +his face is turned to the past glories of his country; while the +Saint is always bright, because his eyes are set on to the glory +that has no end.</p> +<p>These legends are to be found chiefly in several very ancient +lives of Saint Patrick, the most valuable of which is the +“Tripartite Life,” ascribed by Colgan to the century +after the Saint’s death, though it has not escaped later +interpolations. The work was long lost, but two copies of +it were re-discovered, one of which has been recently translated +by that eminent Irish scholar, Mr. Hennessy. Whether +regarded from the religious or the philosophic point of view, few +things can be more instructive than the picture which it +delineates of human nature at a period of critical transition, +and the dawning of the Religion of Peace upon a race barbaric, +but far indeed from savage. That wild race regarded it +doubtless as a notable cruelty when the new Faith discouraged an +amusement so popular as battle; but in many respects they were in +sympathy with that Faith. It was one in which the nobler +affections, as well as the passions, retained an unblunted +ardour; and where Nature is strongest and least corrupted it most +feels the need of something higher than itself, its interpreter +and its supplement. It prized the family ties, like the +Germans recorded by Tacitus; and it could not but have been drawn +to Christianity, which consecrated them. Its morals were +pure, and it had not lost that simplicity to which so much of +spiritual insight belongs. Admiration and wonder were among +its chief habits; and it would not have been repelled by +Mysteries in what professed to belong to the Infinite. +Lawless as it was, it abounded also in loyalty, generosity, and +self-sacrifice; it was not, therefore, untouched by the records +of martyrs, examples of self-sacrifice, or the doctrine of a +great Sacrifice. It loved children and the poor; and +Christianity made the former the exemplars of faith, and the +latter the eminent inheritors of the Kingdom. On the other +hand, all the vices of the race ranged themselves against the new +religion.</p> +<p>In the main the institutions and traditions of Ireland were +favourable to Christianity. She had preserved in a large +measure the patriarchal system of the East. Her clans were +families, and her chiefs were patriarchs who led their households +to battle, and seized or recovered the spoil. To such a +people the Christian Church announced herself as a great +family—the family of man. Her genealogies went up to +the first parent, and her rule was parental rule. The +kingdom of Christ was the household of Christ; and its children +in all lands formed the tribes of a larger Israel. Its laws +were living traditions; and for traditions the Irish had ever +retained the Eastern reverence.</p> +<p>In the Druids no formidable enemy was found; it was the Bards +who wielded the predominant social influence. As in Greece, +where the sacerdotal power was small, the Bards were the priests +of the national Imagination, and round them all moral influences +had gathered themselves. They were jealous of their rivals; +but those rivals won them by degrees. Secknall and Fiacc +were Christian Bards, trained by St. Patrick, who is said to have +also brought a bard with him from Italy. The beautiful +legend in which the Saint loosened the tongue of the dumb child +was an apt emblem of Christianity imparting to the Irish race the +highest use of its natural faculties. The Christian clergy +turned to account the Irish traditions, as they had made use of +the Pagan temples, purifying them first. The Christian +religion looked with a genuine kindness on whatever was human, +except so far as the stain was on it; and while it resisted to +the face what was unchristian in spirit, it also, in the +Apostolic sense, “made itself all things to all +men.” As legislator, Saint Patrick waged no needless +war against the ancient laws of Ireland. He purified them, +and he amplified them, discarding only what was unfit for a +nation made Christian. Thus was produced the great +“Book of the Law,” or “Senchus Mohr,” +compiled <span class="GutSmall">A.D.</span> 439.</p> +<p>The Irish received the Gospel gladly. The great and the +learned, in other nations the last to believe, among them +commonly set the example. With the natural disposition of +the race an appropriate culture had concurred. It was one +which at least did not fail to develop the imagination, the +affections, and a great part of the moral being, and which thus +indirectly prepared ardent natures, and not less the heroic than +the tender, to seek their rest in spiritual things, rather than +in material or conventional. That culture, without removing +the barbaric, had blended it with the refined. It had +created among the people an appreciation of the beautiful, the +pathetic, and the pure. The early Irish chronicles, as well +as songs, show how strong among them that sentiment had ever +been. The Borromean Tribute, for so many ages the source of +relentless wars, had been imposed in vengeance for an insult +offered to a woman; and a discourtesy shown to a poet had +overthrown an ancient dynasty. The education of an Ollambh +occupied twelve years; and in the third century, the time of +Oiseen and Fionn, the military rules of the Feinè included +provisions which the chivalry of later ages might have been proud +of. It was a wild, but not wholly an ungentle time. +An unprovoked affront was regarded as a grave moral offence; and +severe punishments were ordained, not only for detraction, but +for a word, though uttered in jest, which brought a blush on the +cheek of a listener. Yet an injury a hundred years old +could meet no forgiveness, and the life of man was war! It +was not that laws were wanting; a code, minute in its justice, +had proportioned a penalty to every offence, and specified the +<i>Eric</i> which was to wipe out the bloodstain in case the +injured party renounced his claim to right his own wrong. +It was not that hearts were hard—there was at least as much +pity for others as for self. It was that anger was +implacable, and that where fear was unknown, the war field was +what among us the hunting field is.</p> +<p>The rapid growth of learning as well as piety in the three +centuries succeeding the conversion of Ireland, prove that the +country had not been till then without a preparation for the +gift. It had been the special skill of Saint Patrick to +build the good which was lacked upon that which existed. +Even the material arts of Ireland he had pressed into the service +of the Faith; and Irish craftsmen had assisted him, not only in +the building of his churches, but in casting his church bells, +and in the adornment of his chalices, crosiers, and +ecclesiastical vestments. Once elevated by Christianity, +Ireland’s early civilisation was a memorable thing. +It sheltered a high virtue at home, and evangelised a great part +of Northern Europe; and amidst many confusions it held its own +till the true time of barbarism had set in—those two +disastrous centuries when the Danish invasions trod down the +sanctuaries, dispersed the libraries, and laid waste the colleges +to which distant kings had sent their sons.</p> +<p>Perhaps nothing human had so large an influence in the +conversion of the Irish as the personal character of her +Apostle. Where others, as Palladius, had failed, he +succeeded. By nature, by grace, and by providential +training, he had been specially fitted for his task. We can +still see plainly even the finer traits of that character, while +the land of his birth is a matter of dispute, and of his early +history we know little, except that he was of noble birth, that +he was carried to Ireland by pirates at the age of sixteen, and +that after five years of bondage he escaped thence, to return +<span class="GutSmall">A.D.</span> 432, when about +forty-five years old; belonging thus to that great age of the +Church which was made illustrious by the most eminent of its +Fathers, and tasked by the most critical of its trials. In +him a great character had been built on the foundations of a +devout childhood, and of a youth ennobled by adversity. +Everywhere we trace the might and the sweetness which belonged to +it, the versatile mind yet the simple heart, the varying tact yet +the fixed resolve, the large design taking counsel for all, yet +the minute solicitude for each, the fiery zeal yet the genial +temper, the skill in using means yet the reliance on God alone, +the readiness in action with the willingness to wait, the +habitual self-possession yet the outbursts of an inspiration +which raised him above himself, the abiding consciousness of +authority—an authority in him, but not of him—and yet +the ever-present humility. Above all, there burned in him +that boundless love, which seems the main constituent of the +Apostolic character. It was love for God; but it was love +for man also, an impassioned love, and a parental +compassion. It was not for the spiritual weal alone of man +that he thirsted. Wrong and injustice to the poor he +resented as an injury to God. His vehement love for the +poor is illustrated by his “Epistle to Coroticus,” +reproaching him with his cruelty, as well as by his denunciations +of slavery, which piracy had introduced into parts of +Ireland. No wonder that such a character should have +exercised a talismanic power over the ardent and sensitive race +among whom he laboured, a race “easy to be drawn, but +impossible to be driven,” and drawn more by sympathy than +even by benefits. That character can only be understood by +one who studies, and in a right spirit, that account of his life +which he bequeathed to us shortly before its close—the +“Confession of Saint Patrick.” The last poem in +this series embodies its most characteristic portions, including +the visions which it records.</p> +<p>The “Tripartite Life” thus +ends:—“After these great miracles, therefore, after +resuscitating the dead, after healing lepers, and the blind, and +the deaf, and the lame, and all diseases; after ordaining +bishops, and priests, and deacons, and people of all orders in +the Church; after teaching the men of Erin, and after baptising +them; after founding churches and monasteries; after destroying +idols and images and Druidical arts, the hour of death of Saint +Patrick approached. He received the body of Christ from the +Bishop Tassach, according to the counsel of the Angel +Victor. He resigned his spirit afterwards to Heaven, in the +one hundred and twentieth year of his age. His body is +still here in the earth, with honour and reverence. Though +great his honour here, greater honour will be to him in the Day +of Judgment, when judgment will be given on the fruit of his +teaching, as of every great Apostle, in the union of the Apostles +and Disciples of Jesus; in the union of the Nine Orders of +Angels, which cannot be surpassed; in the union of the Divinity +and Humanity of the Son of God; in the union, which is higher +than all unions, of the Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy +Ghost.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right">A. <span class="smcap">de +Vere</span>.</p> +<h2><span class="GutSmall">THE</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Legends of Saint Patrick</span>.</h2> +<h3>THE BAPTISM OF ST. PATRICK.</h3> +<p class="poetry">“How can the babe baptiséd be<br +/> + Where font is none and water none?”<br /> +Thus wept the nurse on bended knee,<br /> + And swayed the Infant in the sun.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The blind priest took that +Infant’s hand:<br /> + With that small hand, above the ground<br /> +He signed the Cross. At God’s command<br /> + A fountain rose with brimming bound.</p> +<p class="poetry">“In that pure wave from Adam’s +sin<br /> + The blind priest cleansed the Babe with awe;<br /> +Then, reverently, he washed therein<br /> + His old, unseeing face, and saw!</p> +<p class="poetry">“He saw the earth; he saw the skies,<br +/> + And that all-wondrous Child decreed<br /> +A pagan nation to baptise,<br /> + To give the Gentiles light indeed.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus Secknall sang. Far off and nigh<br +/> + The clansmen shouted loud and long;<br /> +While every mother tossed more high<br /> + Her babe, and glorying joined the song.</p> +<h3>THE DISBELIEF OF MILCHO,<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OR, SAINT PATRICK’S ONE +FAILURE.</span></h3> +<h4>ARGUMENT.</h4> +<p>Fame of St. Patrick goes ever before him, and men of goodwill +believe gladly; but Milcho, a mighty merchant, and one given +wholly to pride and greed, wills to disbelieve. St. Patrick +sends him greeting and gifts; but he, discovering that the +prophet welcomed by all had once been his slave, hates him the +more. Notwithstanding, he fears that when that prophet +arrives, he, too, may be forced to believe, though against his +will. He resolves to set fire to his castle and all his +wealth, and make new fortunes in far lands. The doom of +Milcho, who willed to disbelieve.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> now at Imber +Dea that precious bark<br /> +Freighted with Erin’s future, touched the sands<br /> +Just where a river, through a woody vale<br /> +Curving, with duskier current clave the sea,<br /> +Patrick, the Island’s great inheritor,<br /> +His perilous voyage past, stept forth and knelt<br /> +And blessed his God. The peace of those green meads<br /> +Cradled ’twixt purple hills and purple deep,<br /> +Seemed as the peace of heaven. The sun had set;<br /> +But still those summits twinned, the “Golden +Spears,”<br /> +Laughed with his latest beam. The hours went by:<br /> +The brethren paced the shore or musing sat,<br /> +But still their Patriarch knelt and still gave thanks<br /> +For all the marvellous chances of his life<br /> +Since those his earlier years when, slave new-trapped,<br /> +He comforted on hills of Dalaraide<br /> +His hungry heart with God, and, cleansed by pain,<br /> +In exile found the spirit’s native land.<br /> +Eve deepened into night, and still he prayed:<br /> +The clear cold stars had crowned the azure vault;<br /> +And, risen at midnight from dark seas, the moon<br /> +Had quenched those stars, yet Patrick still prayed on:<br /> +Till from the river murmuring in the vale,<br /> +Far off, and from the morning airs close by<br /> +That shook the alders by the river’s mouth,<br /> +And from his own deep heart a voice there came,<br /> +“Ere yet thou fling’st God’s bounty on this +land<br /> +There is a debt to cancel. Where is he,<br /> +Thy five years’ lord that scourged thee for his swine?<br +/> +Alas that wintry face! Alas that heart<br /> +Joyless since earliest youth! To him reveal it!<br /> +To him declare that God who Man became<br /> +To raise man’s fall’n estate, as though a man,<br /> +All faculties of man unmerged, undimmed,<br /> +Had changed to worm and died the prey of worms,<br /> +That so the mole might see!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Thus +Patrick mused<br /> +Not ignorant that from low beginnings rise<br /> +Oftenest the works of greatness; yet of this<br /> +Unweeting, that his failure, one and sole<br /> +Through all his more than mortal course, even now<br /> +Before that low beginning’s threshold lay,<br /> +Betwixt it and that Promised Land beyond<br /> +A bar of scandal stretched. Not otherwise<br /> +Might whatsoe’er was mortal in his strength<br /> +Dying, put on the immortal.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> With +the morn<br /> +Deep sleep descended on him. Waking soon,<br /> +He rose a man of might, and in that might<br /> +Laboured; and God His servant’s toil revered;<br /> +And gladly on that coast Erin to Christ<br /> +Paid her firstfruits. Three days he preached his Lord:<br +/> +The fourth embarking, cape succeeding cape<br /> +They passed, and heard the lowing herds remote<br /> +In hollow glens, and smelt the balmy breath<br /> +Of gorse on golden hillsides; till at eve,<br /> +The Imber Domnand reached, on silver sands<br /> +Grated their keel. Around them flocked at dawn<br /> +Warriors with hunters mixed, and shepherd youths<br /> +And maids with lips as red as mountain berries<br /> +And eyes like sloes, or keener eyes, dark-fringed<br /> +And gleaming like the blue-black spear. They came<br /> +With milk-pail, and with kid, and kindled fire<br /> +And spread the genial board. Upon that shore<br /> +Full many knelt and gave themselves to Christ,<br /> +Strong men, and men at midmost of their hopes<br /> +By sickness felled; old chiefs, at life’s dim close<br /> +That oft had asked, “Beyond the grave what hope?”<br +/> +Worn sailors weary of the toilsome seas,<br /> +And craving rest; they, too, that sex which wears<br /> +The blended crowns of Chastity and Love;<br /> +Wondering, they hailed the Maiden-Motherhood;<br /> +And listening children praised the Babe Divine,<br /> +And passed Him, each to each.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Ere +long, once more<br /> +Their sails were spread. Again by grassy marge<br /> +They rowed, and sylvan glades. The branching deer<br /> +Like flying gleams went by them. Oft the cry<br /> +Of fighting clans rang out: but oftener yet<br /> +Clamour of rural dance, or mart confused<br /> +With many-coloured garb and movements swift,<br /> +Pageant sun-bright: or on the sands a throng<br /> +Girdled with circle glad some bard whose song<br /> +Shook the wild clan as tempest shakes the woods.<br /> +Still north the wanderers sailed: at evening, mists<br /> +Cumbered the shore and on them leaned the blast,<br /> +And fierce rain flashed mingling with dim-lit sea.<br /> +All night they toiled; next day at noon they kenned<br /> +A seaward stream that shone like golden tress<br /> +Severed and random-thrown. That river’s mouth<br /> +Ere long attained was all with lilies white<br /> +As April field with daisies. Entering there<br /> +They reached a wood, and disembarked with joy:<br /> +There, after thanks to God, silent they sat<br /> +In thought, and watched the ripples, dusk yet bright,<br /> +That lived and died like things that laughed at time,<br /> +On gliding ’neath those many-centuried boughs.<br /> +But, midmost, Patrick slept. Then through the trees,<br /> +Shy as a fawn half-tamed now stole, now fled<br /> +A boy of such bright aspect faëry child<br /> +He seemed, or babe exposed of royal race:<br /> +At last assured beside the Saint he stood,<br /> +And dropped on him a flower, and disappeared:<br /> +Thus flower on flower from the great wood he brought<br /> +And hid them in the bosom of the Saint.<br /> +The monks forbade him, saying, “Lest thou wake<br /> +The master from his sleep.” But Patrick woke,<br /> +And saw the boy, and said, “Forbid him not;<br /> +The heir of all my kingdom is this child.”<br /> +Then spake the brethren, “Wilt thou walk with us?”<br +/> +And he, “I will:” and so for his sweet face<br /> +They called his name Benignus: and the boy<br /> +Thenceforth was Christ’s. Beneath his parent’s +roof<br /> +At night they housed. Nowhere that child would sleep<br /> +Except at Patrick’s feet. Till Patrick’s +death<br /> +Unchanged to him he clave, and after reigned<br /> +The second at Ardmacha.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Day +by day<br /> +They held their course; ere long the hills of Mourne<br /> +Loomed through sea-mist: Ulidian summits next<br /> +Before them rose: but nearer at their left<br /> +Inland with westward channel wound the wave<br /> +Changed to sea-lake. Nine miles with chant and hymn<br /> +They tracked the gold path of the sinking sun;<br /> +Then southward ran ’twixt headland and green isle<br /> +And landed. Dewy pastures sunset-dazed,<br /> +At leisure paced by mild-eyed milk-white kine<br /> +Smiled them a welcome. Onward moved in sight<br /> +Swiftly, with shadow far before him cast,<br /> +Dichu, that region’s lord, a martial man<br /> +And merry, and a speaker of the truth.<br /> +Pirates he deemed them first and toward them faced<br /> +With wolf-hounds twain that watched their master’s eye<br +/> +To spring, or not to spring. The imperious face<br /> +Forbidding not, they sprang; but Patrick raised<br /> +His hand, and stone-like crouched they chained and still:<br /> +Then, Dichu onward striding fierce, the Saint<br /> +Between them signed the Cross; and lo, the sword<br /> +Froze in his hand, and Dichu stood like stone.<br /> +The amazement past, he prayed the man of God<br /> +To grace his house; and, side by side, a mile<br /> +They clomb the hills. Ascending, Patrick turned,<br /> +His heart with prescience filled. Beneath, there lay<br /> +A gleaming strait; beyond, a dim vast plain<br /> +With many an inlet pierced: a golden marge<br /> +Girdled the water-tongues with flag and reed;<br /> +But, farther off, a gentle sea-mist changed<br /> +The fair green flats to purple. “Night comes +on;”<br /> +Thus Dichu spake, and waited. Patrick then<br /> +Advanced once more, and Sabhall soon was reached,<br /> +A castle half, half barn. There garnered lay<br /> +Much grain, and sun-imbrowned: and Patrick said,<br /> +“Here where the earthly grain was stored for man<br /> +The bread of angels man shall eat one day.”<br /> +And Patrick loved that place, and Patrick said,<br /> +“King Dichu, give thou to the poor that grain,<br /> +To Christ, our Lord, thy barn.” The strong man +stood<br /> +In doubt; but prayers of little orphaned babes<br /> +Reared by his hand, went up for him that hour:<br /> +Therefore that barn he ceded, and to Christ<br /> +By Patrick was baptised. Where lay the corn<br /> +A convent later rose. There dwelt he oft;<br /> +And ’neath its roof more late the stranger sat,<br /> +Exile, or kingdom-wearied king, or bard,<br /> +That haply blind in age, yet tempest-rocked<br /> +By memories of departed glories, drew<br /> +With gradual influx into his old heart<br /> +Solace of Christian hope.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> With +Dichu bode<br /> +Patrick somewhile, intent from him to learn<br /> +The inmost of that people. Oft they spake<br /> +Of Milcho. “Once his thrall, against my will<br /> +In earthly things I served him: for his soul<br /> +Needs therefore must I labour. Hard was he;<br /> +Unlike those hearts to which God’s Truth makes way<br /> +Like message from a mother in her grave:<br /> +Yet what I can I must. Not heaven itself<br /> +Can force belief; for Faith is still good will.”<br /> +Dichu laughed aloud: “Good will! Milcho’s good +will<br /> +Neither to others, nor himself, good will<br /> +Hath Milcho! Fireless sits he, winter through,<br /> +The logs beside his hearth: and as on them<br /> +Glimmers the rime, so glimmers on his face<br /> +The smile. Convert him! Better thrice to hang him!<br +/> +Baptise him! He will film your font with ice!<br /> +The cold of Milcho’s heart has winter-nipt<br /> +That glen he dwells in! From the sea it slopes<br /> +Unfinished, savage, like some nightmare dream,<br /> +Raked by an endless east wind of its own.<br /> +On wolf’s milk was he suckled not on woman’s!<br /> +To Milcho speed! Of Milcho claim belief!<br /> +Milcho will shrivel his small eye and say<br /> +He scorns to trust himself his father’s son,<br /> +Nor deems his lands his own by right of race<br /> +But clutched by stress of brain! Old Milcho’s God<br +/> +Is gold. Forbear him, sir, or ere you seek him<br /> +Make smooth your way with gold.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Thus +Dichu spake;<br /> +And Patrick, after musings long, replied:<br /> +“Faith is no gift that gold begets or feeds,<br /> +Oftener by gold extinguished. Unto God,<br /> +Unbribed, unpurchased, yearns the soul of man;<br /> +Yet finds perforce in God its great reward.<br /> +Not less this Milcho deems I did him wrong,<br /> +His slave, yet fleeing. To requite that loss<br /> +Gifts will I send him first by messengers<br /> +Ere yet I see his face.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +Patrick sent<br /> +His messengers to Milcho, speaking thus:<br /> +“If ill befell thy herds through flight of mine<br /> +Fourfold that loss requite I, lest, for hate<br /> +Of me, thou disesteem my Master’s Word.<br /> +Likewise I sue thy friendship; and I come<br /> +In few days’ space, with gift of other gold<br /> +Than earth concedes, the Tidings of that God<br /> +Who made all worlds, and late His Face hath shown,<br /> +Sun-like to man. But thou, rejoice in hope!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><br /> +Thus Patrick, once by man advised in part,<br /> +Though wont to counsel with his God alone.</p> +<p class="poetry"><br /> +Meantime full many a rumour vague had vexed<br /> +Milcho much musing. He had dealings large<br /> +And distant. Died a chief? He sent and bought<br /> +The widow’s all; or sold on foodless shores<br /> +For usury the leanest of his kine.<br /> +Meantime, his dark ships and the populous quays<br /> +With news still murmured. First from Imber Dea<br /> +Came whispers how a sage had landed late,<br /> +And how when Nathi fain had barred his way,<br /> +Nathi that spurned Palladius from the land,<br /> +That sage with levelled eyes, and kingly front<br /> +Had from his presence driven him with a ban<br /> +Cur-like and craven; how on bended knee<br /> +Sinell believed, the royal man well-loved<br /> +Descending from the judgment-seat with joy:<br /> +And how when fishers spurned his brethren’s quest<br /> +For needful food, that sage had raised his rod,<br /> +And all the silver harvest of blue streams<br /> +Lay black in nets and sand. His wrinkled brow<br /> +Wrinkling yet more, thus Milcho answer made:<br /> +“Deceived are those that will to be deceived:<br /> +This knave has heard of gold in river-beds,<br /> +And comes a deft sand-groper; let him come!<br /> +He’ll toil ten years ere gold enough he finds<br /> +To make a crooked torque.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> From +Tara next<br /> +The news: “Laeghaire, the King, sits close in cloud<br /> +Of sullen thought, or storms from court to court,<br /> +Because the chiefest of the Druid race<br /> +Locru, and Luchat prophesied long since<br /> +That one day from the sea a Priest would come<br /> +With Doctrine and a Rite, and dash to earth<br /> +Idols, and hurl great monarchs from their thrones;<br /> +And lo! At Imber Boindi late there stept<br /> +A priest from roaring waves with Creed and Rite,<br /> +And men before him bow.” Then Milcho spake:<br /> +“Not flesh enough from thy strong bones, Laeghaire,<br /> +These Druids, ravens of the woods, have plucked,<br /> +But they must pluck thine eyes! Ah priestly race,<br /> +I loathe ye! ’Twixt the people and their King<br /> +Ever ye rub a sore!” Last came a voice:<br /> +“This day in Eire thy saying is fulfilled,<br /> +Conn of the ‘Hundred Battles,’ from thy throne<br /> +Leaping long since, and crying, ‘O’er the sea<br /> +The Prophet cometh, princes in his train,<br /> +Bearing for regal sceptres bended staffs,<br /> +Which from the land’s high places, cliff and peak,<br /> +Shall drag the fair flowers down!’” Scoffing he +heard:<br /> +“Conn of the ‘Hundred Battles!’ Had he +sent<br /> +His hundred thousand kernes to yonder steep<br /> +And rolled its boulders down, and built a mole<br /> +To fence my laden ships from spring-tide surge,<br /> +Far kinglier pattern had he shown, and given<br /> +More solace to the land.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> He +rose and turned<br /> +With sideway leer; and printing with vague step<br /> +Irregular the shining sands, on strode<br /> +Toward his cold home, alone; and saw by chance<br /> +A little bird light-perched, that, being sick,<br /> +Plucked from the fissured sea-cliff grains of sand;<br /> +And, noting, said, “O bird, when beak of thine<br /> +From base to crown hath gorged this huge sea-wall,<br /> +Then shall that man of Creed and Rite make null<br /> +The strong rock of my will!” Thus Milcho spake,<br /> +Feigning the peace not his.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Next +day it chanced<br /> +Women he heard in converse. Thus the first:<br /> +“If true the news, good speed for him, my boy!<br /> +Poor slaves by Milcho scourged on earth shall wear<br /> +In heaven a monarch’s crown! Good speed for her<br /> +His little sister, not reserved like us<br /> +To bend beneath these loads.” To whom her mate:<br /> +“Doubt not the Prophet’s tidings! Not in +vain<br /> +The Power Unknown hath shaped us! Come He must,<br /> +Or send, and help His people on their way.<br /> +Good is He, or He ne’er had made these babes!”<br /> +They passed, and Milcho said, “Through hate of me<br /> +All men believe!” And straightway Milcho’s +face<br /> +Grew bleaker than that crab-tree stem forlorn<br /> +That hid him, wanner than that sea-sand wet<br /> +That whitened round his foot down-pressed.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Time +passed.<br /> +One morn in bitter mockery Milcho mused:<br /> +“What better laughter than when thief from thief<br /> +Pilfers the pilfered goods? Our Druid thief<br /> +Two thousand years hath milked and shorn this land;<br /> +Now comes the thief outlandish that with him<br /> +Would share milk-pail and fleece! O Bacrach old,<br /> +To hear thee shout ‘Impostor!’” Straight +he went<br /> +To Bacrach’s cell hid in a skirt wind-shav’n<br /> +Of low-grown wood, and met, departing thence,<br /> +Three sailors sea-tanned from a ship late-beached.<br /> +Within a corner huddled, on the floor,<br /> +The Druid sat, cowering, and cold, and mazed:<br /> +Sudden he rose, and cried, by conquering joy<br /> +Clothed as with youth restored: “The God Unknown,<br /> +That God who made the earth, hath walked the earth!<br /> +This hour His Prophet treads the isle! Three men<br /> +Have seen him; and their speech is true. To them<br /> +That Prophet spake: ‘Four hundred years ago,<br /> +Sinless God’s Son on earth for sinners died:<br /> +Black grew the world, and graves gave up their dead.’<br /> +Thus spake the Seer. Four hundred years ago!<br /> +Mark well the time! Of Ulster’s Druid race<br /> +What man but yearly, those four hundred years,<br /> +Trembled that tale recounting which with this<br /> +Tallies as footprint with the foot of man?<br /> +Four hundred years ago—that self-same day—<br /> +Connor, the son of Nessa, Ulster’s King,<br /> +Sat throned, and judged his people. As he sat,<br /> +Under clear skies, behold, o’er all the earth<br /> +Swept a great shadow from the windless east;<br /> +And darkness hung upon the air three hours;<br /> +Dead fell the birds, and beasts astonied fled.<br /> +Then to his Chief of Druids, Connor spake<br /> +Whispering; and he, his oracles explored,<br /> +Shivering made answer, ‘From a land accursed,<br /> +O King, that shadow sweeps; therein, this hour,<br /> +By sinful men sinless God’s Son is slain.’<br /> +Then Ulster’s king, down-dashing sceptre and crown,<br /> +Rose, clamouring, ‘Sinless! shall the sinless +die?’<br /> +And madness fell on him; and down that steep<br /> +He rushed whereon the Emanian Palace stood,<br /> +And reached the grove, Lambraidhè, with two swords,<br /> +The sword of battle, and the sword of state,<br /> +And hewed and hewed, crying, ‘Were I but there<br /> +Thus they should fall who slay that Sinless One;’<br /> +And in that madness died. Old Erin’s sons<br /> +Beheld this thing; nor ever in the land<br /> +Hath ceased the rumour, nor the tear for him<br /> +Who, wroth at justice trampled, martyr died.<br /> +And now we know that not for any dream<br /> +He died, but for the truth: and whensoe’er<br /> +The Prophet of that Son of God who died<br /> +Sinless for sinners, standeth in this place,<br /> +I, Bacrach, oldest Druid in this Isle,<br /> +Will rise the first, and kiss his vesture’s hem.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He spake; and Milcho heard, and without +speech<br /> +Departed from that house.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> A +later day<br /> +When the wild March sunset, gone almost ere come,<br /> +By glacial shower was hustled out of life,<br /> +Under a blighted ash tree, near his house,<br /> +Thus mused the man: “Believe, or Disbelieve!<br /> +The will does both; Then idiot who would be<br /> +For profitless belief to sell himself?<br /> +Yet disbelief not less might work our bane!<br /> +For, I remember, once a sickly slave<br /> +Ill shepherded my flock: I spake him plain;<br /> +‘When next, through fault of thine, the midnight wolf<br /> +Worries my sheep, on yonder tree you hang:’<br /> +The blear-eyed idiot looked into my face,<br /> +And smiled his disbelief. On that day week<br /> +Two lambs lay dead. I hanged him on a tree.<br /> +What tree? this tree! Why, this is passing strange!<br /> +For, three nights since, I saw him in a dream:<br /> +Weakling as wont he stood beside my bed,<br /> +And, clutching at his wrenched and livid throat,<br /> +Spake thus, ‘Belief is safest.’”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Ceased +the hail<br /> +To rattle on the ever barren boughs,<br /> +And friendlier sound was heard. Beside his door<br /> +Wayworn the messengers of Patrick stood,<br /> +And showed the gifts, and held his missive forth.<br /> +Then learned that lost one all the truth. That sage<br /> +Confessed by miracles, that prophet vouched<br /> +By warnings old, that seer by words of might<br /> +Subduing all things to himself—that priest,<br /> +None other was than the uncomplaining boy<br /> +Five years his slave and swineherd! In him rage<br /> +Burst forth, with fear commixed, as when a beast<br /> +Strains in the toils. “Can I alone stand +firm?”<br /> +He mused; and next, “Shall I, in mine old age,<br /> +Byword become—the vassal of my slave?<br /> +Shall I not rather drive him from my door<br /> +With wolf hounds and a curse?” As thus he stood<br /> +He marked the gifts, and bade men bare them in,<br /> +And homeward signed the messengers unfed.</p> +<p class="poetry">But Milcho slept not all that night for +thought,<br /> +And, forth ere sunrise issuing, paced a moor<br /> +Stone-roughened like the graveyard of dead hosts,<br /> +Till noontide. Sudden then he stopt, and thus<br /> +Discoursed within: “A plot from first to last,<br /> +The fraudulent bondage, flight, and late return;<br /> +For now I mind me of a foolish dream<br /> +Chance-sent, yet drawn by him awry. One night<br /> +Methought that boy from far hills drenched in rain<br /> +Dashed through my halls, all fire. From hands and head,<br +/> +From hair and mouth, forth rushed a flaming fire<br /> +White, like white light, and still that mighty flame<br /> +Into itself took all. With hands outstretched<br /> +I spurned it. On my cradled daughters twain<br /> +It turned, and they were ashes. Then in burst<br /> +The south wind through the portals of the house,<br /> +Tempest rose-sweet, and blew those ashes forth<br /> +Wide as the realm. At dawn I sought the knave;<br /> +He glossed my vision thus: ‘That fire is Faith—<br /> +Faith in the God Triune, the God made Man,<br /> +Sole light wherein I walk, and walking burn;<br /> +And they that walk with me shall burn like me<br /> +By Faith. But thou that radiance wilt repel,<br /> +Housed through ill-will, in Error’s endless night.<br /> +Not less thy little daughters shall believe<br /> +With glory and great joy; and, when they die,<br /> +Report of them, like ashes blown abroad,<br /> +Shall light far lands, and health to men of Faith<br /> +Stream from their dust.’ I drave the impostor +forth:<br /> +Perjured ere long he fled, and now returns<br /> +To reap a harvest from his master’s dream”—<br +/> +Thus mused he, while black shadow swept the moor.<br /> + So day by day darker was Milcho’s heart,<br /> +Till, with the endless brooding on one thought,<br /> +Began a little flaw within that brain<br /> +Whose strength was still his boast. Was no friend nigh?<br +/> +Alas! what friend had he? All men he scorned;<br /> +Knew truly none. In each, the best and sweetest<br /> +Near him had ever pined, like stunted growth<br /> +Dwarfed by some glacier nigh. The fifth day dawned:<br /> +And inly thus he muttered, darkly pale:<br /> +“Five days; in three the messengers returned:<br /> +In three—in two—the Accursèd will be here,<br +/> +Or blacken yonder Sleemish with his crew<br /> +Descending. Then those idiots, kerne and slave—<br /> +The mighty flame into itself takes all—<br /> +Full swarm will fly to meet him! Fool! fool! fool!<br /> +The man hath snared me with those gifts he sent;<br /> +Else had I barred the mountains: now ’twere late,<br /> +My people in revolt. Whole weeks his horde<br /> +Will throng my courts, demanding board and bed,<br /> +With hosts by Dichu sent to flout my pang,<br /> +And sorer make my charge. My granaries sacked,<br /> +My larder lean as ship six months ice-bound,<br /> +The man I hate will rise, and open shake<br /> +The invincible banner of his mad new Faith,<br /> +Till all that hear him shout, like winds or waves,<br /> +Belief; and I be left sole recusant;<br /> +Or else perhaps that Fury who prevails<br /> +At times o’er knee-joints of reluctant men,<br /> +By magic imped, may crumble into dust<br /> +By force my disbelief.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> He +raised his head,<br /> +And lo, before him lay the sea far ebbed<br /> +Sad with a sunset all but gone: the reeds<br /> +Sighed in the wind, and sighed a sweeter voice<br /> +Oft heard in childhood—now the last time heard:<br /> +“Believe!” it whispered. Vain the voice! +That hour,<br /> +Stirred from the abyss, the sins of all his life<br /> +Around him rose like night—not one, but all—<br /> +That earliest sin which, like a dagger, pierced<br /> +His mother’s heart; that worst, when summer drouth<br /> +Parched the brown vales, and infants thirsting died,<br /> +While from full pail he gorged his swine with milk<br /> +And flung the rest away. Sin-walled he stood:<br /> +God’s Angels could not pierce that cincture dread,<br /> +Nor he look through it. Yet he dreamed he saw:<br /> +His life he saw; its labours, and its gains<br /> +Hard won, long-waited, wonder of his foes;<br /> +The manifold conquests of a Will oft tried;<br /> +Victory, Defeat, Retrieval; last, that scene<br /> +Around him spread: the wan sea and grey rocks;<br /> +And he was ’ware that on that self-same ledge<br /> +He, Milcho, thirty years gone by, had stood,<br /> +While pirates pushed to sea, leaving forlorn<br /> +On that wild shore a scared and weeping boy,<br /> +(His price two yearling kids and half a sheep)<br /> +Thenceforth his slave.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Not +sole he mused that hour.<br /> +The Demon of his House beside him stood<br /> +Upon that iron coast, and whispered thus:<br /> +“Masterful man art thou for wit and strength;<br /> +Yet girl-like standst thou brooding! Weave a snare!<br /> +He comes for gold, this prophet. All thou hast<br /> +Heap in thy house; then fire it! In far lands<br /> +Build thee new fortunes. Frustrate thus shall he<br /> +Stare but on stones, his destined vassal scaped.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So fell the whisper; and as one who hears<br /> +And does, the stiff-necked man obsequious bent<br /> +His strong will to a stronger, and returned,<br /> +And gave command to heap within his house<br /> +His stored up wealth—yea, all things that were +his—<br /> +Borne from his ships and granaries. It was done.<br /> +Then filled he his huge hall with resinous beams<br /> +Seasoned for far sea-voyage, and the ribs<br /> +Of ocean-sundering vessels deep in sea;<br /> +Which ended, to his topmost tower he clomb,<br /> +And therein sat two days, with face to south,<br /> +Clutching a brand; and oft through clenched teeth hissed,<br /> +Hissed long, “Because I will to disbelieve.”<br /> + But ere the second sunset two brief hours,<br /> +Where comfortless leaned forth that western ridge<br /> +Long patched with whiteness by half melted snows,<br /> +There crept a gradual shadow. Soon the man<br /> +Discerned its import. There they hung—he saw +them—<br /> +That company detested; hung as when<br /> +Storm-boding cloud on mountain hangs half way<br /> +Scarce moving, and in fear the shepherd cries,<br /> +“Would that the worse were come!” So dread to +him<br /> +Those Heralds of fair Peace! He gazed upon them<br /> +With blood-shot eyes; a moment passed: he stood<br /> +Sole in his never festal hall, and flung<br /> +His lighted brand into that pile far forth,<br /> +And smiled that smile men feared to see, and turned,<br /> +And issuing faced the circle of his serfs<br /> +That wondering gathered round in thickening mass,<br /> +Eyeing that unloved House.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> His +place he chose<br /> +Beside that blighted ash, fronting those towers<br /> +Palled with red smoke, and muttered low, “So be it!<br /> +Worse to be vassal to the man I hate,”<br /> +With hueless lips. His whole white face that hour<br /> +Was scorched; and blistered was the dead tree’s bark;<br /> +Yet there he stood; and in that fiery light<br /> +His life, no more triumphant, passed once more<br /> +In underthought before him, while on spread<br /> +The swift, contagious madness of that fire,<br /> +And muttered thus, not knowing it, the man,<br /> +“The mighty flame into itself takes all,”<br /> +Mechanic iteration. Not alone<br /> +Stood he that hour. The Demon of his House<br /> +By him once more and closer than of old,<br /> +Stood, whispering thus, “Thy game is now played out;<br /> +Henceforth a byword art thou—rich in youth—<br /> +Self-beggared in old age.” And as the wind<br /> +Of that shrill whisper cut his listening soul,<br /> +The blazing roof fell in on all his wealth,<br /> +Hard-won, long-waited, wonder of his foes;<br /> +And, loud as laughter from ten thousand fiends,<br /> +Up rushed the fire. With arms outstretched he stood;<br /> +Stood firm; then forward with a wild beast’s cry<br /> +He dashed himself into that terrible flame,<br /> +And vanished as a leaf.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Upon +a spur<br /> +Of Sleemish, eastward on its northern slope,<br /> +Stood Patrick and his brethren, travel-worn,<br /> +When distant o’er the brown and billowy moor<br /> +Rose the white smoke, that changed ere long to flame,<br /> +From site unknown; for by the seaward crest<br /> +That keep lay hidden. Hands to forehead raised,<br /> +Wondering they watched it. One to other spake:<br /> +“The huge Dalriad forest is afire<br /> +Ere melted are the winter’s snows!” Another,<br +/> +“In vengeance o’er the ocean Creithe or Pict,<br /> +Favoured by magic, or by mist, have crossed,<br /> +And fired old Milcho’s ships.” But Patrick +leaned<br /> +Upon his crosier, pale as the ashes wan<br /> +Left by a burned out city. Long he stood<br /> +Silent, till, sudden, fiercelier soared the flame<br /> +Reddening the edges of a cloud low hung;<br /> +And, after pause, vibration slow and stern<br /> +Troubling the burthened bosom of the air,<br /> +Upon a long surge of the northern wind<br /> +Came up—a murmur as of wintry seas<br /> +Far borne at night. All heard that sound; all felt it;<br +/> +One only know its import. Patrick turned;<br /> +“The deed is done: the man I would have saved<br /> +Is dead, because he willed to disbelieve.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet Patrick grieved for Milcho, nor that +hour<br /> +Passed further north. Three days on Sleemish hill<br /> +He dwelt in prayer. To Tara’s royal halls<br /> +Then turned he, and subdued the royal house<br /> +And host to Christ, save Erin’s king, Laeghaire.<br /> +But Milcho’s daughters twain to Christ were born<br /> +In baptism, and each Emeria named:<br /> +Like rose-trees in the garden of the Lord<br /> +Grew they and flourished. Dying young, one grave<br /> +Received them at Cluanbrain. Healing thence<br /> +To many from their relics passed; to more<br /> +The spirit’s happier healing, Love and Faith.</p> +<h3>SAINT PATRICK AT TARA.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> King is wroth +with a greater wrath<br /> + Than the wrath of Nial or the wrath of Conn!<br /> +From his heart to his brow the blood makes path,<br /> + And hangs there, a red cloud, beneath his crown.</p> +<p class="poetry">Is there any who knows not, from south to +north,<br /> + That Laeghaire to-morrow his birthday keeps?<br /> +No fire may be lit upon hill or hearth<br /> +Till the King’s strong fire in its kingly mirth<br /> + Up rushes from Tara’s palace steeps!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet Patrick has lighted his Paschal fire<br /> + At Slane—it is holy Saturday—<br /> +And blessed his font ’mid the chaunting choir!<br /> + From hill to hill the flame makes way;<br /> +While the king looks on it his eyes with ire<br /> + Flash red, like Mars, under tresses grey.</p> +<p class="poetry">The chiefs and the captains with drawn swords +rose:<br /> + To avenge their Lord and the Realm they swore;<br /> + The Druids rose and their garments tore;<br /> +“The strangers to us and our Gods are foes!”<br /> +Then the king to Patrick a herald sent,<br /> + Who spake, “Come up at noon and show<br /> +Who lit thy fire and with what intent:<br /> + These things the great king Laeghaire would +know.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But Laeghaire had hid twelve men by the way,<br +/> +Who swore by the sun the Saint to slay.</p> +<p class="poetry">When the waters of Boyne began to bask<br /> + And fields to flash in the rising sun<br /> +The Apostle Evangelist kept his Pasch,<br /> + And Erin her grace baptismal won:<br /> +Her birthday it was: his font the rock,<br /> +He blessed the land, and he blessed his flock.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then forth to Tara he fared full lowly:<br /> + The Staff of Jesus was in his hand:<br /> +Twelve priests paced after him chaunting slowly,<br /> + Printing their steps on the dewy land.<br /> +It was the Resurrection morn;<br /> +The lark sang loud o’er the springing corn;<br /> +The dove was heard, and the hunter’s horn.</p> +<p class="poetry">The murderers twelve stood by on the way;<br /> +Yet they saw nought save the lambs at play.</p> +<p class="poetry">A trouble lurked in the monarch’s eye<br +/> +When the guest he counted for dead drew nigh:<br /> +He sat in state at his palace gate;<br /> + His chiefs and nobles were ranged around;<br /> +The Druids like ravens smelt some far fate;<br /> + Their eyes were gloomily bent on the ground.<br /> +Then spake Laeghaire: “He comes—beware!<br /> +Let none salute him, or rise from his chair!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Like some still vision men see by night,<br /> + Mitred, with eyes of serene command,<br /> +Saint Patrick moved onward in ghostly white:<br /> + The Staff of Jesus was in his hand;<br /> +Twelve priests paced after him unafraid,<br /> +And the boy, Benignus, more like a maid;<br /> +Like a maid just wedded he walked and smiled,<br /> +To Christ new plighted, that priestly child.</p> +<p class="poetry">They entered the circle; their anthem +ceased;<br /> + The Druids their eyes bent earthward still:<br /> +On Patrick’s brow the glory increased<br /> + As a sunrise brightening some sea-beat hill.<br /> +The warriors sat silent: strange awe they felt:<br /> +The chief bard, Dubtach, rose and knelt:</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Patrick discoursed of the things to be<br +/> +When time gives way to eternity,<br /> +Of kingdoms that fall, which are dreams not things,<br /> +And the Kingdom built by the King of kings.<br /> +Of Him he spake who reigns from the Cross;<br /> +Of the death which is life, and the life which is loss;<br /> +How all things were made by the Infant Lord,<br /> +And the small hand the Magian kings adored.<br /> +His voice sounded on like a throbbing flood<br /> +That swells all night from some far-off wood,<br /> +And when it ended—that wondrous strain—<br /> +Invisible myriads breathed “Amen!”</p> +<p class="poetry">While he spake, men say that the refluent +tide<br /> + On the shore by Colpa ceased to sink:<br /> +They say that the white stag by Mulla’s side<br /> + O’er the green marge bending forbore to +drink:<br /> +That the Brandon eagle forgat to soar;<br /> + That no leaf stirred in the wood by Lee:<br /> +Such stupor hung the island o’er,<br /> + For none might guess what the end would be.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then whispered the king to a chief close by,<br +/> +“It were better for me to believe than die!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet the king believed not; but ordinance +gave<br /> + That whoso would might believe that word:<br /> +So the meek believed, and the wise, and brave,<br /> + And Mary’s Son as their God adored.<br /> +And the Druids, because they could answer nought,<br /> +Bowed down to the Faith the stranger brought.<br /> +That day on Erin God poured His Spirit:<br /> +Yet none like the chief of the bards had merit,<br /> +Dubtach! He rose and believed the first,<br /> +Ere the great light yet on the rest had burst.</p> +<h3>SAINT PATRICK AND THE TWO PRINCESSES.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">FEDELM “THE RED ROSE,” AND +ETHNA “THE FAIR.”</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Like</span> two sister +fawns that leap,<br /> + Borne, as though on viewless wings,<br /> +Down bosky glade and ferny steep<br /> + To quench their thirst at silver springs,<br /> +From Cruachan palace through gorse and heather,<br /> +Raced the Royal Maids together.<br /> +Since childhood thus the twain had rushed<br /> + Each morn to Clebach’s fountain-cell<br /> +Ere earliest dawn the East had flushed<br /> + To bathe them in its well:<br /> +Each morn with joy their young hearts tingled;<br /> + Each morn as, conquering cloud or mist,<br /> +The first beam with the wavelet mingled,<br /> + Mouth to mouth they kissed!</p> +<p class="poetry">They stand by the fount with their unlooped +hair—<br /> +A hand each raises—what see they there?<br /> +A white Form seated on Clebach stone;<br /> + A kinglike presence: the monks stood nigh:<br /> +Fronting the dawn he sat alone;<br /> + On the star of morning he fixed his eye:<br /> +That crozier he grasped shone bright; but brighter<br /> +The sunrise flashed from Saint Patrick’s mitre!<br /> +They gazed without fear. To a kingdom dear<br /> + From the day of their birth those Maids had been;<br +/> +Of wrong they had heard; but it came not near;<br /> + They hoped they were dear to the Power unseen.<br /> +They knelt when that Vision of Peace they saw;<br /> +Knelt, not in fear, but in loving awe:<br /> +The “Red Rose” bloomed like that East afar;<br /> +The “Fair One” shone like that morning star.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Patrick rose: no word he said,<br /> + But thrice he made the sacred Sign:<br /> +At the first, men say that the demons fled;<br /> + At the third flocked round them the Powers divine<br +/> +Unseen. Like children devout and good,<br /> +Hands crossed on their bosoms, the maidens stood.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Blessed and holy! This land is +Eire:<br /> +Whence come ye to her, and the king our sire?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“We come from a Kingdom far off yet +near<br /> +Which the wise love well, and the wicked fear:<br /> +We come with blessing and come with ban,<br /> +We come from the Kingdom of God with man.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Whose is that Kingdom? And say, +therein<br /> + Are the chiefs all brave, and the maids all fair?<br +/> +Is it clean from reptiles, and that thing, sin?<br /> + Is it like this kingdom of King +Laeghaire?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“The chiefs of that kingdom wage war on +wrong,<br /> +And the clash of their swords is sweet as song;<br /> +Fair are the maids, and so pure from taint<br /> +The flash of their eyes turns sinner to saint;<br /> +There reptile is none, nor the ravening beast;<br /> +There light has no shadow, no end the feast.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“But say, at that feast hath the poor man +place?<br /> + Is reverence there for the old head hoar?<br /> +For the cripple that never might join the race?<br /> + For the maimed that fought, and can fight no +more?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Reverence is there for the poor and +meek;<br /> +And the great King kisses the worn, pale cheek;<br /> +And the King’s Son waits on the pilgrim guest;<br /> +And the Queen takes the little blind child to her breast:<br /> +There with a crown is the just man crowned;<br /> +But the false and the vengeful are branded and bound<br /> +In knots of serpents, and flung without pity<br /> +From the bastions and walls of the saintly City.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the eyes of the Maidens grew dark, as +though<br /> + That judgment of God had before them passed:<br /> +And the two sweet faces grew dim with woe;<br /> + But the rose and the radiance returned at last.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Are gardens there? Are there +streams like ours?<br /> + Is God white-headed, or youthful and strong?<br /> +Hang there the rainbows o’er happy bowers?<br /> + Are there sun and moon and the thrush’s +song?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“They have gardens there without noise or +strife,<br /> +And there is the Tree of immortal Life:<br /> +Four rivers circle that blissful bound;<br /> +And Spirits float o’er it, and Spirits go round:<br /> +There, set in the midst, is the golden throne;<br /> +And the Maker of all things sits thereon:<br /> +A rainbow o’er-hangs him; and lo! therein<br /> +The beams are His Holy Ones washed from sin.”</p> +<p class="poetry">As he spake, the hearts of the Maids beat +time<br /> + To music in heaven of peace and love;<br /> +And the deeper sense of that lore sublime<br /> + Came out from within them, and down from above;<br +/> +By degrees came down; by degrees came out:<br /> +Who loveth, and hopeth, not long shall doubt.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Who is your God? Is love on His +brow?<br /> +Oh how shall we love Him and find Him? How?”<br /> +The pure cheek flamed like the dawn-touched dew:<br /> +There was silence: then Patrick began anew.<br /> +“The princes who ride in your father’s train<br /> +Have courted your love, but sued in vain;—<br /> +Look up, O Maidens; make answer free:<br /> +What boon desire you, and what would you be?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Pure we would be as yon wreath of +foam,<br /> + Or the ripple which now yon sunbeams smite:<br /> +And joy we would have, and a songful home;<br /> + And one to rule us, and Love’s +delight.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“In love God fashioned whatever is,<br /> + The hills, and the seas, and the skiey fires;<br /> +For love He made them, and endless blis<br /> + Sustains, enkindles, uplifts, inspires:<br /> +That God is Father, and Son, and Spirit;<br /> +And the true and spotless His peace inherit:<br /> +And God made man, with his great sad heart,<br /> +That hungers when held from God apart.<br /> +Your sire is a King on earth: but I<br /> +Would mate you to One who is Lord on high:<br /> +There bride is maid: and her joy shall stand,<br /> +For the King’s Son hath laid on her head His +hand.”<br /> +As he spake, the eyes of that lovely twain<br /> + Grew large with a tearful but glorious light,<br /> +Like skies of summer late cleared by rain,<br /> + When the full-orbed moon will be soon in sight.</p> +<p class="poetry">“That Son of the King—is He fairest +of men?<br /> + That mate whom He crowns—is she bright and +blest?<br /> +Does she chase the red deer at His side through the glen?<br /> + Does she charm Him with song to His noontide +rest?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“That King’s Son strove in a long, +long war:<br /> +His people He freed; yet they wounded Him sore;<br /> +And still in His hands, and His feet, and His side,<br /> +The scars of His sorrow are ’graved, deep-dyed.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the breasts of the Maidens began to +heave<br /> + Like harbour waves when beyond the bar<br /> +The great waves gather, and wet winds grieve,<br /> + And the roll of the tempest is heard afar.</p> +<p class="poetry">“We will kiss, we will kiss those +bleeding feet;<br /> + On the bleeding hands our tears shall fall;<br /> +And whatever on earth is dear or sweet,<br /> + For that wounded heart we renounce them all.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Show us the way to His +palace-gate:”—<br /> +“That way is thorny, and steep, and straight;<br /> +By none can His palace-gate be seen,<br /> +Save those who have washed in the waters clean.”</p> +<p class="poetry">They knelt; on their heads the wave he +poured<br /> +Thrice in the name of the Triune Lord:<br /> +And he signed their brows with the Sign adored.<br /> +On Fedelm the “Red Rose,” on Ethna “The +Fair,”<br /> +God’s dew shone bright in that morning air:<br /> +Some say that Saint Agnes, ’twixt sister and sister,<br /> +As the Cross touched each, bent over and kissed her.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then sang God’s new-born Creatures, +“Behold!<br /> + We see God’s City from heaven draw nigh:<br /> +But we thirst for the fountains divine and cold:<br /> + We must see the great King’s Son, or die!<br +/> +Come, Thou that com’st! Our wish is this,<br /> + That the body might die, and the soul, set free,<br +/> +Swell out, like an infant’s lips, to the kiss<br /> + Of the Lover who filleth infinity!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“The City of God, by the water’s +grace,<br /> +Ye see: alone, they behold His Face,<br /> +Who have washed in the baths of Death their eyes,<br /> +And tasted His Eucharist Sacrifice.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Give us the Sacrifice!” Each +bright head<br /> + Bent toward it as sunflowers bend to the sun:<br /> +They ate; and the blood from the warm cheek fled:<br /> + The exile was over: the home was won:<br /> +A starry darkness o’erflowed their brain:<br /> + Far waters beat on some heavenly shore:<br /> +Like the dying away of a low, sweet strain,<br /> + The young life ebbed, and they breathed no more:<br +/> +In death they smiled, as though on the breast<br /> +Of the Mother Maid they had found their rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">The rumour spread: beside the bier<br /> + The King stood mute, and his chiefs and court:<br /> +The Druids dark-robed drew surlily near,<br /> + And the Bards storm-hearted, and humbler sort:<br /> +The “Staff of Jesus” Saint Patrick raised:<br /> + Angelic anthems above them swept:<br /> +There were that muttered; there were that praised:<br /> + But none who looked on that marvel wept.</p> +<p class="poetry">For they lay on one bed, like Brides +new-wed,<br /> + By Clebach well; and, the dirge days over,<br /> +On their smiling faces a veil was spread,<br /> + And a green mound raised that bed to cover.<br /> +Such were the ways of those ancient days—<br /> + To Patrick for aye that grave was given;<br /> +And above it he built a church in their praise;<br /> + For in them had Eire been spoused to heaven.</p> +<h3>SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDREN OF FOCHLUT WOOD.</h3> +<h4>ARGUMENT.</h4> +<p>Saint Patrick makes way into Fochlut wood by the sea, the +oldest of Erin’s forests, whence there had been borne unto +him, then in a distant land, the Children’s Wail from +Erin. He meets there two young Virgins, who sing a dirge of +man’s sorrowful condition. Afterwards they lead him +to the fortress of the king, their father. There are sung +two songs, a song of Vengeance and a song of Lament; which ended, +Saint Patrick makes proclamation of the Advent and of the +Resurrection. The king and all his chiefs believe with full +contentment.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">One</span> day as Patrick +sat upon a stone<br /> +Judging his people, Pagan babes flocked round,<br /> +All light and laughter, angel-like of mien,<br /> +Sueing for bread. He gave it, and they ate:<br /> +Then said he, “Kneel;” and taught them prayer: but +lo!<br /> +Sudden the stag hounds’ music dinned the wind;<br /> +They heard; they sprang; they chased it. Patrick spake;<br +/> +“It was the cry of children that I heard<br /> +Borne from the black wood o’er the midnight seas:<br /> +Where are those children? What avails though Kings<br /> +Have bowed before my Gospel, and in awe<br /> +Nations knelt low, unless I set mine eyes<br /> +On Fochlut Wood?” Thus speaking, he arose,<br /> +And, journeying with the brethren toward the West,<br /> +Fronted the confine of that forest old.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then entered they that darkness; and the +wood<br /> +Closed as a cavern round them. O’er its roof<br /> +Leaned roof of cloud, and hissing ran the wind,<br /> +And moaned the trunks for centuries hollowed out<br /> +Yet stalwart still. There, rooted in the rock,<br /> +Stood the huge growths, by us unnamed, that frowned<br /> +Perhaps on Partholan, the parricide,<br /> +When that first Pagan settler fugitive<br /> +Landed, a man foredoomed. Between the stems<br /> +The ravening beast now glared, now fled. Red leaves,<br /> +The last year’s phantoms, rattled here and there.<br /> +The oldest wood that ever grew in Eire<br /> +Was Fochlut Wood, and gloomiest. Spirits of Ill<br /> +Made it their palace, and its labyrinths sowed<br /> +With poisons. Many a cave, with horrors thronged<br /> +Within it yawned, and many a chasm unseen<br /> +Waited the unwary treader. Cry of wolf<br /> +Pierced the cold air, and gibbering ghosts were heard;<br /> +And o’er the black marsh passed those wandering lights<br +/> +That lure lost feet. A thousand pathways wound<br /> +From gloom to gloom. One only led to light:<br /> +That path was sharp with flints.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +Patrick mused,<br /> +“O life of man, how dark a wood art thou!<br /> +Erring how many track thee till Despair,<br /> +Sad host, receives them in his crypt-like porch<br /> +At nightfall.” Mute he paced. The brethren +feared;<br /> +And fearing, knelt to God. Made strong by prayer<br /> +Westward once more they trod that dark, sharp way<br /> +Till deeper gloom announced the night, then slept<br /> +Guarded by angels. But the Saint all night<br /> +Watched, strong in prayer. The second day still on<br /> +They fared, like mariners o’er strange seas borne,<br /> +That keep in mist their soundings when the rocks<br /> +Vex the dark strait, and breakers roar unseen.<br /> +At last Benignus cried, “To God be praise!<br /> +He sends us better omens. See! the moss<br /> +Brightens the crag!” Ere long another spake:<br /> +“The worst is past! This freshness in the air<br /> +Wafts us a welcome from the great salt sea;<br /> +Fair spreads the fern: green buds are on the spray,<br /> +And violets throng the grass.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> A +few steps more<br /> +Brought them to where, with peaceful gleam, there spread<br /> +A forest pool that mirrored yew trees twain<br /> +With beads like blood-drops hung. A sunset flash<br /> +Kindled a glory in the osiers brown<br /> +Encircling that still water. From the reeds<br /> +A sable bird, gold-circled, slowly rose;<br /> +But when the towering tree-tops he outsoared,<br /> +Eastward a great wind swept him as a leaf.<br /> +Serenely as he rose a music soft<br /> +Swelled from afar; but, as that storm o’ertook him,<br /> +The music changed to one on-rushing note<br /> +O’ertaken by a second; both, ere long,<br /> +Blended in wail unending. Patrick’s brow,<br /> +Listening that wail, was altered, and he spake:<br /> +“These were the Voices that I heard when stood<br /> +By night beside me in that southern land<br /> +God’s angel, girt for speed. Letters he bare<br /> +Unnumbered, full of woes. He gave me one,<br /> +Inscribed, ‘The Wailing of the Irish Race;’<br /> +And as I read that legend on mine ear<br /> +Forth from a mighty wood on Erin’s coast<br /> +There rang the cry of children, ‘Walk once more<br /> +Among us; bring us help!’” Thus Patrick +spake:<br /> +Then towards that wailing paced with forward head.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere long they came to where a river broad,<br +/> +Swiftly amid the dense trees winding, brimmed<br /> +The flower-enamelled marge, and onward bore<br /> +Green branches ’mid its eddies. On the bank<br /> +Two virgins stood. Whiter than earliest streak<br /> +Of matin pearl dividing dusky clouds<br /> +Their raiment; and, as oft in silent woods<br /> +White beds of wind-flower lean along the earth-breeze,<br /> +So on the river-breeze that raiment wan<br /> +Shivered, back blown. Slender they stood and tall,<br /> +Their brows with violets bound; while shone, beneath,<br /> +The dark blue of their never-tearless eyes.<br /> +Then Patrick, “For the sake of Him who lays<br /> +His blessing on the mourners, O ye maids,<br /> +Reveal to me your grief—if yours late sent,<br /> +Or sped in careless childhood.” And the maids:<br /> +“Happy whose careless childhood ’scaped the +wound:”<br /> +Then she that seemed the saddest added thus:<br /> +“Stranger! this forest is no roof of joy,<br /> +Nor we the only mourners; neither fall<br /> +Bitterer the widow’s nor the orphan’s tears<br /> +Now than of old; nor sharper than long since<br /> +That loss which maketh maiden widowhood.<br /> +In childhood first our sorrow came. One eve<br /> +Within our foster-parents’ low-roofed house<br /> +The winter sunset from our bed had waned:<br /> +I slept, and sleeping dreamed. Beside the bed<br /> +There stood a lovely Lady crowned with stars;<br /> +A sword went through her heart. Down from that sword<br /> +Blood trickled on the bed, and on the ground.<br /> +Sorely I wept. The Lady spake: ‘My child,<br /> +Weep not for me, but for thy country weep;<br /> +Her wound is deeper far than mine. Cry loud!<br /> +The cry of grief is Prayer.’ I woke, all tears;<br /> +And lo! my little sister, stiff and cold,<br /> +Sat with wide eyes upon the bed upright:<br /> +That starry Lady with the bleeding heart<br /> +She, too, had seen, and heard her. Clamour vast<br /> +Rang out; and all the wall was fiery red;<br /> +And flame was on the sea. A hostile clan<br /> +Landing in mist, had fired our ships and town,<br /> +Our clansmen absent on a foray far,<br /> +And stricken many an old man, many a boy<br /> +To bondage dragged. Oh night with blood redeemed!<br /> +Upon the third day o’er the green waves rushed<br /> +The vengeance winged, with axe and torch, to quit<br /> +Wrong with new wrong, and many a time since then.<br /> +That night sad women on the sea sands toiled,<br /> +Drawing from wreck and ruin, beam or plank<br /> +To shield their babes. Our foster-parents slain,<br /> +Unheeded we, the children of the chief,<br /> +Roamed the great forest. There we told our dream<br /> +To children likewise orphaned. Sudden fear<br /> +Smote them as though themselves had dreamed that dream,<br /> +And back from them redoubled upon us;<br /> +Until at last from us and them rang out—<br /> +The dark wood heard it, and the midnight sea—<br /> +A great and bitter cry.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “That +cry went up,<br /> +O children, to the heart of God; and He<br /> +Down sent it, pitying, to a far-off land,<br /> +And on into my heart. By that first pang<br /> +Which left the eternal pallor in your cheeks,<br /> +O maids, I pray you, sing once more that song<br /> +Ye sang but late. I heard its long last note:<br /> +Fain would I hear the song that such death died.”</p> +<p class="poetry">They sang: not scathless those that sing such +song!<br /> +Grief, their instructress, of the Muses chief<br /> +To hearts by grief unvanquished, to their hearts<br /> +Had taught a melody that neither spared<br /> +Singer nor listener. Pale when they began,<br /> +Paler it left them. He not less was pale<br /> +Who, out of trance awaking, thanked them thus:<br /> +“Now know I of that sorrow in you fixed;<br /> +What, and how great it is, and bless that Power<br /> +Who called me forth from nothing for your sakes,<br /> +And sent me to this wood. Maidens, lead on!<br /> +A chieftain’s daughters ye; and he, your sire,<br /> +And with him she who gave you your sweet looks<br /> +(Sadder perchance than you in songless age)<br /> +They, too, must hear my tidings. Once a Prince<br /> +Went solitary from His golden throne,<br /> +Tracking the illimitable wastes, to find<br /> +One wildered sheep, the meanest of the flock,<br /> +And on His shoulders bore it to that House<br /> +Where dwelt His Sire. ‘Good Shepherd’ was His +Name.<br /> +My tidings these: heralds are we, footsore,<br /> +That bring the heart-sore comfort.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> On +they paced,<br /> +On by the rushing river without words.<br /> +Beside the elder sister Patrick walked,<br /> +Benignus by the younger. Fair her face;<br /> +Majestic his, though young. Her looks were sad<br /> +And awe-struck; his, fulfilled with secret joy,<br /> +Sent forth a gleam as when a morn-touched bay<br /> +Through ambush shines of woodlands. Soon they stood<br /> +Where sea and river met, and trod a path<br /> +Wet with salt spray, and drank the clement breeze,<br /> +And saw the quivering of the green gold wave,<br /> +And, far beyond, that fierce aggressor’s bourn,<br /> +Fair haunt for savage race, a purple ridge<br /> +By rainy sunbeam gemmed from glen to glen,<br /> +Dim waste of wandering lights. The sun, half risen,<br /> +Lay half sea-couched. A neighbouring height sent forth<br +/> +Welcome of baying hounds; and, close at hand,<br /> +They reached the chieftain’s keep.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> A +white-haired man<br /> +And long since blind, there sat he in his hall,<br /> +Untamed by age. At times a fiery gleam<br /> +Flashed from his sightless eyes; and oft the red<br /> +Burned on his forehead, while with splenetic speech<br /> +Stirred by ill news or memory stung, he banned<br /> +Foes and false friend. Pleased by his daughters’ +tale,<br /> +At once he stretched his huge yet aimless hands<br /> +In welcome towards his guests. Beside him stood<br /> +His mate of forty years by that strong arm<br /> +From countless suitors won. Pensive her face:<br /> +With parted youth the confidence of youth<br /> +Had left her. Beauty, too, though with remorse,<br /> +Its seat had half relinquished on a cheek<br /> +Long time its boast, and on that willowy form,<br /> +So yielding now, where once in strength upsoared<br /> +The queenly presence. Tenderest grace not less<br /> +Haunted her life’s dim twilight—meekness, +love—<br /> +That humble love, all-giving, that seeks nought,<br /> +Self-reverent calm, and modesty in age.<br /> +She turned an anxious eye on him she loved;<br /> +And, bending, kissed at times that wrinkled hand,<br /> +By years and sorrows made his wife far more<br /> +Than in her nuptial bloom. These two had lost<br /> +Five sons, their hope, in war.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> That +eve it chanced<br /> +High feast was holden in the chieftain’s tower<br /> +To solemnise his birthday. In they flocked,<br /> +Each after each, the warriors of the clan,<br /> +Not without pomp heraldic and fair state<br /> +Barbaric, yet beseeming. Unto each<br /> +Seat was assigned for deeds or lineage old,<br /> +And to the chiefs allied. Where each had place<br /> +Above him waved his banner. Not for this<br /> +Unhonoured were the pilgrim guests. They sat<br /> +Where, fed by pinewood and the seeded cone,<br /> +The loud hearth blazed. Bathed were the wearied feet<br /> +By maidens of the place and nurses grey,<br /> +And dried in linen fragrant still with flowers<br /> +Of years when those old nurses too were fair.<br /> +And now the board was spread, and carved the meat,<br /> +And jests ran round, and many a tale was told,<br /> +Some rude, but none opprobrious. Banquet done,<br /> +Page-led the harper entered, old, and blind:<br /> +The noblest ranged his chair, and spread the mat;<br /> +The loveliest raised his wine cup, one light hand<br /> +Laid on his shoulder, while the golden hair<br /> +Commingled with the silver. “Sing,” they +cried,<br /> +“The death of Deirdrè; or that desolate sire<br /> +That slew his son, unweeting; or that Queen<br /> +Who from her palace pacing with fixed eyes<br /> +Stared at those heads in dreadful circle ranged,<br /> +The heads of traitor-friends that slew her lord<br /> +Then mocked the friend they murdered. Leal and true,<br /> +The Bard who wrought that vengeance!” Thus he +sang:</p> +<h4>THE LAY OF THE HEADS.</h4> +<p class="poetry"> The Bard +returns to a stricken house:<br /> + What shape is +that he rears on high?<br /> + A withe of the Willow, set round +with Heads:<br /> + They blot that +evening sky.</p> +<p class="poetry"> A Widow +meets him at the gates:<br /> + What fixes thus +that Widow’s eye?<br /> + She names the name; but she sees +not the man,<br /> + Nor beyond him +that reddening sky.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Bard +of the Brand, thou Foster-Sire<br /> + Of him they +slew—their friend—my lord—<br /> + What Head is that—the +first—that frowns<br /> + Like a traitor +self-abhorred?”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Daughter +of Orgill wounded sore,<br /> + Thou of the +fateful eye serene,<br /> + Fergus is he. The feast he +made<br /> + That snared thy +Cuchullene.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “What +Head is that—the next—half-hid<br /> + In curls full +lustrous to behold?<br /> + They mind me of a hand that +once<br /> + I saw amid their +gold.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “’Tis +Manadh. He that by the shore<br /> + Held rule, and +named the waves his steeds:<br /> + ’Twas he that struck the +stroke accursed—<br /> + Headless this +day he bleeds.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “What +Head is that close by—so still,<br /> + With half-closed +lids, and lips that smile?<br /> + Methinks I know their voice: +methinks<br /> + <i>His</i> wine +they quaffed erewhile!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “’Twas +he raised high that severed head:<br /> + Thy head he +raised, my Foster-Child!<br /> + That was the latest stroke I +struck:<br /> + I struck that +stroke, and smiled.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “What +Heads are those—that twain, so like,<br /> + Flushed as with +blood by yon red sky?”<br /> + “Each unto each, <i>his</i> +Head they rolled;<br /> + Red on that +grass they lie.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “That +paler twain, which face the East?”<br /> + “Laegar is +one; the other Hilt;<br /> + Silent they watched the sport! +they share<br /> + The doom, that +shared the guilt.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Bard +of the Vengeance! well thou knew’st<br /> + Blood cries for +blood! O kind, and true,<br /> + How many, kith and kin, have +died<br /> + That mocked the +man they slew?”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “O +Woman of the fateful eye,<br /> + The untrembling +voice, the marble mould,<br /> + Seven hundred men, in house or +field,<br /> + For the man they +mocked, lie cold.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Their +wives, thou Bard? their wives? their wives?<br /> + Far off, or +nigh, through Inisfail,<br /> + This hour what are they? +Stand they mute<br /> + Like me; or make +their wail?”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “O +Eimer! women weep and smile;<br /> + The young have +hope, the young that mourn;<br /> + But I am old; my hope was he:<br +/> + He that can +ne’er return!</p> +<p class="poetry"> “O +Conal! lay me in his grave:<br /> + Oh! lay me by my +husband’s side:<br /> + Oh! lay my lips to his in +death;”<br /> + She spake, and, +standing, died.</p> +<p class="poetry"> She fell at +last—in death she fell—<br /> + She lay, a black +shade, on the ground;<br /> + And all her women o’er her +wailed<br /> + Like sea-birds +o’er the drowned.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thus to the blind chief sang +that harper blind,<br /> +Hymning the vengeance; and the great hall roared<br /> +With wrath of those wild listeners. Many a heel<br /> +Smote the rough stone in scorn of them that died<br /> +Not three days past, so seemed it! Direful hands,<br /> +Together dashed, thundered the Avenger’s praise.<br /> +At last the tide of that fierce tumult ebbed<br /> +O’er shores of silence. From her lowly seat<br /> +Beside her husband’s spake the gentle Queen:<br /> +“My daughters, from your childhood ye were still<br /> +A voice of music in your father’s house—<br /> +Not wrathful music. Sing that song ye made<br /> +Or found long since, and yet in forest sing,<br /> +If haply Power Unknown may hear and help.”<br /> +She spake, and at her word her daughters sang.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Lost, lost, all lost! O tell us +what is lost?<br /> +Behold, this too is hidden! Let him speak,<br /> +If any knows. The wounded deer can turn<br /> +And see the shaft that quivers in its flank;<br /> +The bird looks back upon its broken wing;<br /> +But we, the forest children, only know<br /> +Our grief is infinite, and hath no name.<br /> +What woman-prophet, shrouded in dark veil,<br /> +Whispered a Hope sadder than Fear? Long since,<br /> +What Father lost His children in the wood?<br /> +Some God? And can a God forsake? Perchance<br /> +His face is turned to nobler worlds new-made;<br /> +Perchance his palace owns some later bride<br /> +That hates the dead Queen’s children, and with charm<br /> +Prevails that they are exiled from his eyes,<br /> +The exile’s winter theirs—the exile’s song.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Blood, ever blood! The sword goes +raging on<br /> +O’er hill and moor; and with it, iron-willed,<br /> +Drags on the hand that holds it and the man<br /> +To slake its ceaseless thirst for blood of men;<br /> +Fire takes the little cot beside the mere,<br /> +And leaps upon the upland village: fire<br /> +Up clambers to the castle on the crag;<br /> +And whom the fire has spared the hunger kills;<br /> +And earth draws all into her thousand graves.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ah me! the little linnet knows the +branch<br /> +Whereon to build; the honey-pasturing bee<br /> +Knows the wild heath, and how to shape its cell;<br /> +Upon the poisonous berry no bird feeds;<br /> +So well their mother, Nature, helps her own.<br /> +Mothers forsake not;—can a Father hate?<br /> +Who knows but that He yearns—that Sire Unseen—<br /> +To clasp His children? All is sweet and sane,<br /> +All, all save man! Sweet is the summer flower,<br /> +The day-long sunset of the autumnal woods;<br /> +Fair is the winter frost; in spring the heart<br /> +Shakes to the bleating lamb. O then what thing<br /> +Might be the life secure of man with man,<br /> +The infant’s smile, the mother’s kiss, the love<br /> +Of lovers, and the untroubled wedded home?<br /> +This might have been man’s lot. Who sent the woe?<br +/> +Who formed man first? Who taught him first the ill way?<br +/> +One creature, only, sins; and he the highest!</p> +<p class="poetry">“O Higher than the highest! Thou +Whose hand<br /> +Made us—Who shaped’st that hand Thou wilt not +clasp,<br /> +The eye Thou open’st not, the sealed-up ear!<br /> +Be mightier than man’s sin: for lo, how man<br /> +Seeks Thee, and ceases not: through noontide cave<br /> +And dark air of the dawn-unlighted peak<br /> +To Thee how long he strains the weak, worn eye<br /> +If haply he might see Thy vesture’s hem<br /> +On farthest winds receding! Yea, how oft<br /> +Against the blind and tremulous wall of cliff<br /> +Tormented by sea surge, he leans his ear<br /> +If haply o’er it name of Thine might creep;<br /> +Or bends above the torrent-cloven abyss,<br /> +If falling flood might lisp it! Power unknown!<br /> +He hears it not: Thou hear’st his beating heart<br /> +That cries to Thee for ever! From the veil<br /> +That shrouds Thee, from the wood, the cloud, the void,<br /> +O, by the anguish of all lands evoked,<br /> +Look forth! Though, seeing Thee, man’s race should +die,<br /> +One moment let him see Thee! Let him lay<br /> +At least his forehead on Thy foot in death!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> So sang the maidens: but the +warriors frowned;<br /> +And thus the blind king muttered, “Bootless weed<br /> +Is plaint where help is none!” But wives and maids<br +/> +And the thick-crowding poor, that many a time<br /> +Had wailed on war-fields o’er their brethren slain,<br /> +Went down before that strain as river reeds<br /> +Before strong wind, went down when o’er them passed<br /> +Its last word, “Death;” and grief’s infection +spread<br /> +From least to first; and weeping filled the hall.<br /> +Then on Saint Patrick fell compassion great;<br /> +He rose amid that concourse, and with voice<br /> +And words now lost, alas, or all but lost,<br /> +Such that the chief of sight amerced, beheld<br /> +The imagined man before him crowned with light,<br /> +Proclaimed that God who hideth not His face,<br /> +His people’s King and Father; open flung<br /> +The portals of His realm, that inward rolled,<br /> +With music of a million singing spheres<br /> +Commanded all to enter. Who was He<br /> +Who called the worlds from nought? His name is Love!<br /> +In love He made those worlds. They have not lost,<br /> +The sun his splendour, nor the moon her light:<br /> +<i>That</i> miracle survives. Alas for thee!<br /> +Thou better miracle, fair human love,<br /> +That splendour shouldst have been of home and hearth,<br /> +Now quenched by mortal hate! Whence come our woes<br /> +But from our lusts? O desecrated law<br /> +By God’s own finger on our hearts engraved,<br /> +How well art thou avenged! No dream it was,<br /> +That primal greatness, and that primal peace:<br /> +Man in God’s image at the first was made,<br /> +A God to rule below!</p> +<p +class="poetry"> He +told it all—<br /> +Creation, and that Sin which marred its face;<br /> +And how the great Creator, creature made,<br /> +God—God for man incarnate—died for man:<br /> +Dead, with His Cross he thundered on the gates<br /> +Of Death’s blind Hades. Then, with hands +outstretched<br /> +His Holy Ones that, in their penance prison<br /> +From hope in Him had ceased not, to the light<br /> +Flashed from His bleeding hands and branded brow<br /> +Through darkness soared: they reign with Him in heaven:<br /> +Their brethren we, the children of one Sire.<br /> +Long time he spake. The winds forbore their wail;<br /> +The woods were hushed. That wondrous tale complete,<br /> +Not sudden fell the silence; for, as when<br /> +A huge wave forth from ocean toiling mounts<br /> +High-arched, in solid bulk, the beach rock-strewn,<br /> +Burying his hoar head under echoing cliffs,<br /> +And, after pause, refluent to sea returns<br /> +Not all at once is stillness, countless rills<br /> +Or devious winding down the steep, or borne<br /> +In crystal leap from sea-shelf to sea-well,<br /> +And sparry grot replying; gradual thus<br /> +With lessening cadence sank that great discourse,<br /> +While round him gazed Saint Patrick, now the old<br /> +Regarding, now the young, and flung on each<br /> +In turn his boundless heart, and gazing longed<br /> +As only Apostolic heart can long<br /> +To help the helpless.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Fair, +O friends, the bourn<br /> +We dwell in! Holy King makes happy land:<br /> +Our King is in our midst. He gave us gifts;<br /> +Laws that are Love, the sovereignty of Truth.<br /> +What, sirs, ye knew Him not! But ye by signs<br /> +Foresaw His coming, as, when buds are red<br /> +Ye say, ‘The spring is nigh us.’ Him, +unknown,<br /> +Each loved who loved his brother! Shepherd youths,<br /> +Who spread the pasture green beneath your lambs<br /> +And freshened it with snow-fed stream and mist?<br /> +Who but that Love unseen? Grey mariners,<br /> +Who lulled the rough seas round your midnight nets,<br /> +And sent the landward breeze? Pale sufferers wan,<br /> +Rejoice! His are ye; yea, and His the most!<br /> +Have ye not watched the eagle that upstirs<br /> +Her nest, then undersails her falling brood<br /> +And stays them on her plumes, and bears them up<br /> +Till, taught by proof, they learn their unguessed powers<br /> +And breast the storm? Thus God stirs up His people;<br /> +Thus proves by pain. Ye too, O hearths well-loved!<br /> +How oft your sin-stained sanctities ye mourned!<br /> +Wives! from the cradle reigns the Bethelem Babe!<br /> +Maidens! henceforth the Virgin Mother spreads<br /> +Her shining veil above you!</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “Speak +aloud,<br /> +Chieftains world-famed! I hear the ancient blood<br /> +That leaps against your hearts! What? Warriors ye!<br +/> +Danger your birthright, and your pastime death!<br /> +Behold your foes! They stand before you plain:<br /> +Ill passions, base ambitions, falsehood, hate:<br /> +Wage war on these! A King is in your host!<br /> +His hands no roses plucked but on the Cross:<br /> +He came not hand of man in woman’s tasks<br /> +To mesh. In woman’s hand, in childhood’s +hand,<br /> +Much more in man’s, He lodged His conquering sword;<br /> +Them too His soldiers named, and vowed to war.<br /> +Rise, clan of Kings, rise, champions of man’s race,<br /> +Heaven’s sun-clad army militant on earth,<br /> +One victory gained, the realm decreed is ours.<br /> +The bridal bells ring out, for Low with High<br /> +Is wed in endless nuptials. It is past,<br /> +The sin, the exile, and the grief. O man,<br /> +Take thou, renewed, thy sister-mate by hand;<br /> +Know well thy dignity, and hers: return,<br /> +And meet once more Thy Maker, for He walks<br /> +Once more within thy garden, in the cool<br /> +Of the world’s eve!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> The +words that Patrick spake<br /> +Were words of power, not futile did they fall:<br /> +But, probing, healed a sorrowing people’s wound.<br /> +Round him they stood, as oft in Grecian days,<br /> +Some haughty city sieged, her penitent sons<br /> +Thronging green Pnyx or templed Forum hushed<br /> +Hung listening on that People’s one true Voice,<br /> +The man that ne’er had flattered, ne’er deceived,<br +/> +Nursed no false hope. It was the time of Faith;<br /> +Open was then man’s ear, open his heart:<br /> +Pride spurned not then that chiefest strength of man<br /> +The power, by Truth confronted, to believe.<br /> +Not savage was that wild, barbaric race:<br /> +Spirit was in them. On their knees they sank,<br /> +With foreheads lowly bent; and when they rose<br /> +Such sound went forth as when late anchored fleet<br /> +Touched by dawn breeze, shakes out its canvas broad<br /> +And sweeps into new waters. Man with man<br /> +Clasped hands; and each in each a something saw<br /> +Till then unseen. As though flesh-bound no more,<br /> +Their souls had touched. One Truth, the Spirit’s +life,<br /> +Lived in them all, a vast and common joy.<br /> +And yet as when, that Pentecostal morn,<br /> +Each heard the Apostle in his native tongue,<br /> +So now, on each, that Truth, that Joy, that Life<br /> +Shone forth with beam diverse. Deep peace to one<br /> +Those tidings seemed, a still vale after storm;<br /> +To one a sacred rule, steadying the world;<br /> +A third exulting saw his youthful hope<br /> +Written in stars; a fourth triumphant hailed<br /> +The just cause, long oppressed. Some laughed, some wept:<br +/> +But she, that aged chieftain’s mournful wife<br /> +Clasped to her boding breast his hoary head<br /> +Loud clamouring, “Death is dead; and not for long<br /> +That dreadful grave can part us.” Last of all,<br /> +He too believed. That hoary head had shaped<br /> +Full many a crafty scheme:—behind them all<br /> +Nature held fast her own.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> O +happy night!<br /> +Back through the gloom of centuries sin-defaced<br /> +With what a saintly radiance thou dost shine!<br /> +They slept not, on the loud-resounding shore<br /> +In glory roaming. Many a feud that night<br /> +Lay down in holy grave, or, mockery made,<br /> +Was quenched in its own shame. Far shone the fires<br /> +Crowning dark hills with gladness: soared the song;<br /> +And heralds sped from coast to coast to tell<br /> +How He the Lord of all, no Power Unknown<br /> +But like a man rejoicing in his house,<br /> +Ruled the glad earth. That demon-haunted wood,<br /> +Sad Erin’s saddest region, yet, men say,<br /> +Tenderest for all its sadness, rang at last<br /> +With hymns of men and angels. Onward sailed<br /> +High o’er the long, unbreaking, azure waves<br /> +A mighty moon, full-faced, as though on winds<br /> +Of rapture borne. With earliest red of dawn<br /> +Northward once more the wingèd war-ships rushed<br /> +Swift as of old to that long hated shore—<br /> +Not now with axe and torch. His Name they bare<br /> +Who linked in one the nations.</p> +<p class="poetry"><br /> + + +On a cliff<br /> +Where Fochlut’s Wood blackened the northern sea<br /> +A convent rose. Therein those sisters twain<br /> +Whose cry had summoned Patrick o’er the deep,<br /> +Abode, no longer weepers. Pallid still,<br /> +In radiance now their faces shone; and sweet<br /> +Their psalms amid the clangour of rough brine.<br /> +Ten years in praise to God and good to men<br /> +That happy precinct housed them. In their morn<br /> +Grief had for them her great work perfected;<br /> +Their eve was bright as childhood. When the hour<br /> +Came for their blissful transit, from their lips<br /> +Pealed forth ere death that great triumphant chant<br /> +Sung by the Virgin Mother. Ages passed;<br /> +And, year by year, on wintry nights, <i>that</i> song<br /> +Alone the sailors heard—a cry of joy.</p> +<h3>SAINT PATRICK AND KING LAEGHAIRE.</h3> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Thou</span> son of +Calphurn, in peace go forth!<br /> + This hand shall slay them whoe’er shall slay +thee!<br /> +The carles shall stand to their necks in earth<br /> + Till they die of thirst who mock or stay thee!</p> +<p class="poetry">“But my father, Nial, who is dead long +since,<br /> + Permits not me to believe thy word;<br /> +For the servants of Jesus, thy heavenly Prince,<br /> + Once dead, lie flat as in sleep, interred:<br /> +But we are as men that through dark floods wade;<br /> +We stand in our black graves undismayed;<br /> +Our faces are turned to the race abhorred,<br /> +And at each hand by us stand spear or sword,<br /> +Ready to strike at the last great day,<br /> +Ready to trample them back into clay!</p> +<p class="poetry">“This is my realm, and men call it +Eire,<br /> + Wherein I have lived and live in hate<br /> +Like Nial before me and Erc his sire,<br /> + Of the race Lagenian, ill-named the +Great!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus spake Laeghaire, and his host rushed +on,<br /> + A river of blood as yet unshed:—<br /> +At noon they fought: and at set of sun<br /> + That king lay captive, that host lay dead!</p> +<p class="poetry">The Lagenian loosed him, but bade him swear<br +/> + He would never demand of them Tribute more:<br /> + So Laeghaire by the dread “God-Elements” +swore,<br /> +By the moon divine and the earth and air;<br /> +He swore by the wind and the broad sunshine<br /> + That circle for ever both land and sea,<br /> +By the long-backed rivers, and mighty wine,<br /> + By the cloud far-seeing, by herb and tree,<br /> +By the boon spring shower, and by autumn’s fan,<br /> +By woman’s breast, and the head of man,<br /> +By Night and the noonday Demon he swore<br /> +He would claim the Boarian Tribute no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">But with time wrath waxed; and he brake his +faith:<br /> +Then the dread “God-Elements” wrought his death;<br +/> +For the Wind and Sun-Strength by Cassi’s side<br /> +Came down and smote on his head that he died.<br /> +Death-sick three days on his throne he sate;<br /> +Then died, as his father died, great in hate.</p> +<p class="poetry">They buried their king upon Tara’s +hill,<br /> +In his grave upright—there stands he still:<br /> +Upright there stands he as men that wade<br /> +By night through a castle-moat, undismayed;<br /> +On his head is the crown, the spear in his hand;<br /> +And he looks to the hated Lagenian land.</p> +<p class="poetry">Such rites in the time of wrath and wrong<br /> + Were Eire’s: baptised, they were hers no +longer:<br /> +For Patrick had taught her his sweet new song,<br /> + “Though hate is strong, yet love is +stronger.”</p> +<h3>SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR;<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OR, MAC KYLE OF MAN.</span></h3> +<p>Mac Kyle, a child of death, dwells in a forest with other men +like unto himself, that slay whom they will. Saint Patrick +coming to that wood, a certain Impostor devises how he may be +deceived and killed; but God smites the Impostor through his own +snare, and he dies. Mac Kyle believes, and demanding +penance is baptised. Afterwards he preaches in Manann <a +name="citation77"></a><a href="#footnote77" +class="citation">[77]</a> Isle, and becomes a great Saint.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> Uladh, near Magh +Inis, lived a chief,<br /> +Fierce man and fell. From orphaned childhood he<br /> +Through lawless youth to blood-stained middle age<br /> +Had rushed as stormy morn to stormier noon,<br /> +Working, except that still he spared the poor,<br /> +All wrongs with iron will; a child of death.<br /> +Thus spake he to his followers, while the woods<br /> +Snow-cumbered creaked, their scales of icy mail<br /> +Angered by winter winds: “At last he comes,<br /> +He that deceives the people with great signs,<br /> +And for the tinkling of a little gold<br /> +Preaches new Gods. Where rises yonder smoke<br /> +Beyond the pinewood, camps this Lord of Dupes:<br /> +How say ye? Shall he track o’er Uladh’s +plains,<br /> +As o’er the land beside, his venomous way?<br /> +Forth with your swords! and if that God he serves<br /> +Can save him, let him prove it!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Dark +with wrath<br /> +Thus spake Mac Kyle; and all his men approved,<br /> +Shouting, while downward fell the snows hard-caked Loosened by +shock of forest-echoed hands,<br /> +Save Garban. Crafty he, and full of lies,<br /> +That thing which Patrick hated. Sideway first<br /> +Glancing, as though some secret foe were nigh,<br /> +He spake: “Mac Kyle! a counsel for thine ear!<br /> +A man of counsel I, as thou of war!<br /> +The people love this stranger. Patrick slain,<br /> +Their wrath will blaze against us, and demand<br /> +An <i>eric</i> for his head. Let us by craft<br /> +Unravel first <i>his</i> craft: then safe our choice;<br /> +We slay a traitor, or great ransom take:<br /> +Impostors lack not gold. Lay me as dead<br /> +Upon a bier: above me spread yon cloth,<br /> +And make your wail: and when the seer draws nigh<br /> +Worship him, crying, ‘Lo, our friend is dead!<br /> +Kneel, prophet, kneel, and pray that God thou serv’st<br /> +To raise him.’ If he kneels, no prophet he,<br /> +But like the race of mortals. Sweep the cloth<br /> +Straight from my face; then, laughing, I will rise.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus counselled Garban; and the counsel +pleased;<br /> +Yet pleased not God. Upon a bier, branch-strewn,<br /> +They laid their man, and o’er him spread a cloth;<br /> +Then, moving towards that smoke behind the pines,<br /> +They found the Saint and brought him to that bier,<br /> +And made their moan—and Garban ’neath that cloth<br +/> +Smiled as he heard it—“Lo, our friend is dead!<br /> +Great prophet kneel; and pray the God thou serv’st<br /> +To raise him from the dead.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> The +man of God<br /> +Upon them fixed a sentence-speaking eye:<br /> +“Yea! he is dead. In this ye have not lied:<br /> +Behold, this day shall Garban’s covering be<br /> +The covering of the dead. Remove that cloth.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then drew they from his face the cloth; and +lo!<br /> +Beneath it Garban lay, a corpse stone-cold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Amazement fell upon that bandit throng,<br /> +Contemplating that corpse, and on Mac Kyle<br /> +Grief for his friend, remorse, and strong belief,<br /> +A threefold power: for she that at his birth,<br /> +Her brief life faithful to that Law she knew,<br /> +Had died, in region where desires are crowned<br /> +That hour was strong in prayer. “From God he +came,”<br /> +Thus cried they; “and we worked a work accursed,<br /> +Tempting God’s prophet.” Patrick heard, and +spake;<br /> +“Not me ye tempted, but the God I serve.”<br /> +At last Mac Kyle made answer: “I have sinned;<br /> +I, and this people, whom I made to sin:<br /> +Now therefore to thy God we yield ourselves<br /> +Liegemen henceforth, his thralls as slave to Lord,<br /> +Or horse to master. That which thou command’st<br /> +That will we do.” And Patrick said, +“Believe;<br /> +Confess your sins; and be baptised to God,<br /> +The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit,<br /> +And live true life.” Then Patrick where he stood<br +/> +Above the dead, with hands uplifted preached<br /> +To these in anguish and in terror bowed<br /> +The tidings of great joy from Bethlehem’s Crib<br /> +To Calvary’s Cross. Sudden upon his knees,<br /> +Heart-pierced, as though he saw that Head thorn-pierced,<br /> +Fell that wild chief, and was baptised to God;<br /> +And, lifting up his great strong hands, while still<br /> +The waters streamed adown his matted locks,<br /> +He cried, “Alas, my master, and my sire!<br /> +I sinned a mighty sin; for in my heart<br /> +Fixed was my purpose, soon as thou hadst knelt,<br /> +To slay thee with my sword. Therefore judge thou<br /> +What <i>eric</i> I must pay to quit my sin?”<br /> +Him Patrick answered, “God shall be thy Judge:<br /> +Arise, and to the seaside flee, as one<br /> +That flies his foe. There shalt thou find a boat<br /> +Made of one hide: eat nought, and nothing take<br /> +Except one cloak alone: but in that boat<br /> +Sit thou, and bear the sin-mark on thy brow,<br /> +Facing the waves, oarless and rudderless;<br /> +And bind the boat chain thrice around thy feet,<br /> +And fling the key with strength into the main,<br /> +Far as thou canst: and wheresoe’er the breath<br /> +Of God shall waft thee, there till death abide<br /> +Working the Will Divine.” Then spake that chief,<br +/> +“I, that commanded others, can obey;<br /> +Such lore alone is mine: but for this man<br /> +That sinned my sin, alas, to see him thus!”<br /> +To whom the Saint, “For him, when thou art gone,<br /> +My prayer shall rise. If God will raise the dead<br /> +He knows: not I.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +rose that chief, and rushed<br /> +Down to the shore, as one that flies his foe;<br /> +Nor ate, nor drank, nor spake to wife or child,<br /> +But loosed a little boat, of one hide made,<br /> +And sat therein, and round his ankles wound<br /> +The boat chain thrice; and flung the key far forth<br /> +Above the ridged sea foam. The Lord of all<br /> +Gave ordinance to the wind, and, as a leaf<br /> +Swift rushed that boat, oarless and rudderless,<br /> +Over the on-shouldering, broad-backed, glaucous wave<br /> +Slow-rising like the rising of a world,<br /> +And purple wastes beyond, with funeral plume<br /> +Crested, a pallid pomp. All night the chief<br /> +Under the roaring tempest heard the voice<br /> +That preached the Son of Man; and when the morn<br /> +Shone out, his coracle drew near the surge<br /> +Reboant on Manann’s Isle. Not unbeheld<br /> +Rose it, and fell; not unregarded danced<br /> +A black spot on the inrolling ridge, then hung<br /> +Suspense upon the mile-long cataract<br /> +That, overtoppling, changed grass-green to light,<br /> +And drowned the shores in foam. Upon the sands<br /> +Two white-haired Elders in the salt air knelt,<br /> +Offering to God their early orisons,<br /> +Coninri and Romael. Sixty years<br /> +These two unto a hard and stubborn race<br /> +Had preached the Word; and gaining by their toil<br /> +But thirty souls, had daily prayed their God<br /> +To send ere yet they died some ampler arm,<br /> +And reap the ill-grown harvest of their youth.<br /> +Ten years they prayed, not doubting, and from God,<br /> +Who hastens not, this answer had received,<br /> +“Ye shall not die until ye see his face.”<br /> +Therefore, each morning, peered they o’er the waves,<br /> +Long-watching. These through breakers dragged the man,<br +/> +Their wished-for prize, half-frozen, and nigh to death,<br /> +And bare him to their cell, and warmed and fed him,<br /> +And heaped his couch with skins. Deep sleep he slept<br /> +Till evening lay upon the level sea<br /> +With roses strewn like bridal chamber’s floor;<br /> +Within it one star shone. Rested, he woke<br /> +And sought the shore. From earth, and sea, and sky,<br /> +Then passed into his spirit the Spirit of Love;<br /> +And there he vowed his vow, fierce chief no more,<br /> +But soldier of the cross.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> The +weeks ran on,<br /> +And daily those grey Elders ministered<br /> +God’s teaching to that chief, demanding still,<br /> +“Son, understandst thou? Gird thee like a man<br /> +To clasp, and hold, the total Faith of Christ,<br /> +And give us leave to die.” The months fled fast:<br +/> +Ere violets bloomed, he knew the creed; and when<br /> +Far heathery hills purpled the autumnal air,<br /> +He sang the psalter whole. That tale he told<br /> +Had power, and Patrick’s name. His strenous arm<br /> +Labouring with theirs, reaped harvest heavy and sound,<br /> +Till wondering gazed their wearied eyes on barns<br /> +Knee-deep in grain. At last an eve there fell,<br /> +When, on the shore in commune, with such might<br /> +Discoursed that pilgrim of the things of God,<br /> +Such insight calm, and wisdom reverence-born,<br /> +Each on the other gazing in their hearts<br /> +Received once more an answer from the Lord,<br /> +“Now is your task completed: ye shall die.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then on the red sand knelt those Elders +twain<br /> +With hands upraised, and all their hoary hair<br /> +Tinged like the foam-wreaths by that setting sun,<br /> +And sang their “Nunc Dimittis.” At its close<br +/> +High on the sandhills, ’mid the tall hard grass<br /> +That sighed eternal o’er the unbounded waste<br /> +With ceaseless yearnings like their own for death<br /> +They found the place where first, that bark descried,<br /> +Their sighs were changed to songs. That spot they +marked,<br /> +And said, “Our resurrection place is here:”<br /> +And, on the third day dying, in that place<br /> +The man who loved them laid them, at their heads<br /> +Planting one cross because their hearts were one<br /> +And one their lives. The snowy-breasted bird<br /> +Of ocean o’er their undivided graves<br /> +Oft flew with wailing note; but they rejoiced<br /> +’Mid God’s high realm glittering in endless +youth.</p> +<p class="poetry">These two with Christ, on him, their son in +Christ<br /> +Their mantle fell; and strength to him was given.<br /> +Long time he toiled alone; then round him flocked<br /> +Helpers from far. At last, by voice of all<br /> +He gat the Island’s great episcopate,<br /> +And king-like ruled the region. This is he,<br /> +Mac Kyle of Uladh, bishop, and Penitent,<br /> +Saint Patrick’s missioner in Manann’s Isle,<br /> +Sinner one time, and, after sinner, Saint<br /> +World-famous. May his prayer for sinners plead!</p> +<h3>SAINT PATRICK AT CASHEL;<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OR, THE BAPTISM OF AENGUS.</span></h3> +<h4>ARGUMENT.</h4> +<p>Saint Patrick goes to Cashel of the Rings to celebrate the +Feast of the Annunciation. Aengus, who reigns there, +receives him with all honour. He and his people believe, +and by Baptism are added unto the Church. Aengus desires to +resign his sovereignty, and become a monk. The Saint +suffers not this, because he had discovered by two notable signs, +both at the baptism of Aengus and before it, that the Prince is +of those who are called by God to rule men.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> Patrick now +o’er Ulster’s forest bound,<br /> +And Connact, echoing to the western wave,<br /> +And Leinster, fair with hill-suspended woods,<br /> +Had raised the cross, and where the deep night ruled,<br /> +Splendour had sent of everlasting light,<br /> +Sole peace of warring hearts, to Munster next,<br /> +Thomond and Desmond, Heber’s portion old,<br /> +He turned; and, fired by love that mocks at rest<br /> +Pushed on through raging storm the whole night long,<br /> +Intent to hold the Annunciation Feast<br /> +At Cashel of the Kings. The royal keep<br /> +High-seated on its Rock, as morning broke<br /> +Faced them at last; and at the selfsame hour<br /> +Aengus, in his father’s absence lord,<br /> +Rising from happy sleep and heaven-sent dreams<br /> +Went forth on duteous tasks. With sudden start<br /> +The prince stept back; for, o’er the fortress court<br /> +Like grove storm-levelled lay the idols huge,<br /> +False gods and foul that long had awed the land,<br /> +Prone, without hand of man. O’er-awed he gazed;<br /> +Then on the air there rang a sound of hymns,<br /> +And by the eastern gate Saint Patrick stood,<br /> +The brethren round him. On their shaggy garb<br /> +Auroral mist, struck by the rising sun,<br /> +Glittered, that diamond-panoplied they seemed,<br /> +And as a heavenly vision. At that sight<br /> +The youth, descending with a wildered joy,<br /> +Welcomed his guests: and, ere an hour, the streets<br /> +Sparkled far down like flowering meads in spring,<br /> +So thronged the folk in holiday attire<br /> +To see the man far-famed. “Who spurns our +gods?”<br /> +Once they had cried in wrath: but, year by year,<br /> +Tidings of some deliverance great and strange,<br /> +Some life more noble, some sublimer hope,<br /> +Some regal race enthroned beyond the grave,<br /> +Had reached them from afar. The best believed,<br /> +Great hearts for whom nor earthly love sufficed<br /> +Nor earthly fame. The meaner scoffed: yet all<br /> +Desired the man. Delay had edged their thirst.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Patrick, standing up among them, spake,<br +/> +And God was with him. Not as when loose tongue<br /> +Babbles vain rumour, or the Sophist spins<br /> +Thought’s air-hung cobwebs gay with Fancy’s dews,<br +/> +Spake he, but words of might, as when a man<br /> +Bears witness to the things which he has seen,<br /> +And tells of that he knows: and as the harp<br /> +Attested is by rapture of the ear,<br /> +And sunlight by consenting of the eye<br /> +That, seeing, knows it sees, and neither craves<br /> +Inferior demonstration, so his words<br /> +Self-proved, went forth and conquered: for man’s mind,<br +/> +Created in His image who is Truth,<br /> +Challenged by truth, with recognising voice<br /> +Cries out “Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,”<br /> +And cleaves thereto. In all that listening host<br /> +One vast, dilating heart yearned to its God.<br /> +Then burst the bond of years. No haunting doubt<br /> +They knew. God dropped on them the robe of Truth<br /> +Sun-like: down fell the many-coloured weed<br /> +Of error; and, reclothed ere yet unclothed,<br /> +They walked a new-born earth. The blinded Past<br /> +Fled, vanquished. Glorious more than strange it seemed<br +/> +That He who fashioned man should come to man,<br /> +And raise by ruling. They, His trumpet heard,<br /> +In glory spurned demons misdeemed for gods:<br /> +The great chief had returned: the clan enthralled<br /> +Trod down the usurping foe.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +rose the cry,<br /> +“Join us to Christ!” His strong eyes on them +set,<br /> +Patrick replied, “Know ye what thing ye seek<br /> +Ye that would fain be house-mates with my King?<br /> +Ye seek His cross!” He paused, then added slow:<br /> +“If ye be liegeful, sirs, decree the day,<br /> +His baptism shall be yours.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> That +eve, while shone<br /> +The sunset on the green-touched woods, that, grazed<br /> +By onward flight of unalighting spring,<br /> +Caught warmth yet scarcely flamed, Aengus stood<br /> +With Patrick in a westward-facing tower<br /> +Which overlooked far regions town-besprent,<br /> +And lit with winding waters. Thus he spake:<br /> +“My Father! what is sovereignty of man?<br /> +Say, can I shield yon host from death, from sin,<br /> +Taking them up into my breast, like God?<br /> +I trow not so! Mine be the lowliest place<br /> +Following thy King who left his Father’s throne<br /> +To walk the lowliest!” Patrick answered thus:<br /> +“Best lot thou choosest, son. If thine that lot<br /> +Thou know’st not yet; nor I. The Lord, thy God,<br /> +Will teach us.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> When +the day decreed had dawned<br /> +Loud rang the bull-horn; and on every breeze<br /> +Floated the banners, saffron, green, and blue;<br /> +While issuing from the horizon’s utmost verge<br /> +The full-voiced People flocked. So swarmed of old<br /> +Some migratory nation, instinct-urged<br /> +To fly their native wastes sad winter’s realm;<br /> +So thronged on southern slopes when, far below,<br /> +Shone out the plains of promise. Bright they came!<br /> +No summer sea could wear a blithsomer sheen<br /> +Though every dancing crest and milky plume<br /> +Ran on with rainbows braided. Minstrel songs<br /> +Wafted like winds those onward hosts, or swayed<br /> +Or stayed them; while among them heralds passed<br /> +Lifting white wands of office. Foremost rode<br /> +Aileel, the younger brother of the prince:<br /> +He ruled a milk-white horse. Fluttered, breeze-borne<br /> +His mantle green, while all his golden hair<br /> +Streamed back redundant from the ring of gold<br /> +Circling his head uncovered. Loveliest light<br /> +Of innocence and joy was on that face:<br /> +Full well the young maids marked it! Brighter yet<br /> +Beamed he, his brother noting. On the verge<br /> +Of Cashel’s Rock that hour Aengus stood,<br /> +By Patrick’s side. That concourse nearer now<br /> +He gazed upon it, crying, with clasped hands,<br /> +“My Father, fair is sunrise, fair the sea,<br /> +The hills, the plains, the wind-stirred wood, the maid;<br /> +But what is like a People onward borne<br /> +In gladness? When I see that sight, my heart<br /> +Expands like palace-gates wide open flung<br /> +That say to all men, ‘Enter.’” Then the +Saint<br /> +Laid on that royal head a hand of might,<br /> +And said, “The Will of God decrees thee King!<br /> +Son of this People art thou: Sire one day<br /> +Thou shalt be! Son and Sire in one are King.<br /> +Shepherd for God thy flock, thou Shepherd true!”<br /> +He spake: that word was ratified in Heaven.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Meantime that multitude +innumerable<br /> +Had reached the Rock, and, now the winding road<br /> +In pomp ascending, faced those fair-wrought gates<br /> +Which, by the warders at the prince’s sign<br /> +Drawn back, to all gave entrance. In they streamed,<br /> +Filling the central courtway. Patrick stood<br /> +High stationed on a prostrate idol’s base,<br /> +In vestments of the Vigil of that Feast<br /> +The Annunciation, which with annual boon<br /> +Whispers, while melting snows dilate those streams<br /> +Purer than snows, to universal earth<br /> +That Maiden Mother’s joy. The Apostle watched<br /> +The advancing throng, and gave them welcome thus;<br /> +“As though into the great Triumphant Church,<br /> +O guests of God, ye flock! Her place is Heaven:<br /> +Sirs! we this day are militant below:<br /> +Not less, advance in faith. Behold your crowns—<br /> +Obedience and Endurance.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> There +and then<br /> +The Rite began: his people’s Chief and Head<br /> +Beside the font Aengus stood; his face<br /> +Sweet as a child’s, yet grave as front of eld:<br /> +For reverence he had laid his crown aside,<br /> +And from the deep hair to the unsandalled feet<br /> +Was raimented in white. With mitred head<br /> +And massive book, forward Saint Patrick leaned,<br /> +Stayed by the gem-wrought crosier. Prayer on prayer<br /> +Went up to God; while gift on gift from God,<br /> +All Angel-like, invisibly to man,<br /> +Descended. Thrice above that princely brow<br /> +Patrick the cleansing waters poured, and traced<br /> +Three times thereon the Venerable Sign,<br /> +Naming the Name Triune. The Rite complete,<br /> +Awestruck that concourse downward gazed. At last<br /> +Lifting their eyes, they marked the prince’s face<br /> +That pale it was though bright, anguished and pale,<br /> +While from his naked foot a blood-stream gushed<br /> +And o’er the pavement welled. The crosier’s +point,<br /> +Weighted with weight of all that priestly form,<br /> +Had pierced it through. “Why suffer’dst thou so +long<br /> +The pain in silence?” Patrick spake, +heart-grieved:<br /> +Smiling, Aengus answered, “O my Sire,<br /> +I thought, thus called to follow Him whose feet<br /> +Were pierced with nails, haply the blissful Rite<br /> +Bore witness to their sorrows.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> At +that word<br /> +The large eyes of the Apostolic man<br /> +Grew larger; and within them lived that light<br /> +Not fed by moon or sun, a visible flash<br /> +Of that invisible lightning which from God<br /> +Vibrates ethereal through the world of souls,<br /> +Vivific strength of Saints. The mitred brow<br /> +Uptowered sublime: the strong, yet wrinkled hands,<br /> +Ascending, ceased not, till the crosier’s head<br /> +Glittered above the concourse like a star.<br /> +At last his hands disparting, down he drew<br /> +From Heaven the Royal Blessing, speaking thus:<br /> +“For this cause may the blessing, Sire of kings,<br /> +Cleave to thy seed forever! Spear and sword<br /> +Before them fall! In glory may the race<br /> +Of Nafrach’s sons, Aengus, and Aileel,<br /> +Hold sway on Cashel’s summit! Be their kings<br /> +Great-hearted men, potent to rule and guard<br /> +Their people; just to judge them; warriors strong;<br /> +Sage counsellors; faithful shepherds; men of God,<br /> +That so through them the everlasting King<br /> +May flood their land with blessing.” Thus he +spake;<br /> +And round him all that nation said, “Amen.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thus held they feast in +Cashel of the Kings<br /> +That day till all that land was clothed with Christ:<br /> +And when the parting came from Cashel’s steep<br /> +Patrick the People’s Blessing thus forth sent:<br /> +“The Blessing fall upon the pasture broad,<br /> +On fruitful mead, and every corn-clad hill,<br /> +And woodland rich with flowers that children love:<br /> +Unnumbered be the homesteads, and the hearths:—<br /> +A blessing on the women, and the men,<br /> +On youth, and maiden, and the suckling babe:<br /> +A blessing on the fruit-bestowing tree,<br /> +And foodful river tide. Be true; be pure,<br /> +Not living from below, but from above,<br /> +As men that over-top the world. And raise<br /> +Here, on this rock, high place of idols once,<br /> +A kingly church to God. The same shall stand<br /> +For aye, or, wrecked, from ruin rise restored,<br /> +His witness till He cometh. Over Eire<br /> +The Blessing speed till time shall be no more<br /> +From Cashel of the Kings.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> The +Saint fared forth:<br /> +The People bare him through their kingdom broad<br /> +With banner and with song; but o’er its bound<br /> +The women of that People followed still<br /> +A half day’s journey with lamenting voice;<br /> +Then silent knelt, lifting their babes on high;<br /> +And, crowned with two-fold blessing, home returned.</p> +<h3>SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDLESS MOTHER.</h3> +<h4>ARGUMENT.</h4> +<p>Saint Patrick finds an aged Pagan woman making great +lamentation above a tomb which she believes to be that of her +son. He kneels beside her in prayer, while around them a +wondrous tempest sweeps. After a long time, he declares +unto her the Death of Christ, and how, through that Death, the +Dead are blessed. Lastly, he dissuades her from her rage of +grief, and admonishes her to pray for her son on a tomb hard by, +which is his indeed. The woman believes, and, being +consoled by a Sign of Heaven, departs in peace.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Across</span> his breast +one hundred times each day<br /> +Saint Patrick drew the Venerable Sign,<br /> +And sixty times by night: and whensoe’er<br /> +In travel Cross was seen far off or nigh<br /> +On lonely moor, or rock, or heathy hill,<br /> +For Erin then was sown with Christian seed,<br /> +He sought it, and before it knelt. Yet once,<br /> +While cold in winter shone the star of eve<br /> +Upon their board, thus spake a youthful monk:<br /> +“Three times this day, my father, didst thou pass<br /> +The Cross of Christ unmarked. At morn thou saw’st<br +/> +A last year’s lamb that by it sheltered lay,<br /> +At noon a dove that near it sat and mourned,<br /> +At eve a little child that round it raced,<br /> +Well pleased with each; yet saw’st thou not that Cross,<br +/> +Nor mad’st thou any reverence!” At that word<br +/> +Wondering, the Saint arose, and left the meat,<br /> +And, wondering, went to venerate that Cross.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Dark was the earth and dank +ere yet he reached<br /> +That spot; and lo! where lamb had lain, and dove<br /> +Had mourned, and child had raced, there stood indeed<br /> +High-raised, the Cross of Christ. Before it long<br /> +He prayed, and kneeling, marked that on a tomb<br /> +That Cross was raised. Then, inly moved by God,<br /> +The Saint demanded, “Who, of them that walked<br /> +The sun-warmed earth lies here in darkness hid?”<br /> +And answer made a lamentable Voice:<br /> +“Pagan I lived, my own soul’s bane:—when +dead,<br /> +Men buried here my body.” Patrick then:<br /> +“How stands the Cross of Christ on Pagan grave?”<br +/> +And answered thus the lamentable Voice:<br /> +“A woman’s work. She had been absent long;<br +/> +Her son had died; near mine his grave was made;<br /> +Half blind was she through fleeting of her tears,<br /> +And, erring, raised the Cross upon my tomb,<br /> +Misdeeming it for his. Nightly she comes,<br /> +Wailing as only Pagan mothers wail;<br /> +So wailed my mother once, while pain tenfold<br /> +Ran through my bodiless being. For her sake,<br /> +If pity dwells on earth or highest heaven,<br /> +May it this mourner comfort! Christian she,<br /> +And capable of pity.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +the Saint<br /> +Cried loud, “O God, Thou seest this Pagan’s heart,<br +/> +That love within it dwells: therefore not his<br /> +That doom of Souls all hate, and self-exiled<br /> +To whom Thy Presence were a woe twice told.<br /> +Eternal Pity! pity Thou Thy work;—<br /> +Sole Peace of them that love Thee, grant him peace.”<br /> +Thus Patrick prayed; and in the heaven of heavens<br /> +God heard his servant’s prayer. Then Patrick mused<br +/> +“Now know I why I passed that Cross unmarked;<br /> +It was not that it seemed.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> As +thus he knelt,<br /> +Behold, upon the cold and bitter wind<br /> +Rang wail on wail; and o’er the moor there moved<br /> +What seemed a woman’s if a human form.<br /> +That miserable phantom onward came<br /> +With cry succeeding cry that sank or swelled<br /> +As dipped or rose the moor. Arrived at last,<br /> +She heeded not the Saint, but on that grave<br /> +Dashed herself down. Long time that woman wailed;<br /> +And Patrick, long, for reverence of her woe<br /> +Forbore. At last he spake low-toned as when<br /> +Best listener knows not when the strain begins.<br /> +“Daughter! the sparrow falls not to the ground<br /> +Without his Maker. He that made thy son<br /> +Hath sent His Son to bear all woes of men,<br /> +And vanquish every foe—the latest, Death.”<br /> +Then rolled that woman on the Saint an eye<br /> +As when the last survivor of a host<br /> +Glares on some pitying conqueror. “Ho! the man<br /> +That treads upon my grief! He ne’er had sons;<br /> +And thou, O son of mine, hast left no sons,<br /> +Though oft I said, ‘When I am old, his babes<br /> +Shall climb my knees.’ My boast was mine in youth;<br +/> +But now mine age is made a barren stock<br /> +And as a blighted briar.” In grief she turned;<br /> +And as on blackening tarn gust follows gust,<br /> +Again came wail on wail. On strode the night:<br /> +The jagged forehead of that forest old<br /> +Alone was seen: all else was gloom. At last<br /> +With voice, though kind, upbraiding, Patrick spake:<br /> +“Daughter, thy grief is wilful and it errs;<br /> +Errs like those sad and tear-bewildered eyes<br /> +That for a Christian’s take a Pagan’s grave,<br /> +And for a son’s a stranger’s. Ah! poor +child,<br /> +Thy pride it was to raise, where lay thy son,<br /> +A Cross, his memory’s honour. By thee close<br /> +All dewed and glimmering in yon rising moon,<br /> +Low lies a grave unhonoured, and unknown:<br /> +No cross stands on it; yet upon its breast<br /> +Graved shalt thou find what Christian tomb ne’er lacks,<br +/> +The Cross of Christ. Woman, there lies thy son.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> She rose; she found that +other tomb; she knelt;<br /> +And o’er it went her wandering palms, as though<br /> +Some stone-blind mother o’er an infant’s face<br /> +Should spread an agonising hand, intent<br /> +To choose betwixt her own and counterfeit;<br /> +She found that cross deep-grav’n, and further sign<br /> +Close by, to her well known. One piercing shriek—<br +/> +Another moment, and her body lay<br /> +Along that grave with kisses, and wild hands<br /> +As when some forest beast tears up the ground,<br /> +Seeking its prey there hidden. Then once more<br /> +Rang the wild wail above that lonely heath,<br /> +While roared far off the vast invisible woods,<br /> +And with them strove the blast, in eddies dire<br /> +Whirling both branch and bough. Through hurrying clouds<br +/> +The scared moon rushed like ship that naked glares<br /> +One moment, lightning-lighted in the storm,<br /> +Anon in wild waves drowned. An hour went by:<br /> +Still wailed that woman, and the tempest roared;<br /> +While in the heart of ruin Patrick prayed.<br /> +He loved that woman. Unto Patrick dear,<br /> +Dear as God’s Church was still the single Soul,<br /> +Dearest the suffering Soul. He gave her time;<br /> +He let the floods of anguish spend themselves:<br /> +But when her wail sank low; when woods were mute,<br /> +And where the skiey madness late had raged<br /> +Shone the blue heaven, he spake with voice in strength<br /> +Gentle like that which calmed the Syrian lake,<br /> +“My sister, God hath shown me of thy wound,<br /> +And wherefore with the blind old Pagan’s cry<br /> +Hopeless thou mourn’st. Returned from far, thou +found’st<br /> +Thy son had Christian died, and saw’st the Cross<br /> +On Christian graves: and ill thy heart endured<br /> +That tomb so dear should lack its reverence meet.<br /> +To him thou gav’st the Cross, albeit that Cross<br /> +Inly thou know’st not yet. That knowledge thine,<br +/> +Thou hadst not left thy son amerced of prayer,<br /> +And given him tears, not succour.” “Yea,” +she said,<br /> +“Of this new Faith I little understand,<br /> +Being an aged woman and in woe:<br /> +But since my son was Christian, such am I;<br /> +And since the Christian tomb is decked with Cross<br /> +He shall not lack his right.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +Patrick spake:<br /> +“O woman, hearken, for through me thy son<br /> +Invokes thee. All night long for thee, unknown,<br /> +My hands have risen: but thou hast raised no prayer<br /> +For him, thy dearest; nor from founts of God,<br /> +Though brimful, hast thou drawn for lips that thirst.<br /> +Arise, and kneel, and hear thy loved one’s cry:<br /> +Too long he waiteth. Blessed are the dead:<br /> +They rest in God’s high Will. But more than peace,<br +/> +The rapturous vision of the Face of God,<br /> +Won by the Cross of Christ—for that they thirst<br /> +As thou, if viewless stood thy son close by,<br /> +Wouldst thirst to see his countenance. Eyes sin-sealed<br +/> +Not yet can see their God. Prayer speeds the time:<br /> +The living help the dead; all praise to Him<br /> +Who blends His children in a league of help,<br /> +Making all good one good. Eternal Love!<br /> +Not thine the will that love should cease with life,<br /> +Or, living, cease from service, barren made,<br /> +A stagnant gall eating the mourner’s heart<br /> +That hour when love should stretch a hand of might<br /> +Up o’er the grave to heaven. O great in love,<br /> +Perfect love’s work: for well, sad heart, I know,<br /> +Hadst thou not trained thy son in virtuous ways,<br /> +Christian he ne’er had been.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Those +later words<br /> +That solitary mourner understood,<br /> +The earlier but in part, and answered thus:<br /> +“A loftier Cross, and farther seen, shall rise<br /> +Upon this grave new-found! No hireling hands—<br /> +Mine own shall raise it; yea, though thirty years<br /> +Should sweat beneath the task.” And Patrick said:<br +/> +“What means the Cross? That lore thou lack’st +now learn.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then that which Kings desired +to know, and seers<br /> +And prophets vigil-blind—that Crown of Truths,<br /> +Scandal of fools, yet conqueror of the world,<br /> +To her, that midnight mourner, he divulged,<br /> +Record authentic: how in sorrow and sin<br /> +The earth had groaned; how pity, like a sword,<br /> +Had pierced the great Paternal Heart in heaven;<br /> +How He, the Light of Light, and God of God,<br /> +Had man become, and died upon the Cross,<br /> +Vanquishing thus both sorrow and sin, and risen,<br /> +The might of death o’erthrown; and how the gates<br /> +Of heaven rolled inwards as the Anointed King<br /> +Resurgent and ascending through them passed<br /> +In triumph with His Holy Dead; and how<br /> +The just, thenceforth death-freed, the selfsame gates<br /> +Entering, shall share the everlasting throne.<br /> +Thus Patrick spake, and many a stately theme<br /> +Rehearsed beside, higher than heaven, and yet<br /> +Near as the farthest can alone be near.<br /> +Then in that grief-worn creature’s bosom old<br /> +Contentions rose, and fiercer fires than burn<br /> +In sultry breasts of youth: and all her past,<br /> +Both good and evil, woke, in sleep long sealed;<br /> +And all the powers and forces of her soul<br /> +Rushed every way through darkness seeking light,<br /> +Like winds or tides. Beside her Patrick prayed,<br /> +And mightier than his preaching was his prayer,<br /> +Sheltering that crisis dread. At last beneath<br /> +The great Life-Giver’s breath that Human Soul,<br /> +An inner world vaster than planet worlds,<br /> +In undulation swayed, as when of old<br /> +The Spirit of God above the waters moved<br /> +Creative, while the blind and shapeless void<br /> +Yearned into form, and form grew meet for life,<br /> +And downward through the abysses Law ran forth<br /> +With touch soul-soft, and seas from lands retired,<br /> +And light from dark, and wondering Nature passed<br /> +Through storm to calm, and all things found their home.</p> +<p class="poetry">Silence long time endured; at last, +clear-voiced,<br /> +Her head not turning, thus the woman spake:<br /> +“That God who Man became—who died, and +lives,—<br /> +Say, died He for my son?” And Patrick said,<br /> +“Yea, for thy son He died. Kneel, woman, kneel!<br /> +Nor doubt, for mighty is a mother’s prayer,<br /> +That He who in the eternal light is throned,<br /> +Lifting the roseate and the nail-pierced palm,<br /> +Will make in heaven the Venerable Sign,<br /> +For He it is prays in us, and that Soul<br /> +Thou lov’st pass on to glory.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> At +his word<br /> +She knelt, and unto God, with help of God,<br /> +Uprushed the strength of prayer, as when the cloud<br /> +Uprushes past some beetling mountain wall<br /> +From billowy deeps unseen. Long time she prayed;<br /> +While heaven and earth grew silent as that night<br /> +When rose the Saviour. Sudden ceased the prayer:<br /> +And rang upon the night her jubilant cry,<br /> +“I saw a Sign in Heaven. Far inward rolled<br /> +The gates; and glory flashed from God; and he<br /> +I love his entrance won.” Then, fair and tall,<br /> +That woman stood with hands upraised to heaven<br /> +The dusky shadow of her youth renewed,<br /> +And instant Patrick spake, “Give thanks to God,<br /> +And speed thee home, and sleep; and since thy son<br /> +No children left, take to thee orphans twain<br /> +And rear them, in his honour, unto Christ;<br /> +And yearly, when the death-day of thy son<br /> +Returns, his birth-day name it; call thy friends;<br /> +Give alms; and range the poor around thy door,<br /> +So shall they feast, and pray. Woman, farewell:<br /> +All night the dark upon thy face hath lain;<br /> +Yet shall we know each other, met in heaven.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then blithe of foot that Mother crossed the +moor;<br /> +And when she reached her door a zone of white<br /> +Loosening along a cloud that walled the east<br /> +Revealed the coming dawn. That dawn ere long<br /> +Lay, unawaking, on a face serene,<br /> +On tearless lids, and quiet, open palms,<br /> +On stormless couch and raiment calm that hid<br /> +A breast if faded now, yet happier far<br /> +Than when in prime its youthful wave first heaved<br /> +Rocking a sleeping Infant.</p> +<h3>SAINT PATRICK AT THE FEAST OF KNOCK CAE;<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OR, THE FOUNDING OF MUNGRET.</span></h3> +<h4>ARGUMENT.</h4> +<p>Saint Patrick, being bidden to a feast, discourses on the way +against the pride of the Bards, for whom Fiacc pleads. +Derball, a scoffer, requires the Saint to remove a +mountain. He kneels down and prays, and Derball avers that +the mountain moved. Notwithstanding, Derball believes not, +but departs. The Saint declares that he saw not whether the +mountain moved. He places Nessan over his convent at +Mungret because he had given a little wether to the hungry. +Nessan’s mother grudged the gift; and Saint Patrick +prophesies that her grave shall not be in her son’s +church.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> Limneach, <a +name="citation101"></a><a href="#footnote101" +class="citation">[101]</a> ere he reached it, fame there ran<br +/> +Of Patrick’s words and works. Before his foot<br /> +Aileel had fallen, loud wailing, with his wife,<br /> +And cried, “Our child is slain by savage beasts;<br /> +But thou, O prophet, if that God thou serv’st<br /> +Be God indeed, restore him!” Patrick turned<br /> +To Malach, praised of all men. “Brother, kneel,<br /> +And raise yon child.” But Malach answered, +“Nay,<br /> +Lest, tempting God, His service I should shame.”<br /> +Then Patrick, “Answer of the base is thine;<br /> +And base shall be that house thou build’st on earth,<br /> +Little, and low. A man may fail in prayer:<br /> +What then? Thank God! the fault is ours not His,<br /> +And ours alone the shame.” The Apostle turned<br /> +To Ibar, and to Ailbè, bishops twain,<br /> +And bade them raise the child. They heard and knelt:<br /> +And Patrick knelt between them; and these three<br /> +Upheaved a wondrous strength of prayer; and lo!<br /> +All pale, yet shining, rose the child, and sat,<br /> +Lifting small hands, and preached to those around,<br /> +And straightway they believed, and were baptized.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus with loud rumour all the land was full,<br +/> +And some believed; some doubted; and a chief,<br /> +Lonan, the son of Eire, that half believed,<br /> +Willing to draw from Patrick wonder and sign,<br /> +By messengers besought him, saying, “Come,<br /> +For in thy reverence waits thy servant’s feast<br /> +Spread on Knock Cae.” That pleasant hill ascends<br +/> +Westward of Ara, girt by rivers twain,<br /> +Maigue, lily-lighted, and the “Morning Star”<br /> +Once “Samhair” named, that eastward through the +woods<br /> +Winding, upon its rapids earliest meets<br /> +The morn, and flings it far o’er mead and plain.</p> +<p class="poetry">From Limneach therefore Patrick, while the +dawn<br /> +Still dusk, its joyous secret kept, went forth,<br /> +O’er dustless road soon lost in dewy fields,<br /> +And groves that, touched by wakening winds, began<br /> +To load damp airs with scent. That time it was<br /> +When beech leaves lose their silken gloss, and maids<br /> +From whitest brows depose the hawthorn white,<br /> +Red rose in turn enthroning. Earliest gleams<br /> +Glimmered on leaves that shook like wings of birds:<br /> +Saint Patrick marked them well. He turned to +Fiacc—<br /> +“God might have changed to Pentecostal tongues<br /> +The leaves of all the forests in the world,<br /> +And bade them sing His love! He wrought not thus:<br /> +A little hint He gives us and no more.<br /> +Alone the willing see. Thus they sin less<br /> +Who, if they saw, seeing would disbelieve.<br /> +Hark to that note! O foolish woodland choirs!<br /> +Ye sing but idle loves; and, idler far,<br /> +The bards sing war—war only!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Answered +thus<br /> +The monk bard-loving: “Sing it! Ay, and make<br /> +The keys of all the tempests hang on zones<br /> +Of those cloud-spirits! They, too, can ‘bind and +loose:’<br /> +A bard incensed hath proved a kingdom’s doom!<br /> +Such Aidan. Upon cakes of meal his host,<br /> +King Aileach, fed him in a fireless hall:<br /> +The bard complained not—ay, but issuing forth,<br /> +Sang in dark wood a keen and venomed song<br /> +That raised on the king’s countenance plague-spots +three;<br /> +Who saw him named them Scorn, Dishonour, Shame,<br /> +And blighted those three oak trees nigh his door.<br /> +What next? Before a month that realm lay drowned<br /> +In blood; and fire went o’er the opprobrious +house!”<br /> +Thus spake the youth, and blushed at his own zeal<br /> +For bardic fame; then added, “Strange the power<br /> +Of song! My father, do I vainly dream<br /> +Oft thinking that the bards, perchance the birds,<br /> +Sing something vaster than they think or know?<br /> +Some fire immortal lives within their strings:<br /> +Therefore the people love them. War divine,<br /> +God’s war on sin—true love-song best and +sweetest—<br /> +Perforce they chaunt in spirit, not wars of clans:<br /> +Yea, one day, conscious, they shall sing that song;<br /> +One day by river clear of south or north,<br /> +Pagan no more, the laurelled head shall rise,<br /> +And chaunt the Warfare of the Realm of Souls,<br /> +The anguish and the cleansing, last the crown—<br /> +Prelude of songs celestial!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Patrick +smiled:<br /> +“Still, as at first, a lover of the bards!<br /> +Hard task was mine to win thee to the cowl!<br /> +Dubtach, thy master, sole in Tara’s hall<br /> +Who made me reverence, mocked my quest. He said,<br /> +‘Fiacc thou wouldst?—my Fiacc? Few days gone +by<br /> +I sent the boy with poems to the kings;<br /> +He loves me: hardly will he leave the songs<br /> +To wear thy tonsure!’ As he spake, behold,<br /> +Thou enter’dst. Sudden hands on Dubtach’s +head<br /> +I laid, as though to gird with tonsure crown:<br /> +Then rose thy clamour, ‘Erin’s chief of bards<br /> +A tonsured man! Me, father, take, not him!<br /> +Far less the loss to Erin and the songs!’<br /> +Down knelt’st thou; and, ere long, old Dubtach’s +floor<br /> +Shone with thy vernal locks, like forest paths<br /> +Made gold by leaves of autumn!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> As +he spake,<br /> +The sun, new-risen, flashed on a breast of wood<br /> +That answered from a thousand jubilant throats:<br /> +Then Fiacc, with all their music in his face,<br /> +Resumed: “My father, upon Tara’s steep<br /> +Patient thou sat’st whole months, sifting with care<br /> +The laws of Eire, recasting for all time,<br /> +Ill laws from good dissevering, as that Day<br /> +Shall sever tares from wheat. I see thee still,<br /> +As then we saw—thy clenched hand lost in beard<br /> +Propping thy chin; thy forehead wrinkle-trenched<br /> +Above that wondrous tome, the ‘Senchus Mohr,’<br /> +Like his, that Hebrew lawgiver’s, who sat<br /> +Throned on the clouded Mount, while far below<br /> +The Tribes waited in awe. Now answer make!<br /> +Three bishops, and three brehons, and three kings.<br /> +Ye toiled—who helped thee best?” +“Dubtach, the bard,”<br /> +Patrick replied—“Yea, wise was he, and knew<br /> +Man’s heart like his own strings.” “All +bards are wise,”<br /> +Shouted the youth, “except when war they wage<br /> +On thee, the wisest. In their music bath<br /> +They cleanse man’s heart, not less, and thus prepare,<br /> +Though hating thee, thy way. The bards are wise<br /> +For all except themselves. Shall God not save them,<br /> +He who would save the worst? Such grace were hard<br /> +Unless, death past, their souls to birds might change,<br /> +And in the darksomest grove of Paradise<br /> +Lament, amerced, their error, yet rejoice<br /> +In souls that walked obedient!” “Darksomest +grove,”<br /> +Patrick made answer; “darksome is their life;<br /> +Darksome their pride, their love, their joys, their hopes;<br /> +Darksome, though gleams of happier lore they have,<br /> +Their light! Seest thou yon forest floor, and o’er +it,<br /> +The ivy’s flash—earth-light? Such light is +theirs:<br /> +By such can no man walk.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Thus, +gay or grave,<br /> +Conversed they, while the Brethren paced behind;<br /> +Till now the morn crowded each cottage door<br /> +With clustered heads. They reached ere long in woods<br /> +A hamlet small. Here on the weedy thatch<br /> +White fruit-bloom fell: through shadow, there, went round<br /> +The swinging mill-wheel tagged with silver fringe;<br /> +Here rang the mallet; there was heard remote<br /> +The one note of the love-contented bird.<br /> +Though warm the sun, in shade the young spring morn<br /> +Was edged with winter yet, and icy film<br /> +Glazed the deep ruts. The swarthy smith worked hard,<br /> +And working sang; the wheelwright toiled close by;<br /> +An armourer next to these: through flaming smoke<br /> +Glared the fierce hands that on the anvil fell<br /> +In thunder down. A sorcerer stood apart<br /> +Kneading Death’s messenger, that missile ball,<br /> +The <i>Lia Laimbhè</i>. To his heart he clasped +it,<br /> +And o’er it muttered spells with flatteries mixed:<br /> +“Hail, little daughter mine! ’Twixt hand and +heart<br /> +I knead thee! From the Red Sea came that sand<br /> +Which, blent with viper’s poison, makes thy flesh!<br /> +Be thou no shadow wandering on the air!<br /> +Rush through the battle gloom as red-combed snake<br /> +Cleaves the blind waters! On! like Witch’s glance,<br +/> +Or forkèd flash, or shaft of summer pest,<br /> +And woe to him that meets thee! Mouth blood-red<br /> +My daughter hath:—not healing be her kiss!”<br /> +Thus he. In shade he stood, and phrensy-fired;<br /> +And yet he marked who watched him. Without word<br /> +Him Patrick passed; but spake to all the rest<br /> +With voice so kindly reverent, “Is not this,”<br /> +Men asked, “the preacher of the ‘Tidings +Good?’”<br /> +“What tidings? Has he found a mine?” +“He speaks<br /> +To princes as to brothers; to the hind<br /> +As we to princes’ children! Yea, when mute,<br /> +Saith not his face ‘Rejoice’?”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> At +times the Saint<br /> +Laid on the head of age his strong right hand,<br /> +Gentle as touch of soft-accosting eyes;<br /> +And once before an open door he stopped,<br /> +Silent. Within, all glowing like a rose,<br /> +A mother stood for pleasure of her babes<br /> +That—in them still the warmth of couch late left—<br +/> +Around her gambolled. On his face, as hers,<br /> +Their sport regarding, long time lay the smile;<br /> +Then crept a shadow o’er it, and he spake<br /> +In sadness: “Woman! when a hundred years<br /> +Have passed, with opening flower and falling snow,<br /> +Where then will be thy children?” Like a cloud<br /> +Fear and great wrath fell on her. From the wall<br /> +She snatched a battle-axe and raised it high<br /> +In both hands, clamouring, “Wouldst thou slay my +babes?”<br /> +He answered, “I would save them. Woman, hear!<br /> +Seest thou yon floating shape? It died a worm;<br /> +It lives, the blue-winged angel of spring meads.<br /> +Thy children, likewise, if they serve my King,<br /> +Death past, shall find them wings.” Then to her +cheek<br /> +The bloom returned, and splendour to her eye;<br /> +And catching to her breast, that larger swelled,<br /> +A child, she wept, “Oh, would that he might live<br /> +For ever! Prophet, speak! thy words are good!<br /> +Their father, too, must hear thee.” Patrick said,<br +/> +“Not so; nor falls this seed on every road;”<br /> +Then added thus: “You child, by all the rest<br /> +Cherished as though he were some infant God,<br /> +Is none of thine.” She answered, “None of +ours;<br /> +A great chief sent him here for fosterage.”<br /> +Then he: “All men on earth the children are<br /> +Of One who keeps them here in fosterage:<br /> +They see not yet His face; but He sees them,<br /> +Yea, and decrees their seasons and their times:<br /> +Like infants, they must learn Him first by touch,<br /> +Through nature, and her gifts—by hearing next,<br /> +The hearing of the ear, and that is Faith—<br /> +By Vision last. Woman, these things are hard;<br /> +But thou to Limneach come in three days’ time,<br /> +Likewise thy husband; there, by Sangul’s Well,<br /> +Thou shalt know all.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> The +Saint had reached ere long<br /> +That festal mount. Thousands with bannered line<br /> +Scaled it light-hearted. Never favourite lamb<br /> +In ribands decked shone brighter than that hour<br /> +The fair flank of Knock Cae. Heath-scented airs<br /> +Lightened the clambering toil. At times the Saint<br /> +Stayed on their course the crowds, and towards the Truth<br /> +Drew them by parable, or record old,<br /> +Oftener by question sage. Not all believed:<br /> +Of such was Derball. Man of wealth and wit,<br /> +Nor wise, nor warlike, toward the Saint he strode<br /> +With bubble-seething brain, and head high tossed,<br /> +And cried, “Great Seer! remove yon mountain blue,<br /> +Cenn Abhrat, by thy prayer! That done, to thee<br /> +Fealty I pledge.” Saint Patrick knelt in prayer:<br +/> +Soon Derball cried, “The central ridge descends;—<br +/> +Southward, beyond it, Longa’s lake shines out<br /> +In sunlight flashing!” At his word drew near<br /> +The men of Erin. Derball homeward turned,<br /> +Mocking: “Believe who will, believe not I!<br /> +Me more imports it o’er my foodful fields<br /> +To draw the Maigue’s rich waters than to stare<br /> +At moving hills.” But certain of that throng,<br /> +Light men, obsequious unto Derball’s laugh,<br /> +Questioned of Patrick if the mountain moved.<br /> +He answered, “On the ground mine eyes were fixed;<br /> +Nought saw I. Haply, through defect of mine,<br /> +It moved not. Derball said the mountain moved;<br /> +Yet kept he not his pledge, but disbelieved.<br /> +‘Faith can move mountains.’ Never said my +King<br /> +That mountains moved could move reluctant faith<br /> +In unbelieving heart.” With sad, calm voice<br /> +He spake; and Derball’s laughter frustrate died.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Meantime, high up on that +thyme-scented hill<br /> +By shadows swept, and lights, and rapturous winds,<br /> +Lonan prepared the feast, and, with that chief,<br /> +Mantan, a deacon. Tables fair were spread;<br /> +And tents with branches gay. Beside those tents<br /> +Stood the sweet-breathing, mournful, slow-eyed kine<br /> +With hazel-shielded horns, and gave their milk<br /> +Gravely to merry maidens. Low the sun<br /> +Had fallen, when, Patrick near the summit now,<br /> +There burst on him a wandering troop, wild-eyed,<br /> +With scant and quaint array. O’er sunburnt brows<br +/> +They wore sere wreaths; their piebald vests were stained,<br /> +And lean their looks, and sad: some piped, some sang,<br /> +Some tossed the juggler’s ball. “From far we +came,”<br /> +They cried; “we faint with hunger; give as food!”<br +/> +Upon them Patrick bent a pitying eye,<br /> +And said, “Where Lonan and where Mantan toil<br /> +Go ye, and pray them, for mine honour’s sake,<br /> +To gladden you with meat.” But Lonan said,<br /> +And Mantan, “Nay, but when the feast is o’er,<br /> +The fragments shall be yours.” With darkening brow<br +/> +The Saint of that denial heard, and cried,<br /> +“He cometh from the North, even now he cometh,<br /> +For whom the Blessing is reserved; he cometh<br /> +Bearing a little wether at his back:”<br /> +And, straightway, through the thicket evening-dazed<br /> +A shepherd—by him walked his mother—pushed,<br /> +Bearing a little wether. Patrick said,<br /> +“Give them to eat. They hunger.” Gladly +then<br /> +That shepherd youth gave them the wether small:<br /> +With both his hands outstretched, and liberal smile,<br /> +He gave it, though, with angry eye askance<br /> +His mother grudged it sore. The wether theirs,<br /> +As though earth-swallowed, vanished that wild tribe,<br /> +Fearing that mother’s eye.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +Patrick spake<br /> +To Lonan, “Zealous is thy service, friend;<br /> +Yet of thy house no king shall sit on throne,<br /> +No bishop bless the people.” Turning then<br /> +To Mantan, thus he spake, “Careful art thou<br /> +Of many things; not less that church thou raisest<br /> +Shall not be of the honoured in the land;<br /> +And in its chancel waste the mountain kine<br /> +Shall couch above thy grave.” To Nessan last<br /> +Thus spake he: “Thou that didst the hungry feed,<br /> +The poor of Christ, that know not yet His name,<br /> +And, helping them that cried to me for help,<br /> +Cherish mine honour, like a palm, one day,<br /> +Shall rise thy greatness.” Nessan’s mother +old<br /> +For pardon knelt. He blessed her hoary head,<br /> +Yet added, mournful, “Not within the Church<br /> +That Nessan serves shall lie his mother’s grave.”<br +/> +Then Nessan he baptized, and on him bound<br /> +Ere long the deacon’s grade, and placed him, later,<br /> +Priest o’er his church at Mungret. Centuries ten<br +/> +It stood, a convent round it as a star<br /> +Forth sending beams of glory and of grace<br /> +O’er woods Teutonic and the Tyrrhene Sea.<br /> +Yet Nessan’s mother in her son’s great church<br /> +Slept not; nor where the mass bell tinkled low:<br /> +West of the church her grave, to his—her +son’s—<br /> +Neighbouring, yet severed by the chancel wall.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus from the morning star to evening star<br +/> +Went by that day. In Erin many such<br /> +Saint Patrick lived, using well pleased the chance,<br /> +Or great or small, since all things come from God:<br /> +And well the people loved him, being one<br /> +Who sat amid their marriage feasts, and saw,<br /> +Where sin was not, in all things beauty and love.<br /> +But, ere he passed from Munster, longing fell<br /> +On Patrick’s heart to view in all its breadth<br /> +Her river-flood, and bless its western waves;<br /> +Therefore, forth journeying, to that hill he went,<br /> +Highest among the wave-girt, heathy hills,<br /> +That still sustains his name, and saw the flood<br /> +At widest stretched, and that green Isle <a +name="citation111"></a><a href="#footnote111" +class="citation">[111]</a> hard by,<br /> +And northern Thomond. From its coasts her sons<br /> +Rushed countless forth in skiff and coracle<br /> +Smiting blue wave to white, till Sheenan’s sound<br /> +Ceased, in their clamour lost. That hour from God<br /> +Power fell on Patrick; and in spirit he saw,<br /> +Invisible to flesh, the western coasts,<br /> +And the ocean way, and, far beyond, that land<br /> +The Future’s heritage, and prophesied<br /> +Of Brendan who ere long in wicker boat<br /> +Should over-ride the mountains of the deep,<br /> +Shielded by God, and tread—no fable then—<br /> +Fabled Hesperia. Last of all he saw<br /> +More near, thy hermit home, Senanus;—“Hail,<br /> +Isle of blue ocean and the river’s mouth!<br /> +The People’s Lamp, their Counsel’s Head, is +thine!”<br /> +That hour shone out through cloud the westering sun<br /> +And paved the wave with fire: that hour not less<br /> +Strong in his God, westward his face he set,<br /> +Westward and north, and spread his arms abroad,<br /> +And drew the blessing down, and flung it far:<br /> +“A blessing on the warriors, and the clans,<br /> +A blessing on high field, and golden vales,<br /> +On sea-like plain and on the showery ridge,<br /> +On river-ripple, cliff, and murmuring deep,<br /> +On seaward peaks, harbours, and towns, and ports;<br /> +A blessing on the sand beneath the ships:<br /> +On all descend the Blessing!” Thus he prayed,<br /> +Great-hearted; and from all the populous hills<br /> +And waters came the People’s vast “Amen!”</p> +<h3>SAINT PATRICK AND KING EOCHAID.</h3> +<h4>ARGUMENT.</h4> +<p>King Eochaid submits himself to the Christian Law because +Saint Patrick has delivered his son from bonds, yet only after +making a pact that he is not, like the meaner sort, to be +baptized. In this stubbornness he persists, though +otherwise a kindly king; and after many years, he dies. +Saint Patrick had refused to see his living face; yet after death +he prays by the death-bed. Life returns to the dead; and +sitting up, like one sore amazed, he demands baptism. The +Saint baptizes him, and offers him a choice either to reign over +all Erin for fifteen years, or to die. Eochaid chooses to +die, and so departs.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Eochaid</span>, son of +Crimther, reigned, a King<br /> +Northward in Clochar. Dearer to his heart<br /> +Than kingdom or than people or than life<br /> +Was he, the boy long wished for. Dear was she,<br /> +Keinè, his daughter. Babyhood’s white star,<br +/> +Beauteous in childhood, now in maiden dawn<br /> +She witched the world with beauty. From her eyes<br /> +A light went forth like morning o’er the sea;<br /> +Sweeter her voice than wind on harp; her smile<br /> +Could stay men’s breath. With wingèd feet she +trod<br /> +The yearning earth that, if it could, like waves<br /> +Had swelled to meet their pressure. Ah, the pang!<br /> +Beauty, the immortal promise, like a cheat<br /> +If unwed glides into the shadow land,<br /> +Childless and twice defeated. Beauty wed<br /> +To mate unworthy, suffers worse eclipse—<br /> +“Ill choice between two ills!” thus spleenfull +cried<br /> +Eochaid; but not his the pensive grief:<br /> +He would have kept his daughter in his house<br /> +For ever; yet, since better might not be,<br /> +Himself he chose her out a mate, and frowned,<br /> +And said, “The dog must have her.” But the +maid<br /> +Wished not for marriage. Tender was her heart;<br /> +Yet though her twentieth year had o’er her flown,<br /> +And though her tears had dewed a mother’s grave,<br /> +In her there lurked, not flower of womanhood,<br /> +But flower of angel texture. All around<br /> +To her was love. The crown of earthly love<br /> +Seemed but its crown of mockery. Love Divine—<br /> +For that she yearned, and yet she knew it not;<br /> +Knew less that love she feared.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> She +walked in woods<br /> +While all the green leaves, drenched by sunset’s gold,<br +/> +Upon a shower-bespangled sycamore<br /> +Shivered, and birds among them choir on choir<br /> +Chanted her praise—or spring’s. “Ill +sung,” she laughed,<br /> +“My dainty minstrels! Grant to me your wings,<br /> +And I for them will teach you song of mine:<br /> +Listen!” A carol from her lip there gushed<br /> +That, ere its time, might well have called the spring<br /> +From winter’s coldest cave. It ceased; she turned.<br +/> +Beside her Patrick stood. His hand he raised<br /> +To bless her. Awed, though glad, upon her knees<br /> +The maiden sank. His eye, as if through air,<br /> +Saw through that stainless soul, and, crystal-shrined<br /> +Therein, its inmate, Truth. That other Truth<br /> +Instant to her he preached—the Truth Divine—<br /> +(For whence is caution needful, save from sin?)<br /> +And those two Truths, each gazing upon each,<br /> +Embraced like sisters, thenceforth one. For her<br /> +No arduous thing was Faith, ere yet she heard<br /> +In heart believing: and, as when a babe<br /> +Marks some bright shape, if near or far, it knows not,<br /> +And stretches forth a witless hand to clasp<br /> +Phantom or form, even so with wild surmise<br /> +And guesses erring first, and questions apt,<br /> +She chased the flying light, and round it closed<br /> +At last, and found it substance. “This is +He.”<br /> +Then cried she, “This, whom every maid should love,<br /> +Conqueror self-sacrificed of sin and death:<br /> +How shall we find, how please Him, how be nigh?”<br /> +Patrick made answer: “They that do His will<br /> +Are nigh Him.” And the virgin: “Of the nigh,<br +/> +Say, who is nighest?” Thus, that wingèd +heart<br /> +Rushed to its rest. He answered: “Nighest they<br /> +Who offer most to Him in sacrifice,<br /> +As when the wedded leaves her father’s house<br /> +And cleaveth to her husband. Nighest they<br /> +Who neither father’s house nor husband’s house<br /> +Desire, but live with Him in endless prayer,<br /> +And tend Him in His poor.” Aloud she cried,<br /> +“The nearest to the Highest, that is love;—<br /> +I choose that bridal lot!” He answered, +“Child,<br /> +The choice is God’s. For each, that lot is best<br /> +To which He calls us.” Lifting then pure hands,<br /> +Thus wept the maiden: “Call me, Virgin-born!<br /> +Will not the Mother-Maid permit a maid<br /> +To sit beside those nail-pierced feet, and wipe,<br /> +With hair untouched by wreaths of mortal love,<br /> +The dolorous blood-stains from them? Stranger guest,<br /> +Come to my father’s tower! Against my will,<br /> +Against his own, in bridal bonds he binds me:<br /> +My suit he might resist: he cannot thine!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> She spake; and by her Patrick +paced with feet<br /> +To hers accordant. Soon they reached that fort:<br /> +Central within a circling rath earth-built<br /> +It stood; the western tower of stone; the rest,<br /> +Not high, but spreading wide, of wood compact;<br /> +For thither many a forest hill had sent<br /> +His wind-swept daughter brood, relinquishing<br /> +Converse with cloud and beam and rain forever<br /> +To echo back the revels of a Prince.<br /> +Mosaic was the work, beam laced with beam<br /> +In quaint device: high up, o’er many a door<br /> +Shone blazon rich of vermeil, or of green,<br /> +Or shield of bronze, glittering with veinèd boss,<br /> +Chalcedony or agate, or whate’er<br /> +The wave-lipped marge of Neagh’s broad lake might boast,<br +/> +Or ocean’s shore, northward from Brandon’s Head<br /> +To where the myriad-pillared cliffs hang forth<br /> +Their stony organs o’er the lonely main.<br /> +And trembles yet the pilgrim, noting at eve<br /> +The pride Fomorian, and that Giant Way <a +name="citation116"></a><a href="#footnote116" +class="citation">[116]</a><br /> +Trending toward eastern Alba. From his throne<br /> +Above the semicirque of grassy seats<br /> +Whereon by Brehons and by Ollambs girt<br /> +Daily be judged his people, rose the king<br /> +And bade the stranger welcome.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Day +to day<br /> +And night to night succeeded. In fit time,<br /> +For Patrick, sometimes sudden, oft was slow,<br /> +He spoke his Master’s message. At the close,<br /> +As though in trance, the warriors circling stood<br /> +With hands outstretched; the Druids downward frowned,<br /> +Silent; and like a strong man awed for once,<br /> +Eochaid round him stared. A little while,<br /> +And from him passed the amazement. Buoyant once more,<br /> +And bright like trees fresher for thunder-shower,<br /> +With all his wonted aspect, bold and keen,<br /> +He answered: “O my prophet, words, words, words!<br /> +We too have Prophets. Better thrice our Bards;<br /> +Yet, being no better these than trumpet’s blast,<br /> +The trumpet more I prize. Had words been work,<br /> +Myself in youth had led the loud-voiced clan!<br /> +Deeds I preferred. What profit e’er had I<br /> +From windy marvels? Once with me in war<br /> +A seer there camped that, bending back his head,<br /> +Fit rites performed, and upward gazing, blew<br /> +With rounded lips into the heaven of heavens<br /> +Druidic breath. That heaven was changed to cloud,<br /> +Cloud that on borne to Clairè’s hated bound<br /> +Down fell, a rain of blood! To me what gain?<br /> +Within three weeks my son was trapped and snared<br /> +By Aodh of Hy Brinin, king whose hosts<br /> +Number my warriors fourfold. Three long years<br /> +Beyond those purple mountains in the west<br /> +Hostage he lies.” Lightly Eochaid spake,<br /> +And turned: but shaken chin betrayed that grief<br /> +Which lived beneath his lightness.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Sudden +thronged<br /> +High on the neighbouring hills a jubilant troop,<br /> +Their banners waving, while the midway vale<br /> +With harp and horn resounded. Patrick spake:<br /> +“Rejoice! thy son returns! not sole he comes,<br /> +But in his hand a princess, fair and good,<br /> +A kingdom for her dowry. Aodh’s realm,<br /> +By me late left, welcomed <i>my</i> King with joy:<br /> +All fire the mountains shone. ‘The God I +serve,’<br /> +Thus spake I, Aodh pointing to those fires,<br /> +‘In mountains of rejoicing hath no joy<br /> +While sad beyond them sits a childless man,<br /> +His only son thy captive. Captive groaned<br /> +Creation; Bethlehem’s Babe set free the slave.<br /> +For His sake loose thy thrall!’ A sweeter voice<br /> +Pleaded with mine, his daughter’s ’mid her tears.<br +/> +‘Aodh,’ I said, ‘these two each other love!<br +/> +What think’st thou? He who shaped the linnet’s +nest,<br /> +Indifferent unto Him are human loves?<br /> +Arise! thy work make perfect! Righteous deeds<br /> +Are easier whole than half.’ In thought awhile<br /> +Old Aodh sat; then to his daughter turned,<br /> +And thus, imperious even in kindness, spake:<br /> +‘Well fought the youth ere captured, like the son<br /> +Of kings, and worthy to be sire of kings:<br /> +Wed him this hour: and in three days, at eve,<br /> +Restore him to his father!’ King, this hour<br /> +Thou know’st if Christ’s strong Faith be empty +words,<br /> +Or truth, and armed with power.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> That +night was passed<br /> +In feasting and in revel, high and low<br /> +Rich with a common gladness. Many a torch<br /> +Flared in the hand of servitors hill-sent,<br /> +That standing, each behind a guest, retained<br /> +Beneath that roof clouded by banquet steam<br /> +Their mountain wildness. Here, the splendour glanced<br /> +On goblet jewel-chased and dark with wine,<br /> +Swift circling; there, on walls with antlers spread,<br /> +And rich with yew-wood carvings, flower or bud,<br /> +Or clustered grape pendent in russet gleam<br /> +As though from nature’s hand. A hall hard by<br /> +Echoed the harp that now nor kindled rage,<br /> +Nor grief condoled, nor sealed with slumber’s balm<br /> +Tempestuous spirits, triumphs three of song,<br /> +But raised to rapture, mirth. Far shone that hall<br /> +Glowing with hangings steeped in every tinct<br /> +The boast of Erin’s dyeing-vats, now plain,<br /> +Now pranked with bird or beast or fish, whate’er<br /> +Fast-flying shuttle from the craftsman’s thought<br /> +Catching, on bore through glimmering warp and woof,<br /> +A marvellous work; now traced by broiderer’s hand<br /> +With legends of Ferdìadh and of Meave,<br /> +Even to the golden fringe. The warriors paced<br /> +Exulting. Oft they showed their merit’s prize,<br /> +Poniard or cup, tribute ordained of tribes<br /> +From age to age, Eochaid’s right, on them<br /> +With equal right devolving. Slow they moved<br /> +In mantle now of crimson, now of blue,<br /> +Clasped with huge torque of silver or of gold<br /> +Just where across the snowy shirt there strayed<br /> +Tendril of purple thread. With jewelled fronts<br /> +Beauteous in pride ’mid light of winsome smiles,<br /> +Over the rushes green with slender foot<br /> +In silver slipper hid, the ladies passed,<br /> +Answering with eyes not lips the whispered praise,<br /> +Or loud the bride extolling—“When was seen<br /> +Such sweetness and such grace?”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Meantime +the king<br /> +Conversed with Patrick. Vexed he heard announced<br /> +His daughter’s high resolve: but still his looks<br /> +Went wandering to his son. “My boy! Behold +him!<br /> +His valour and his gifts are all from me:<br /> +My first-born!” From the dancing throng apart<br /> +His daughter stood the while, serene and pale,<br /> +Down-gazing on that lily in her hand<br /> +With face of one who notes not shapes around,<br /> +But dreams some happy dream. The king drew nigh,<br /> +And on her golden head the sceptre staff<br /> +Leaning, but not to hurt her, thus began:<br /> +“Your prophets of the day, I trust them not!<br /> +If sent from God, why came they not long since?<br /> +Our Druids came before them, and, belike,<br /> +Shall after them abide! With these new seers<br /> +I count not Patrick. Things that Patrick says<br /> +I ofttimes thought. His lineage too is old—<br /> +Wide-browed, grey-eyed, with downward lessening face,<br /> +Not like your baser breeds, with questing eyes<br /> +And jaw of dog. But for thy Heavenly Spouse,<br /> +I like not Him! At least, wed Cormac first!<br /> +If rude his ways, yet noble is his name,<br /> +And being but poor the man will bide with me:<br /> +He’s brave, and likeliest soon in fight may fall!<br /> +When Cormac dies, wed next—” a music clash<br /> +Forth bursting drowned his words.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Three +days passed by:<br /> +To Patrick, then preparing to depart,<br /> +Thus spake Eochaid in the ears of all:<br /> +“Herald Heaven-missioned of the Tidings Good!<br /> +Those tidings I have pondered. They are true:<br /> +I for that truth’s sake, and in honour bound<br /> +By reason of my son set free, resolve<br /> +The same, upon conditions, to believe,<br /> +And suffer all my people to believe,<br /> +Just terms exacted. Briefly these they are:<br /> +First, after death, I claim admittance frank<br /> +Into thy Heavenly Kingdom: next, till death<br /> +For me exemption from that Baptism Rite,<br /> +Imposed on kerne and hind. Experience-taught,<br /> +I love not rigid bond and written pledge:<br /> +’Tis well to brand your mark on sheep or lamb:<br /> +Kings are of lion breed; and of my house<br /> +’Tis known there never yet was king baptized.<br /> +This pact concluded, preach within my realm<br /> +Thy Faith; and wed my daughter to thy God.<br /> +Not scholarly am I to know what joy<br /> +A maid can find in psalm, and cell, and spouse<br /> +Unseen: yet ever thus my sentence stood,<br /> +‘Choose each his way.’ My son restored, her +loss<br /> +To me is loss the less.” Thus spake the king.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Patrick, on whose face the princess +bent<br /> +The supplication softly strong of eyes<br /> +Like planets seen through mist, Eochaid’s heart<br /> +Knowing, which miracle had hardened more,<br /> +Made answer, “King, a man of jests art thou,<br /> +Claiming free range in heaven, and yet its gate<br /> +Thyself close barring! In thy daughter’s prayers<br +/> +Belike thou trustest, that where others creep<br /> +Thou shalt its golden bastions over-fly.<br /> +Far otherwise than in that way thou ween’st,<br /> +That daughter’s prayers shall speed thee. With thy +word<br /> +I close, that word to frustrate. God be with thee!<br /> +Thou living, I return not. Fare thee well.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thus speaking, by the hand he +took the maid,<br /> +And led her through the concourse. At her feet<br /> +The poor fell low, kissing her garment’s hem,<br /> +And many brought their gifts, and all their prayers,<br /> +And old men wept. A maiden train snow-garbed,<br /> +Her steps attending, whitened plain and field,<br /> +As when at times dark glebe, new-turned, is changed<br /> +To white by flock of ocean birds alit,<br /> +Or inland blown by storm, or hunger-urged<br /> +To filch the late-sown grain. Her convent home<br /> +Ere long received her. There Ethembria ruled,<br /> +Green Erin’s earliest nun. Of princely race,<br /> +She in past years before the font of Christ<br /> +Had knelt at Patrick’s feet. Once more she sought +him:<br /> +Over the lovely, lovelier change had passed,<br /> +As when on childish girlhood, ’mid a shower<br /> +Of lilies earthward wafted, maidenhood<br /> +In peacefuller state assumes her spotless throne;<br /> +So, from that maiden, vestal now had risen:—<br /> +Lowlier she seemed, more tender, soft, and grave,<br /> +Yet loftier; hushed in quiet more divine,<br /> +Yet wonder-awed. Again she knelt, and o’er<br /> +The bending queenly head, till then unbent,<br /> +He flung that veil which woman bars from man<br /> +To make her more than woman. Nigh to death<br /> +The Saint forgat not her. With her remained<br /> +Keinè; but Patrick dwelt far off at Saul.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Years came and went: yet +neither chance nor change,<br /> +Nor war, nor peace, nor warnings from the priests,<br /> +Nor whispers ’mid the omen-mongering crowd,<br /> +Might from Eochaid charm his wayward will,<br /> +Nor reasonings of the wise that still preferred<br /> +Safe port to victory’s pride. He reasoned too,<br /> +For confident in his reasonings was the king,<br /> +Reckoning on pointed fingers every link<br /> +That clenched his mail of proof. “On Patrick’s +word<br /> +Ye tell me Baptism is the gate of Heaven:<br /> +Attend, Sirs! I have Patrick’s word no less<br /> +That I shall enter Heaven. What need I more?<br /> +If, Death, truth-speaker, shows that Patrick lied,<br /> +Plain is my right against him! Heaven not won,<br /> +Patrick bare hence my daughter through a fraud:<br /> +He must restore her fourfold—daughters four,<br /> +As fair and good. If not, the prophet’s pledge<br /> +For honour’s sake his Master must redeem,<br /> +And unbaptized receive me. Dupes are ye!<br /> +Doomed ’mid the common flock, with branded fleece<br /> +Bleating to enter Heaven!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> The +years went by;<br /> +And weakness came. No more his small light form<br /> +To reverent eyes seemed taller than it was:<br /> +No more the shepherd watched him from the hill<br /> +Heading his hounds, and hoped to catch his smile,<br /> +Yet feared his questions keen. The end drew near.<br /> +Some wept, some railed; restless the warriors tramped;<br /> +The Druids conned their late discountenanced spells;<br /> +The bard his lying harpstrings spurned, so long<br /> +Healing, unhelpful now. But far away,<br /> +Within that lonely convent tower from her<br /> +Who prayed for ever, mightier rose the prayer.</p> +<p class="poetry">Within the palace, now by usage old<br /> +To all flung open, all were sore amazed,<br /> +All save the king. The leech beside the bed<br /> +Sobbed where he stood, yet sware, “The fit will pass:<br /> +Ten years the King may live.” Eochaid frowned:<br /> +“Shall I, to patch thy fame, live ten years more,<br /> +My death-time come? My seventy years are sped:<br /> +My sire and grandsire died at sixty-nine.<br /> +Like Aodh, shall I lengthen out my days<br /> +Toothless, nor fit to vindicate my clan,<br /> +Some losel’s song? The kingdom is my son’s!<br +/> +Strike from my little milk-white horse the shoes,<br /> +And loose him where the freshets make the mead<br /> +Greenest in springtide. He must die ere long;<br /> +And not to him did Patrick open Heaven.<br /> +Praise be to Patrick’s God! May He my sins,<br /> +Known and unknown, forgive!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Backward +he sank<br /> +Upon his bed, and lay with eyes half closed,<br /> +Murmuring at times one prayer, five words or six;<br /> +And twice or thrice he spake of trivial things;<br /> +Then like an infant slumbered till the sun,<br /> +Sinking beneath a great cloud’s fiery skirt,<br /> +Smote his old eyelids. Waking, in his ears<br /> +The ripening cornfields whispered ’neath the breeze,<br /> +For wide were all the casements that the soul<br /> +By death delivered hindrance none might find<br /> +(Careful of this the king); and thus he spake:<br /> +“Nought ever raised my heart to God like fields<br /> +Of harvest, waving wide from hill to hill,<br /> +All bread-full for my people. Hale me forth:<br /> +When I have looked once more upon that sight<br /> +My blessing I will give them, and depart.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then in the fields they laid him, and he +spake.<br /> +“May He that to my people sends the bread,<br /> +Send grace to all who eat it!” With that word<br /> +His hands down-falling, back once more he sank,<br /> +And lay as dead; yet, sudden, rising not,<br /> +Nor moving, nor his eyes unclosing, said,<br /> +“My body in the tomb of ancient kings<br /> +Inter not till beside it Patrick stands<br /> +And looks upon my brow.” He spake, then sighed<br /> +A little sigh, and died.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Three +days, as when<br /> +Black thunder cloud clings fast to mountain brows,<br /> +So to the nation clung the grief: three days<br /> +The lamentation sounded on the hills<br /> +And rang around the pale blue meres, and rose<br /> +Shrill from the bleeding heart of vale and glen,<br /> +And rocky isle, and ocean’s moaning shore;<br /> +While by the bier the yellow tapers stood,<br /> +And on the right side knelt Eochaid’s son,<br /> +Behind him all the chieftains cloaked in black;<br /> +And on his left his daughter knelt, the nun,<br /> +Behind her all her sisterhood, white-veiled,<br /> +Like tombstones after snowstorm. Far away,<br /> +At “Saul of Patrick,” dwelt the Saint when first<br +/> +The king had sickened. Message sent he none<br /> +Though knowing all; and when the end was nigh,<br /> +And heralds now besought him day by day,<br /> +He made no answer till o’er eastern seas<br /> +Advanced the third fair morning. Then he rose,<br /> +And took the Staff of Jesus, and at eve<br /> +Beside the dead king standing, on his brow<br /> +Fixed a sad eye. Aloud the people wept;<br /> +The kneeling warriors eyed their lord askance;<br /> +The nuns intoned their hymn. Above that hymn<br /> +A cry rang out: it was the daughter’s prayer;<br /> +And after that was silence. By the dead<br /> +Still stood the Saint, nor e’er removed his gaze.<br /> +Then—seen of all—behold, the dead king’s +hands<br /> +Rose slowly, as the weed on wave upheaved<br /> +Without its will; and all the strengthless shape<br /> +In cerements wrapped, as though by mastering voice<br /> +From the white void evoked and realm of death,<br /> +Without its will, a gradual bulk half rose,<br /> +The hoar head gazing forth. Upon the face<br /> +Had passed a change, the greatest earth may know;<br /> +For what the majesty of death began<br /> +The majesties of worlds unseen, and life<br /> +Resurgent ere its time, had perfected,<br /> +All accidents of flesh and sorrowful years<br /> +Cancelled and quelled. Yet horror from his eyes<br /> +Looked out as though some vision once endured<br /> +Must cling to them for ever. Patrick spake:<br /> +“Soul from the dead sent back once more to earth<br /> +What seek’st thou from God’s Church?” He +answer made,<br /> +“Baptism.” Then Patrick o’er him poured +the might<br /> +Of healing waters in the Name Triune,<br /> +The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit;<br /> +And from his eyes the horror passed, and light<br /> +Went from them, as the light of eyes that rest<br /> +On the everlasting glory, while he spake:<br /> +“Tempest of darkness drave me past the gates<br /> +Celestial, and, a moment’s space, within<br /> +I heard the hymning of the hosts of God<br /> +That feed for ever on the Bread of Life<br /> +As feed the nations on the harvest wheat.<br /> +Tempest of darkness drave me to the gates<br /> +Of Anguish: then a cry came up from earth,<br /> +Cry like my daughter’s when her mother died,<br /> +That stayed the on-rushing whirlwind; yet mine eyes<br /> +Perforce looked in, and, many a thousand years,<br /> +Branded upon them lay that woful sight<br /> +Now washed from them for ever.” Patrick spake:<br /> +“This day a twofold choice I give thee, son;<br /> +For fifteen years the rule o’er Erin’s land,<br /> +Rule absolute, Ard-Righ o’er lesser kings;<br /> +Or instant else to die, and hear once more<br /> +That hymn celestial, and that Vision see<br /> +They see who sing that anthem.” Light from God<br /> +Over that late dead countenance streamed amain,<br /> +Like to his daughter’s now—more beauteous +thrice—<br /> +Yet awful, more than beauteous. “Rule o’er +earth,<br /> +Rule without end, were nought to that great hymn<br /> +Heard but a single moment. I would die.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Patrick, on him gazing, answered, +“Die!”<br /> +And died the king once more, and no man wept;<br /> +But on her childless breast the nun sustained<br /> +Softly her father’s head.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> That +night discourse<br /> +Through hall and court circled in whispers low.<br /> +First one, “Was that indeed our king? But where<br /> +The sword-scar and the wrinkles?” +“Where,” rejoined,<br /> +Wide-eyed, the next, “his little cranks and girds<br /> +The wisdom, and the whim?” Then Patrick spake:<br /> +“Sirs, till this day ye never saw your king;<br /> +The man ye doted on was but his mask,<br /> +His picture—yea, his phantom. Ye have seen<br /> +At last the man himself.” That night nigh sped,<br /> +While slowly o’er the darkling woods went down,<br /> +Warned by the cold breath of the up-creeping morn<br /> +Invisible yet nigh, the August moon,<br /> +Two vestals, gliding past like moonlight gleams,<br /> +Conversed: one said, “His daughter’s prayer +prevailed!”<br /> +The second, “Who may know the ways of God?<br /> +For this, may many a heart one day rejoice<br /> +In hope! For this, the gift to many a man<br /> +Exceed the promise; Faith’s invisible germ<br /> +Quickened with parting breath; and Baptism given,<br /> +It may be, by an angel’s hand unseen!”</p> +<h3>SAINT PATRICK AND THE FOUNDING OF ARMAGH CATHEDRAL.</h3> +<h4>ARGUMENT.</h4> +<p>Saint Patrick repairs to Ardmacha, there to found the chief +church of Erin. For that purpose he demands of +Dairè, the king, a certain woody hill. The king +refuses it, and afterwards treats him with alternate scorn and +reverence; while the Saint, in each event alike, makes the same +answer, “Deo Gratias.” At last the king +concedes to him the hill; and on the summit of it Saint Patrick +finds a little white fawn asleep. The men of Erin would +have slain that fawn; but the Saint carries it on his shoulder, +and restores it to its dam. Where the fawn lay, he places +the altar of his cathedral.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">At</span> Cluain Cain, in +Ross, unbent yet old,<br /> +Dwelt Patrick long. Its sweet and flowery sward<br /> +He to the rock had delved, with fixed resolve<br /> +To build thereon Christ’s chiefest church in Eire.<br /> +Then by him stood God’s angel, speaking thus:<br /> +“Not here, but northward.” He replied, +“O, would<br /> +This spot might favour find with God! Behold!<br /> +Fair is it, and as meet to clasp a church<br /> +As is a true heart in a virgin breast<br /> +To clasp the Faith of Christ. The hinds around<br /> +Name it ‘the beauteous meadow.’” +“Fair it is,”<br /> +The angel answered, “nor shall lack its crown.<br /> +Another’s is its beauty. Here, one day<br /> +A pilgrim from the Britons sent shall build,<br /> +And, later, what he builds shall pass to thine;<br /> +But thou to Macha get thee.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Patrick +then,<br /> +Obedient as that Patriarch Sire who faced<br /> +At God’s command the desert, northward went<br /> +In holy silence. Soon to him was lost<br /> +That green and purple meadow-sea, embayed<br /> +’Twixt two descending woody promontories,<br /> +Its outlet girt with isles of rock, its shores<br /> +Cream-white with meadow-sweet. Not once he turned,<br /> +Climbing the uplands rough, or crossing streams<br /> +Swoll’n by the melted snows. The Brethren paced<br /> +Behind; Benignus first, his psalmist; next<br /> +Secknall, his bishop; next his brehon Erc;<br /> +Mochta, his priest; and Sinell of the Bells;<br /> +Rodan, his shepherd; Essa, Bite, and Tassach,<br /> +Workers of might in iron and in stone,<br /> +God-taught to build the churches of the Faith<br /> +With wisdom and with heart-delighting craft;<br /> +Mac Cairthen last, the giant meek that oft<br /> +On shoulders broad bare Patrick through the floods:<br /> +His rest was nigh. That hour they crossed a stream;<br /> +’Twas deep, and, ’neath his load, the giant +sighed.<br /> +Saint Patrick said, “Thou wert not wont to sigh!”<br +/> +He answered, “Old I grow. Of them my mates<br /> +How many hast thou left in churches housed<br /> +Wherein they rule and rest!” The Saint replied,<br /> +“Thee also will I leave within a church<br /> +For rule and rest; not to mine own too near<br /> +For rarely then should we be seen apart,<br /> +Nor yet remote, lest we should meet no more.”<br /> +At Clochar soon he placed him. There, long years<br /> +Mac Cairthen sat, its bishop.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> As +they went,<br /> +Oft through the woodlands rang the battle-shout;<br /> +And twice there rose above the distant hill<br /> +The smoke of hamlet fired. Yet, none the less,<br /> +Spring-touched, the blackbird sang; the cowslip changed<br /> +Green lawn to green and golden; and grey rock<br /> +And river’s marge with primroses were starred;<br /> +Here shook the windflower; there the blue-bells gleamed,<br /> +As though a patch of sky had fallen on earth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then to Benignus spake the Saint: “My +son,<br /> +If grief were lawful in a world redeemed<br /> +The blood-stains on a land so strong in faith,<br /> +So slack in love, might cloud the holiest brow,<br /> +Yea, his whose head lay on the breast of Christ.<br /> +Clan wars with clan: no injury is forgiven;<br /> +Like to the joy in stag-hunts is the war:<br /> +Alas! for such what hope!” Benignus answered<br /> +“O Father, cease not for this race to hope,<br /> +Lest they should hope no longer! Hope they have;<br /> +Still say they, ‘God will snare us in the end<br /> +Though wild.’” And Patrick, “Spirits +twain are theirs:<br /> +The stranger, and the poor, at every door<br /> +They meet, and bid him in. The youngest child<br /> +Officious is in service; maids prepare<br /> +The bath; men brim the wine-cup. Then, forth borne,<br /> +Cities they fire and rich in spoil depart,<br /> +Greed mixed with rage—an industry of blood!”<br /> +He spake, and thus the younger made reply:<br /> +“Father, the stranger is the brother-man<br /> +To them; the poor is neighbour. Septs remote<br /> +To them are alien worlds. They know not yet<br /> +That rival clans are men.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “That +know they shall,”<br /> +Patrick made answer, “when a race far off<br /> +Tramples their race to clay! God sends abroad<br /> +His plague of war that men on earth may know<br /> +Brother from foe, and anguish work remorse.”<br /> +He spake, and after musings added thus:<br /> +“Base of God’s kingdom is Humility—<br /> +I have not spared to thunder o’er their pride;<br /> +Great kings have I rebuked and signs sent forth,<br /> +And banned for their sake fruitful plain, and bay;<br /> +Yet still the widow’s cry is on the air,<br /> +The orphan’s wail!” Benignus answered mild,<br +/> +“O Father, not alone with sign and ban<br /> +Hast thou rebuked their madness. Oftener far<br /> +Thy sweetness hath reproved them. Once in woods<br /> +Northward of Tara as we tracked our way<br /> +Round us there gathered slaves who felled the pines<br /> +For ship-masts. Scarred their hands, and red with blood,<br +/> +Because their master, Trian, thus had sworn,<br /> +‘Let no man sharpen axe!’ Upon those hands<br +/> +Gazing, they wept soon as thy voice they heard,<br /> +Because that voice was soft. Thou heard’st their +tale;<br /> +Straight to that chieftain’s castle went’st thou +up,<br /> +And bound’st him with thy fast, beside his gate<br /> +Sitting in silence till his heart should melt;<br /> +And since he willed it not to melt, he died.<br /> +Then, in her arms two babes, came forth the queen<br /> +Black-robed, and freed her slaves, and gave them hire;<br /> +And, we returning after many years,<br /> +Filled was that wood with homesteads; plots of corn<br /> +Rustled around them; here were orchards; there<br /> +In trench or tank they steeped the bright blue flax;<br /> +The saw-mill turned to use the wanton brook;<br /> +Murmured the bee-hive; murmured household wheel;<br /> +Soft eyes looked o’er it through the dusk; at work<br /> +The labourers carolled; matrons glad and maids<br /> +Bare us the pail head-steadied, children flowers:<br /> +Last, from her castle paced the queen, and led<br /> +In either hand her sons whom thou hadst blest,<br /> +Thenceforth to stand thy priests. The land believed;<br /> +And not through ban, or word, sharp-edged or soft,<br /> +But silence and thy fast the ill custom died.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He answered, “Christ, in Christ-like life +expressed,<br /> +This, this, not words, subdues a land to Christ;<br /> +And in this best Apostolate all have part.<br /> +Ah me! that flower thou hold’st is strong to preach<br /> +Creative Love, because itself is lovely;<br /> +But we, the heralds of Redeeming Love,<br /> +Because we are unlovely in our lives,<br /> +Preach to deaf ears! Yet theirs, theirs too, the +sin.”<br /> +Benignus made reply: “The race is old;<br /> +Not less their hearts are young. Have patience with +them!<br /> +For see, in spring the grave old oaks push forth<br /> +Impatient sprays, wine-red: their strength matured,<br /> +These sober down to verdure.” Patrick paused,<br /> +Then, brooding, spake, as one who thinks, not speaks:<br /> +“A priest there walked with me ten years and more;<br /> +Warrior in youth was he. One day we heard<br /> +The shock of warring clans—I hear it still:<br /> +Within him, as in darkening vase you note<br /> +The ascending wine, I watched the passion mount:—<br /> +Sudden he dashed him down into the fight,<br /> +Nor e’er to Christ returned.” Benignus +answered;<br /> +“I saw above a dusky forest roof<br /> +The glad spring run, leaving a track sea-green:<br /> +Not straight she ran; and yet she reached her goal:<br /> +Later I saw above green copse of thorn<br /> +The glad spring run, leaving a track foam-white:<br /> +Not straight she ran; yet soon she conquered all!<br /> +O Father, is it sinful to be glad<br /> +Here amid sin and sorrow? Joy is strong,<br /> +Strongest in spring-tide! Mourners I have known<br /> +That, homeward wending from the new-dug grave,<br /> +Against their will, where sang the happy birds<br /> +Have felt the aggressive gladness stir their hearts,<br /> +And smiled amid their tears.” So babbled he,<br /> +Shamed at his spring-tide raptures.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> As +they went,<br /> +Far on their left there stretched a mighty land<br /> +Of forest-girdled hills, mother of streams:<br /> +Beyond it sank the day; while round the west<br /> +Like giants thronged the great cloud-phantoms towered.<br /> +Advancing, din they heard, and found in woods<br /> +A hamlet and a field by war unscathed,<br /> +And boys on all sides running. Placid sat<br /> +The village Elders; neither lacked that hour<br /> +The harp that gently tranquillises age,<br /> +Yet wakes young hearts with musical unrest,<br /> +Forerunner oft of love’s unrest. Ere long<br /> +The measure changed to livelier: maid with maid<br /> +Danced ’mid the dancing shadows of the trees,<br /> +And youth with youth; till now, the strangers near,<br /> +Those Elders welcomed them with act benign;<br /> +And soon was slain the fatted kid, and soon<br /> +The lamb; nor any asked till hunger’s rage<br /> +Was quelled, “Who art thou?” Patrick made +reply,<br /> +“A Priest of God.” Then prayed they, +“Offer thou<br /> +To Him our sacrifice! Belike ’tis He<br /> +Who saves from war this hamlet hid in woods:<br /> +Unblest be he who finds it!” Thus they spake,<br /> +The matrons, not the youths. In friendly talk<br /> +The hours went by with laughter winged and tale;<br /> +But when the moon, on rolling through the heavens,<br /> +Showered through the leaves a dew of sprinkled light<br /> +O’er the dark ground, the maidens garments brought<br /> +Woven in their quiet homes when nights were long,<br /> +Red cloak and kirtle green, and laid them soft,<br /> +Still with the wearers’ blameless beauty warm,<br /> +For coverlet upon the warm dry grass,<br /> +Honouring the stranger guests. For these they deemed<br /> +Their low-roofed cots too mean. Glad-hearted rose<br /> +The Christian hymn, not timid: far it rang<br /> +Above the woods. Ere long, their blissful rites<br /> +Fulfilled, the wanderers laid them down and slept.</p> +<p class="poetry">At midnight by the side of Patrick stood<br /> +Victor, God’s Angel, saying, “Lo! thy work<br /> +Hath favour found and thou ere long shalt die:<br /> +Thus therefore saith the Lord, ‘So long as sea<br /> +Girdeth this isle, so long thy name shall hang<br /> +In splendour o’er it, like the stars of +God.’”<br /> +Then Patrick said, “A boon! I crave a boon!”<br +/> +The angel answered, “Speak;” and Patrick said,<br /> +“Let them that with me toiled, or in the years<br /> +To come shall toil, building o’er all this land<br /> +The Fortress-Temple and great House of Christ,<br /> +Equalled with me my name in Erin share.”<br /> +And Victor answered, “Half thy prayer is thine;<br /> +With thee shall they partake. Not less, thy name<br /> +Higher than theirs shall rise, and wider spread,<br /> +Since thus more plainly shall His glory shine<br /> +Whose glory is His justice.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> With +the morn<br /> +Those pilgrims rose, and, prime entoned and lauds,<br /> +Poured out their blessing on that woodland clan<br /> +Which, round them pressing, kissed them, robe and knee;<br /> +Then on they journeyed till at set of sun<br /> +Shone out the roofs of Macha, and that tower<br /> +Where Dairè dwelt, its lord.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Saint +Patrick sent<br /> +To Dairè embassage, vouchsafing prayer<br /> +As sire might pray of son; “Give thou yon hill<br /> +To Christ, that we may build His church thereon.”<br /> +And Dairè answered with a brow of storms<br /> +Bent forward darkly, and long, sneering lips,<br /> +“Your master is a mighty man, we know.<br /> +Garban, that lied to God, he slew through prayer,<br /> +And banned full many a lake, and many a plain,<br /> +For trespass there committed! Let it be!<br /> +A Chief of souls he is! No signs we work,<br /> +Rulers earth-born: yet somewhat are we here—<br /> +Depart! By others answer we will send.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> So Dairè sent to +Patrick men of might,<br /> +Fierce men, the battle’s nurslings. Thus they +spake:<br /> +“High region for high heads! If build ye must,<br /> +Build on the plain: the hill is Dairè’s right:<br /> +Church site he grants you, and the field around.”<br /> +And Patrick, glancing from his Office Book,<br /> +Made answer, “Deo Gratias,” and no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">Upon that plain he built a little church<br /> +Ere long, a convent likewise, girt with mound<br /> +Banked from the meadow loam, and deftly set<br /> +With stone, and fence, and woody palisade,<br /> +That neither warring clans, far heard by day,<br /> +Might hurt his cloistered charge, nor wolves by night,<br /> +Howling in woods; and there he served the Lord.</p> +<p class="poetry">But Dairè scorned the Saint, and grudged +his gift,<br /> +Though small; and half in spleen, and half in greed,<br /> +Sent down two stately coursers all night long<br /> +To graze the deep sweet pasture round the church:<br /> +Ill deed:—and so, for guerdon of that sin,<br /> +Dead lay the coursers twain at the break of dawn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then fled the servants back, and told their +lord,<br /> +Fearing for negligence rebuke and scath,<br /> +“Thy Christian slew the coursers!” and the king<br /> +Gave word to slay or bind him. But from God<br /> +A sickness fell on Dairè nigh to death<br /> +That day and night. When morning brake, the queen,<br /> +A woman leal with kind barbaric heart,<br /> +Her bosom from the sick man’s head withdrew<br /> +A moment while he slept; and, round her gazing,<br /> +Closed with both hands upon a liegeman’s arm,<br /> +And sped him to the Saint for pardon and peace.<br /> +Then Patrick, dipping in the inviolate fount<br /> +A chalice, blessed the water, with command<br /> +“Sprinkle the stately coursers and the king;”<br /> +And straightway as from death the king arose,<br /> +And rose from death the coursers.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Dairè +then,<br /> +His tall frame boastful with that life renewed,<br /> +Took with him men, and down the stone-paved hill<br /> +Rode from his tower, and through the woodlands green,<br /> +And bare with him an offering of those days,<br /> +A brazen cauldron vast. Embossed it shone<br /> +With sculptured shapes. On one side hunters rode:<br /> +Low stretched their steeds: the dogs pulled down the stag<br /> +Unseen, except the branching horns that rose<br /> +Like hands in protest. Feasters, on the other,<br /> +Raised high the cup pledging the safe return.<br /> +This offering Dairè brought, and, entering, spake:<br /> +“A gift for guerdon and for grace, O Priest!”<br /> +And Patrick, upward glancing from his book,<br /> +Made answer, “Deo Gratias!” and no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">King Dairè, homeward riding with knit +brow<br /> +Muttered, “Churl’s welcome for a kingly +boon!”<br /> +And, drinking late that night the stormy breath<br /> +Of others’ anger blent with his, commanded,<br /> +“Ride forth at morn and bring me back my gift!<br /> +Spurn it he shall not, though he prize it not.”<br /> +They heard him, and obeyed. At noon the king<br /> +Demanded thus, “What answer made the Saint?”<br /> +They said, “His eyes he raised not from his book,<br /> +But answered, ‘Deo Gratias!’ and no more.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Dairè stamped his foot, like +war-horse stung<br /> +By gadfly: musing next, and mute he sat<br /> +A space, and lastly roared great laughter peals<br /> +Till roared in mockery back the raftered roof,<br /> +And clashed his hands together shouting thus:<br /> +“A gift, and ‘Deo Gratias!’—gift +withdrawn,<br /> +And ‘Deo Gratias!’ Sooth, the word is good!<br +/> +Madman is this, or man of God? We’ll know!”<br +/> +So from his frowning fortress once again<br /> +Adown the resonant road o’er street and bridge<br /> +Rode Dairè, at his right the queen in fear,<br /> +With dumbly pleading countenance; close behind,<br /> +With tangled locks and loose-hung battle-axe<br /> +Ran the wild kerne; and loud the bull-horn blew.<br /> +The convent reached, King Dairè from his horse<br /> +Flung his great limbs, and at the doorway towered<br /> +In gazing stern: the queen beside him stood,<br /> +Her lustrous violet eyes all lost in tears:<br /> +One hand on Dairè’s garment lay like light<br /> +Wandering on dusky ripple; one, upraised,<br /> +Held in the high-necked horse that champed the bit,<br /> +His head near hers. Within, the man of God,<br /> +Sole-sitting, read his office book unmoved,<br /> +And ending fixed his keen eye on the king,<br /> +Not rising from his seat.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +fell from God<br /> +Insight on Dairè, and aloud he cried,<br /> +“A kingly man, of mind unmovable<br /> +Art thou; and as the rock beneath my tower<br /> +Shakes not in storm so shakes not heart of thine:<br /> +Such men are of the height and not the plain:<br /> +Therefore that hill to thee I grant unsought<br /> +Which whilome I refused. Possession take<br /> +This day, lest hostile demon warp my mood;<br /> +And build thereon thy church. The same shall stand<br /> +Strong mother-church of all thy great clan Christ!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus Dairè spake; and Patrick, at his +word<br /> +Rising, gave thanks to God, and to the king<br /> +High blessing heard in heaven; and making sign<br /> +Went forth, attended by his priestly train,<br /> +Benignus first, his dearest, then the rest.<br /> +In circuit thrice they girt that hill, and sang<br /> +Anthem first heard when unto God was vowed<br /> +That House which David offered in his heart<br /> +His son in act, and hymn of holy Church<br /> +Hailing that city like a bride attired,<br /> +From heaven to earth descending. With them sang<br /> +An angel choir above them borne. The birds<br /> +Forbore their songs, listening that angel strain,<br /> +Ethereal music and by men unheard<br /> +Except the Elect. The king in reverence paced<br /> +Behind, his liegemen next, a mass confused<br /> +With saffron standard gay and spears upheld<br /> +Flashing through thickets green. These kept not line,<br /> +For Alp was still recounting battles old,<br /> +Aodh of wizards sang, and Ir of love;<br /> +While bald-pate Conan, sharpening from his eye<br /> +The sneering light, shot from his plastic mouth<br /> +Shrill taunt and biting gibe. The younger sort<br /> +Eyed the dense copse and launched full many a shaft<br /> +Through it at flying beast. From ledge to ledge<br /> +Clomb Angus, keen of sight, with hand o’er brow,<br /> +Forth gazing on some far blue ridge of war<br /> +With nostril wide outblown, and snorting cried,<br /> +“Would I were there!”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Meantime, +the man of God<br /> +Had reached the fair crown of that sacred hill,<br /> +A circle girt with woodland branching low,<br /> +And roofed with heaven. Beyond its tonsure fringe,<br /> +Birch trees and oaks, there pushed a thorn milk-white,<br /> +And close beside it slept in shade a fawn<br /> +Whiter. The startled dam had left its side,<br /> +And through the dark stems fled like flying gleam.<br /> +Minded they were, the kernes, to kill that fawn,<br /> +And all the priests stood silent; but the Saint<br /> +Put forth his hand, and o’er her signed the Cross,<br /> +And, stooping, on his shoulder placed her firm,<br /> +And bade the brethren mark with stones her lair<br /> +Dewless and dusk: then, singing as he went<br /> +“Like as the hart desires the water brooks,”<br /> +He walked, that hill descending. Light from God<br /> +O’ershone his face. Meantime the awakened fawn<br /> +Now rolled her dark eye on the silver head<br /> +Close by, now turning licked the wrinkled hand,<br /> +Unfearing. Soon, with little whimpering sob,<br /> +The doe drew near and paced at Patrick’s side.<br /> +At last they reached a little field low down<br /> +Beneath that hill: there Patrick laid the fawn.</p> +<p class="poetry">King Dairè questioned Patrick of that +deed,<br /> +Incensed; and scornful asked, “Shall mitred man<br /> +Play thus the shepherd and the forester?”<br /> +And Patrick answered, “Aged men, O king,<br /> +Forget their reasons oft. Benignus seek,<br /> +If haply God has shown him for what cause<br /> +I wrought this thing.” Then Dairè turned him +back<br /> +And faced Benignus; and with lifted hand,<br /> +Pure as a maid’s, and dimpled like a child’s,<br /> +Picturing his thoughts on air, the little monk<br /> +Thus glossed that deed. “Great mystery, king, is +Love:<br /> +Poets its worthiness have sung in lays<br /> +Unread by ruder ones like me; and yet<br /> +Thus much the simplest and the rudest know,<br /> +Dear is the fawn to her that gave it birth,<br /> +And to the sceptred monarch dear the child<br /> +That mounts his knee. Nor here the marvel ends;<br /> +For, like yon star, the great Paternal Heart<br /> +Through all the unmeted, unimagined years,<br /> +While yet Creation uncreated hung,<br /> +A thought, a dawn-streak on the verge extreme<br /> +Of lonely Godhead’s inner Universe,<br /> +Panted and pants with splendour of its love,<br /> +The Eternal Sire rejoicing in the Son<br /> +And Both in Him Who still from Both proceeds,<br /> +Bond of their love. Moreover, king, that Son<br /> +Who, Virgin-born, raised from the ruinous gulf<br /> +Our world, and made it footstool to God’s throne,<br /> +The same is Love, and died for Love, and reigns:<br /> +Loveless, His Church were but a corse stone-cold;<br /> +Loveless, her creed were but a winter leaf<br /> +Network of barren thoughts, the cerement wan<br /> +Of Faith extinct. Therefore our Saint revered<br /> +The love and anguish of that mother doe,<br /> +And inly vowed that where her offspring couched<br /> +Christ’s chiefest church should stand, from age to age<br +/> +Confession plain ’mid raging of the clans<br /> +That God is Love;—His worship void and vain<br /> +Disjoined from Love that, rising to the heights<br /> +Even to the depths descends.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Conversing +thus,<br /> +Macha they reached. Ere long where lay the fawn<br /> +Stood God’s new altar; and, ere many years,<br /> +Far o’er the woodlands rose the church high-towered,<br /> +Preaching God’s peace to still a troubled world.<br /> +The Saint who built it found not there his grave<br /> +Though wished for; him God buried otherwhere,<br /> +Fulfilling thus the counsels of His Will:<br /> +But old, and grey, when many a winter’s frost<br /> +To spring had yielded, bent by wounds and woes<br /> +Upon that church’s altar looked once more<br /> +King Dairè; at its font was joined to Christ;<br /> +And, midway ’twixt that altar and that font,<br /> +Rejoined his beauteous mate a later day.</p> +<h3>THE ARRAIGNMENT OF SAINT PATRICK.</h3> +<h4>ARGUMENT.</h4> +<p>Secknall, the poet, brings, in sport, three heavy charges +against Saint Patrick, who, supposing them to be serious, defends +himself against them. Lastly Secknall sings a hymn written +in praise of a Saint. Saint Patrick commends it, affirming +that for once Fame has dispensed her honours honestly. Upon +this, Secknall recites the first stave, till then craftily +reserved, which offers the whole homage of that hymn to Patrick, +who, though the humblest of men, has thus arrogated to himself +the saintly Crown. There is laughter among the +brethren.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> Patrick now was +old and nigh to death<br /> +Undimmed was still his eye; his tread was strong;<br /> +And there was ever laughter in his heart,<br /> +And music in his laughter. In a wood<br /> +Nigh to Ardmacha dwelt he with his monks;<br /> +And there, like birds that cannot stay their songs<br /> +Love-touched in Spring, or grateful for their nests,<br /> +They to the woodsmen preached of Christ, their King,<br /> +To swineherds, and to hinds that tended sheep,<br /> +Yea, and to pilgrim guests from distant clans;<br /> +His shepherd-worshipped birth when breath of kine<br /> +Went o’er the Infant; all His wondrous works<br /> +Or words from mount, or field, or anchored boat,<br /> +And Christendom upreared for weal of men<br /> +And Angel-wonder. Daily preached the monks<br /> +And daily built their convent. Wildly sweet<br /> +The season, prime of unripe spring, when March<br /> +Distils from cup half gelid yet some drops<br /> +Of finer relish than the hand of May<br /> +Pours from her full-brimmed beaker. Frost, though gone,<br +/> +Had left its glad vibration on the air;<br /> +Laughed the blue heavens as though they ne’er had +frowned,<br /> +Through leafless oak-boughs; limes of kindlier grace<br /> +And swifter to believe Spring’s “tidings +good”<br /> +Took the sweet lights upon a breast bud-swoll’n,<br /> +And crimson as the redbreast’s; while, as when<br /> +Clear rings a flute-note through sea-murmurs harsh,<br /> +At intervals ran out a streak of green<br /> +Across the dim-hued forest.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> From +their wood<br /> +The strong arms of the monks had hewn them space<br /> +For all their convent needed; farmyard stored<br /> +With stacks that all the winter long had clutched<br /> +Their hoarded harvest sunshine; pasture green<br /> +Whitened with sheep; fair garden fenceless still<br /> +With household herbs new-sprouting: but, as oft<br /> +Some conquered race, forth sallying in its spleen<br /> +When serves the occasion, wins a province back,<br /> +Or flouts at least the foe, so here once more<br /> +Wild flowers, a clan unvanquished, raised their heads<br /> +’Mid sprouting wheat; and where from craggy height<br /> +Pushed the grey ledge, the woodland host recoiled<br /> +As though in Parthian flight; while many a bird,<br /> +Barbaric from the inviolate forest launched<br /> +Wild warbled scorn on all that life reclaimed,<br /> +Mute garth-still orchard. Child of distant hills,<br /> +A proud stream, swollen by midnight rains, down leaped<br /> +From rock to rock. It spurned the precinct now<br /> +With airy dews silvering the bramble green<br /> +And redd’ning more the beech-stock.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> ’Twas +the hour<br /> +Of rest, and every monk was glad at heart,<br /> +For each had wrought with might. With hands upheld,<br /> +Mochta, the priest, had thundered against sin,<br /> +Wrath-roused, as when some prince too late returned<br /> +Stares at his sea-side village all in flames,<br /> +The slave-thronged ship escaped. The bishop, Erc,<br /> +Had reconciled old feuds by Brehon Law<br /> +Where Brehon Law was lawful. Boys wild-eyed<br /> +Had from Benignus learned the church’s song,<br /> +Boys brightened now, yet tempered, by that age<br /> +Gracious to stripling as to maid, that brings<br /> +Valour to one and modesty to both<br /> +Where youth is loyal to the Virgin-born.<br /> +The giant meek, Mac Cairthen, on bent neck<br /> +Had carried beam on beam, while Criemther felled<br /> +The oaks, and from the anvil Laeban dashed<br /> +The sparks in showers. A little way removed,<br /> +Beneath a pine three vestals sat close-veiled:<br /> +A song these childless sang of Bethlehem’s Child,<br /> +Low-toned, and worked their Altar-cloth, a Lamb<br /> +All white on golden blazon; near it bled<br /> +The bird that with her own blood feeds her young:<br /> +Red drops affused her holy breast. These three<br /> +Were daughters of three kings. The best and fairest,<br /> +King Dairè’s daughter, Erenait by name,<br /> +Had loved Benignus in her Pagan years.<br /> +He knew it not: full sweet to her his voice<br /> +Chaunting in choir. One day through grief of love<br /> +The maiden lay as dead: Benignus shook<br /> +Dews from the font above her, and she woke<br /> +With heart emancipate that outsoared the lark<br /> +Lost in blue heavens. She loved the Spouse of Souls.<br /> +It was as though some child that, dreaming, wept<br /> +Its childish playthings lost, awaked by bells,<br /> +Bride-bells, had found herself a queen new wed<br /> +Unto her country’s lord.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> While +monk with monk<br /> +Conversed, the son of Patrick’s sister sat,<br /> +Secknall by name, beside the window sole<br /> +And marked where Patrick from his hill of prayer<br /> +Approached, descending slowly. At the sight<br /> +He, maker blithe of songs, and wild as hawk<br /> +Albeit a Saint, whose wont it was at times<br /> +Or shy, or strange, or shunning flattery’s taint,<br /> +To attempt with mockery those whom most he loved,<br /> +Whispered a brother, “Speak to Patrick thus:<br /> +‘When all men praised thee, Secknall made reply<br /> +“A blessed man were Patrick save for this,<br /> +Alms deeds he preaches not.”’” The +brother went:<br /> +Ere long among them entered Patrick, wroth,<br /> +Or, likelier, feigning wrath:—“What man is he<br /> +Who saith I preach not alms deeds?” Secknall rose:<br +/> +“I said it, Father, and the charge is true.”<br /> +Then Patrick answered, “Out of Charity<br /> +I preach not Charity. This people, won<br /> +To Christ, ere long will prove a race of Saints;<br /> +To give will be its passion, not to gain:<br /> +Its heart is generous; but its hand is slack<br /> +In all save war: herein there lurks a snare:<br /> +The priest will fatten, and the beggar feast:<br /> +But the lean land will yield nor chief nor prince<br /> +Hire of two horses yoked to chariot beam.”<br /> +Then Secknall spake, “O Father, dead it lies<br /> +Mine earlier charge against thee. Hear my next,<br /> +Since in our Order’s equal Brotherhood<br /> +Censure uncensured is the right of all.<br /> +You press to the earth your converts! gold you spurn;<br /> +Yet bind upon them heavier load than when<br /> +Conqueror his captive tasks. Have shepherds three<br /> +Bowed them to Christ? ‘Build up a church,’ you +cry;<br /> +So one must draw the sand, and one the stone<br /> +And one the lime. Honouring the seven great Gifts,<br /> +You raise in one small valley churches seven.<br /> +Who serveth you fares hard!” The Saint replied,<br /> +“Second as first! I came not to this land<br /> +To crave scant service, nor with shallow plough<br /> +Cleave I this glebe. The priest that soweth much<br /> +For here the land is fruitful, much shall reap:<br /> +Who soweth little nought but weeds shall bind<br /> +And poppies of oblivion.” Secknall next:<br /> +“Yet man to man will whisper, and the face<br /> +Of all this people darken like a sea<br /> +When pipes the coming storm.” He answered, +“Son,<br /> +I know this people better. Fierce they are<br /> +In anger; neither flies their thought direct;<br /> +For some, though true to Nature, lie to men,<br /> +And others, true to men, are false to God:<br /> +Yet as the prince’s is the poor man’s heart;<br /> +Burthen for God sustained no burden is<br /> +To him; and those who most have given to Christ<br /> +Largeliest His fulness share.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Secknall +replied,<br /> +“Low lies my second charge; a third remains,<br /> +Which, as a shaft from seasoned bow, not green,<br /> +Shall pierce the marl. With convents still you sow<br /> +The land: in other countries sparse and small<br /> +They swell to cities here. A hundred monks<br /> +On one late barren mountain dig and pray:<br /> +A hundred nuns gladden one woodland lawn,<br /> +Or sing in one small island. Well—’tis well!<br +/> +Yet, balance lost and measure, nought is well.<br /> +The Angelic Life more common will become<br /> +Than life of mortal men.” The Saint replied,<br /> +“No shaft from homicidal yew-tree bow<br /> +Is thine, but winged of thistle-down! Now hear!<br /> +Measure is good; but measure’s law with scale<br /> +Changeth; nor doth the part reflect the whole.<br /> +Each nation hath its gift, and each to all<br /> +Not equal ministers. If all were eye,<br /> +Where then were ear? If all were ear or hand,<br /> +Where then were eye? The nation is the part;<br /> +The Church the whole”—But Criemther where he +stood,<br /> +Old warrior, shouted like a chief war-waked,<br /> +“This land is Eire! No nation lives like her!<br /> +A part! Who portions Eire?” The Saint, with +smile<br /> +Resumed: “The whole that from the part receives,<br /> +Repaying still that part, till man’s whole race<br /> +Grow to the fulness of Mankind redeemed.<br /> +What gift hath God in eminence given to Eire?<br /> +Singly, her race is feeble; strong when knit:<br /> +Nought knits them truly save a heavenly aim.<br /> +I knit them as an army unto God,<br /> +Give them God’s War! Yon star is militant!<br /> +Its splendour ’gainst the dark must fight or die:<br /> +So wars that Faith I preach against the world;<br /> +And nations fitted least for this world’s gain<br /> +Can speed Faith’s triumph best. Three hundred +years,<br /> +Well used, should make of Eire a northern Rome.<br /> +Criemther! her destiny is this, or nought;<br /> +Secknall! the highest only can she reach;<br /> +Alone the Apostle’s crown is hers: for this,<br /> +A Rule I give her, strong, yet strong in Love;<br /> +Monastic households build I far and wide;<br /> +Monastic clans I plant among her clans,<br /> +With abbots for their chiefs. The same shall live,<br /> +Long as God’s love o’errules them.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Secknall +then<br /> +Knelt, reverent; yet his eye had in it mirth,<br /> +And round the full bloom of the red rich mouth,<br /> +No whit ascetic, ran a dim half smile.<br /> +“Father, my charges three have futile fallen,<br /> +And thrice, like some great warrior of the bards,<br /> +Your conquering wheels above me you have driven.<br /> +Brought low, I make confession. Once, in woods<br /> +Wandering, we heard a sound, now loud, now low,<br /> +As he that treads the sand-hills hears the sea<br /> +High murmuring while he climbs the seaward slope,<br /> +Low, as he drops to landward. ’Twas a throng<br /> +Awed, yet tumultuous, wild-eyed, wondering, fierce,<br /> +That, standing round a harper, stave on stave<br /> +Acclaimed as each had ending. ‘War, still +war!’<br /> +Thou saidst; ‘the bards but sing of War and Death!<br /> +Ah! if they sang that Death which conquered Death,<br /> +Then, like a tide, this people, music-drawn,<br /> +Would mount the shores of Christ! Bards love not us,<br /> +Prescient that power, that power wielded elsewhere<br /> +By priest, but here by them, shall pass to us:<br /> +Yet we love them for good one day their gift.’<br /> +Then didst thou turn on me an eye of might<br /> +Such as on Malach, when thou had’st him raise<br /> +By miracle of prayer that babe boar-slain,<br /> +And said’st, ‘Go, fell thy pine, and frame thy +harp,<br /> +And in the hearing of this people sing<br /> +Some Saint, the friend of Christ.’ Too long the +attempt<br /> +Shame-faced, I shunned; at last, like him of old,<br /> +That better brother who refused, yet went,<br /> +I made my hymn. ’Tis called ‘A Child of +Life.’”<br /> +Then Patrick, “Welcome is the praise of Saints:<br /> +Sing thou thy hymn.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> From +kneeling Secknall rose<br /> +And stood, and singing, raised his hand as when<br /> +Her cymbal by the Red Sea Miriam raised<br /> +While silent stood God’s hosts, and silent lay<br /> +Those host-entombing waters. Shook, like hers,<br /> +His slight form wavering ’mid the gusts of song.<br /> +He sang the Saint of God, create from nought<br /> +To work God’s Will. As others gaze on earth,<br /> +Her vales, her plains, her green meads ocean-girt,<br /> +So gazed the Saint for ever upon God<br /> +Who girds all worlds—saw intermediate nought—<br /> +And on Him watched the sunshine and the storm,<br /> +And learned His Countenance, and from It alone,<br /> +Drew in upon his heart its day and night.<br /> +That contemplation was for him no dream:<br /> +It hurled him on his mission. As a sword<br /> +He lodged his soul within the Hand Divine<br /> +And wrought, keen-edged, God’s counsel. Next to +God<br /> +Next, and how near, he loved the souls of men:<br /> +Yea, men to him were Souls; the unspiritual herd<br /> +He saw as magic-bound, or chained to beast,<br /> +And groaned to free them. For their sakes, unfearing,<br /> +He faced the ravening waves, and iron rocks,<br /> +Hunger, and poniard’s edge, and poisoned cup,<br /> +And faced the face of kings, and faced the host<br /> +Of demons raging for their realm o’erthrown.<br /> +This was the Man of Love. Self-love cast out,<br /> +The love made spiritual of a thousand hearts<br /> +Met in his single heart, and kindled there<br /> +A sun-like image of Love Divine. Within<br /> +That Spirit-shadowed heart was Christ conceived<br /> +Hourly through faith, hourly through Love was born;<br /> +Sole secret this of fruitfulness to Christ.<br /> +Who heard him heard with his a lordlier Voice,<br /> +Strong as that Voice which said, “Let there be +light,”<br /> +And light o’erflowed their beings. He from each<br /> +His secret won; to each God’s secret told:<br /> +He touched them, and they lived. In each, the flesh<br /> +Subdued to soul, the affections, vassals proud<br /> +By conscience ruled, and conscience lit by Christ,<br /> +The whole man stood, planet full-orbed of powers<br /> +In equipoise, Image restored of God.<br /> +A nation of such men his portion was;<br /> +That nation’s Patriarch he. No wrangler loud;<br /> +No sophist; lesser victories knew he none:<br /> +No triumph his of sect, or camp, or court;<br /> +The Saint his great soul flung upon the world,<br /> +And took the people with him like a wind<br /> +Missioned from God that with it wafts in spring<br /> +Some wingèd race, a multitudinous night,<br /> +Into new sun-bright climes.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> As +Secknall sang,<br /> +Nearer the Brethren drew. On Patrick’s right<br /> +Benignus stood; old Mochta on his left,<br /> +Slow-eyed, with solemn smile and sweet; next Erc,<br /> +Whose ever-listening countenance that hour<br /> +Beyond its wont was listening; Criemther near<br /> +The workman Saint, his many-wounded hands<br /> +Together clasped: forward each mighty arm<br /> +On shoulders propped of Essa and of Bite,<br /> +Leaned the meek giant Cairthen: twelve in all<br /> +Clustering they stood and in them was one soul.<br /> +When Secknall ceased, in silence still they hung<br /> +Each upon each, glad-hearted since the meed<br /> +Of all their toils shone out before them plain,<br /> +Gold gates of heaven—a nation entering in.<br /> +A light was on their faces, and without<br /> +Spread a great light, for sunset now had fallen<br /> +A Pentecostal fire upon the woods,<br /> +Or else a rain of angels streamed o’er earth.<br /> +In marvel gazed the twelve: yea, clans far off<br /> +Stared from their hills, deeming the site aflame.<br /> +That glory passed away, discourse arose<br /> +On Secknall’s hymn. Its radiance from his face<br /> +Had, like the sunset’s, vanished as he spake.<br /> +“Father, what sayst thou?” Patrick made +reply,<br /> +“My son, the hymn is good; for Truth is gold;<br /> +And Fame, obsequious often to base heads,<br /> +For once is loyal, and its crown hath laid<br /> +Where honour’s debt was due.” Then Secknall +raised<br /> +In triumph both his hands, and chaunted loud<br /> +That hymn’s first stave, earlier through craft withheld,<br +/> +Stave that to Patrick’s name, and his alone,<br /> +Offered that hymn’s whole incense! Ceasing, he +stood<br /> +Low-bowed, with hands upon his bosom crossed.<br /> +Great laughter from the brethren came, their Chief<br /> +Thus trapped, though late—he meekest man of men—<br +/> +To claim the saintly crown. First young, then old,<br /> +Later the old, and sore against their will,<br /> +That laughter raised. Last from the giant chest<br /> +Of Cairthen forth it rolled its solemn bass,<br /> +Like sea-sound swallowing lighter sounds hard by.<br /> +But Patrick laughed not: o’er his face there passed<br /> +Shade lost in light; and thus he spake, “O friends<br /> +That which I have to do I know in part:<br /> +God grant I work my work. That which I am<br /> +He knows Who made me. Saints He hath, good store:<br /> +Their names are written in His Book of Life;<br /> +Kneel down, my sons, and pray that if thus long<br /> +I seem to stand, I fall not at the end.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then in a circle kneeling prayed the twelve.<br +/> +But when they rose, Secknall with serious brow<br /> +Advanced, and knelt, and kissed Saint Patrick’s foot,<br /> +And said, “O Father, at thy hest that hymn<br /> +I made, long labouring, and thy crown it stands:<br /> +Thou, therefore, grant me gifts, for strong thy +prayer.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And Patrick said, “The house wherein thy +hymn<br /> +Is sung at morn or eve shall lack not bread:<br /> +And if men sing it in a house new-built,<br /> +Where none hath dwelt, nor bridegroom yet, nor bride,<br /> +Nor hath the cry of babe been heard therein,<br /> +Upon that house the watching of the Saints<br /> +Of Eire, and Patrick’s watching, shall be fixed<br /> +Even as the stars.” And Secknall said, “What +more?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Patrick added, “They that night and +morn<br /> +Down-lying and up-rising, sing that hymn,<br /> +They too that softly whisper it, nigh death,<br /> +If pure of heart, and liegeful unto Christ,<br /> +Shall see God’s face; and, since the hymn is long,<br /> +Its grace shall rest for children and the poor<br /> +Full measure on the last three lines; and thou<br /> +Of this dear company shalt die the first,<br /> +And first of Eire’s Apostles.” Then his +cheek<br /> +Secknall laid down once more on Patrick’s foot,<br /> +And answered, “Deo Gratias.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Thus +in mirth,<br /> +And solemn talk, and prayer, that brother band<br /> +In the golden age of Faith with great free heart<br /> +Gave thanks to God that blissful eventide,<br /> +A thousand and four hundred years and more<br /> +Gone by. But now clear rang the compline bell,<br /> +And two by two they wended towards their church<br /> +Across a space for cloister set apart,<br /> +Yet still with wood-flowers sweet, and scent beside<br /> +Of sod that evening turned. The night came on;<br /> +A dim ethereal twilight o’er the hills<br /> +Deepened to dewy gloom. Against the sky<br /> +Stood ridge and rock unmarked amid the day:<br /> +A few stars o’er them shone. As bower on bower<br /> +Let go the waning light, so bird on bird<br /> +Let go its song. Two songsters still remained,<br /> +Each feebler than a fountain soon to cease,<br /> +And claimed somewhile across the dusking dell<br /> +Rivals unseen in sleepy argument,<br /> +Each, the last word:—a pause; and then, once more,<br /> +An unexpected note:—a longer pause;<br /> +And then, past hope, one other note, the last.<br /> +A moment more the brethren stood in prayer:<br /> +The rising moon upon the church-roof new<br /> +Glimmered; and o’er it sang an angel choir,<br /> +“Venite Sancti.” Entering, soon were said<br /> +The psalm, “He giveth sleep,” and hymn, +“Lætare;”<br /> +And in his solitary cell each monk<br /> +Lay down, rejoicing in the love of God.</p> +<p class="poetry">The happy years went by. When Patrick +now<br /> +And all his company were housed with God<br /> +That hymn, at morning sung, and noon, and eve,<br /> +Even as it lulled the waves of warring clans<br /> +So lulled with music lives of toil-worn men<br /> +And charmed their ebbing breath. One time it chanced<br /> +When in his convent Kevin with his monks<br /> +Had sung it thrice, the board prepared, a guest,<br /> +Foot-sore and hungered, murmured, “Wherefore +thrice?”<br /> +And Kevin answered, “Speak not thus, my son,<br /> +For while we sang it, visible to all,<br /> +Saint Patrick was among us. At his right<br /> +Benignus stood, and, all around, the Twelve,<br /> +God’s light upon their brows; while Secknall knelt<br /> +Demanding meed of song. Moreover, son,<br /> +This self-same day and hour, twelve months gone by,<br /> +Patrick, our Patriarch, died; and happy Feast<br /> +Is that he holds, by two short days alone<br /> +Severed from his of Hebrew Patriarchs last,<br /> +And Chief. The Holy House at Nazareth<br /> +He ruled benign, God’s Warder with white hairs;<br /> +And still his feast, that silver star of March,<br /> +When snows afflict the hill and frost the moor,<br /> +With temperate beam gladdens the vernal Church—<br /> +All praise to God who draws that Twain so near.”</p> +<h3>THE STRIVING OF SAINT PATRICK ON MOUNT CRUACHAN.</h3> +<h4>ARGUMENT.</h4> +<p>Saint Patrick, seeing that now Erin believes, desires that the +whole land should stand fast in belief till Christ returns to +judge the world. For this end he resolves to offer prayer +on Mount Cruachan; but Victor, the Angel who has attended him in +all his labours, restrains him from that prayer as being too +great. Notwithstanding, the Saint prays three times on the +mountain, and three times all the demons of Erin contend against +him, and twice Victor, the Angel, rebukes his prayers. In +the end Saint Patrick scatters the demons with ignominy, and +God’s Angel bids him know that his prayer hath conquered +through constancy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">From</span> realm to realm +had Patrick trod the Isle;<br /> +And evermore God’s work beneath his hand,<br /> +Since God had blessed that hand, ran out full-sphered,<br /> +And brighter than a new-created star.<br /> +The Island race, in feud of clan with clan<br /> +Barbaric, gracious else and high of heart,<br /> +Nor worshippers of self, nor dulled through sense,<br /> +Beholding, not alone his wondrous works;<br /> +But, wondrous more, the sweetness of his strength<br /> +And how he neither shrank from flood nor fire,<br /> +And how he couched him on the wintry rocks,<br /> +And how he sang great hymns to One who heard,<br /> +And how he cared for poor men and the sick,<br /> +And for the souls invisible of men,<br /> +To him made way—not simple hinds alone,<br /> +But chiefly wisest heads, for wisdom then<br /> +Prime wisdom saw in Faith; and, mixt with these,<br /> +Chieftains and sceptred kings. Nigh Tara, first,<br /> +Scorning the king’s command, had Patrick lit<br /> +His Paschal fire, and heavenward as it soared,<br /> +The royal fire and all the Beltaine fires<br /> +Shamed by its beam had withered round the Isle<br /> +Like fires on little hearths whereon the sun<br /> +Looks in his greatness. Later, to that plain<br /> +Central ’mid Eire, “of Adoration” named,<br /> +Down-trampled for two thousand years and more<br /> +By erring feet of men, the Saint had sped<br /> +In Apostolic might, and kenned far off<br /> +Ill-pleased, the nation’s idol lifting high<br /> +His head, and those twelve vassal gods around<br /> +All mailed in gold and shining as the sun,<br /> +A pomp impure. Ill-pleased the Saint had seen them,<br /> +And raised the Staff of Jesus with a ban:<br /> +Then he, that demon named of men Crom-dubh,<br /> +With all his vassal gods, into the earth<br /> +That knew her Maker, to their necks had sunk<br /> +While round the island rang three times the cry<br /> +Of fiends tormented.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Not +for this as yet<br /> +Had Patrick perfected his strength: as yet<br /> +The depths he had not trodden; nor had God<br /> +Drawn forth His total forces in the man<br /> +Hidden long since and sealed. For this cause he,<br /> +Who still his own heart in triumphant hour<br /> +Suspected most, remembering Milchoe’s fate,<br /> +With fear lest aught of human mar God’s work,<br /> +And likewise from his handling of the Gael<br /> +Knowing not less their weakness than their strength,<br /> +Paused on his conquering way, and lonely sat<br /> +In cloud of thought. The great Lent Fast had come:<br /> +Its first three days went by; the fourth, he rose,<br /> +And meeting his disciples that drew nigh<br /> +Vouchsafed this greeting only: “Bide ye here<br /> +Till I return,” and straightway set his face<br /> +Alone to that great hill “of eagles” named<br /> +Huge Cruachan, that o’er the western deep<br /> +Hung through sea-mist, with shadowing crag on crag,<br /> +High-ridged, and dateless forest long since dead.</p> +<p class="poetry">That forest reached, the angel of the Lord<br +/> +Beside him, as he entered, stood and spake:<br /> +“The gifts thy soul demands, demand them not;<br /> +For they are mighty and immeasurable,<br /> +And over great for granting.” And the Saint:<br /> +“This mountain Cruachan I will not leave<br /> +Alive till all be granted, to the last.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then knelt he on the shrouded mountain’s +base,<br /> +And was in prayer; and, wrestling with the Lord,<br /> +Demanded wondrous things immeasurable,<br /> +Not easy to be granted, for the land;<br /> +Nor brooked repulse; and when repulse there came,<br /> +Repulse that quells the weak and crowns the strong,<br /> +Forth from its gloom like lightning on him flashed<br /> +Intelligential gleam and insight winged<br /> +That plainlier showed him all his people’s heart,<br /> +And all the wound thereof: and as in depth<br /> +Knowledge descended, so in height his prayer<br /> +Rose, and far spread; nor roused alone those Powers<br /> +Regioned with God; for as the strength of fire<br /> +When flames some palace pile, or city vast,<br /> +Wakens a tempest round it dragging in<br /> +Wild blast, and from the aggression mightier grows,<br /> +So wakened Patrick’s prayer the demon race,<br /> +And drew their legions in upon his soul<br /> +From near and far. First came the Accursed encamped<br /> +On Connact’s cloudy hills and watery moors;<br /> +Old Umbhall’s Heads, Iorras, and Arran Isle,<br /> +And where Tyrawley clasps that sea-girt wood<br /> +Fochlut, whence earliest rang the Children’s Cry,<br /> +To demons trump of doom. In stormy rack<br /> +They came, and hung above the invested Mount<br /> +Expectant. But, their mutterings heeding not,<br /> +When Patrick still in puissance rose of prayer,<br /> +O’er all their armies round the realm dispersed<br /> +There ran prescience of fate; and, north and south,<br /> +From all the mountain-girdled coasts—for still<br /> +Best site attracts worst Spirit—on they came,<br /> +From Aileach’s shore and Uladh’s hoary cliffs,<br /> +Which held the aeries of that eagle race<br /> +More late in Alba throned, “Lords of the +Isles”—<br /> +High chiefs whose bards, in strong transmitted line,<br /> +Filled with the name of Fionn, and thine, Oiseen,<br /> +The blue glens of that never-vanquished land—<br /> +From those purpureal mountains that o’ergaze<br /> +Rock-bowered Loch Lene broidered with sanguine bead,<br /> +They came, and many a ridge o’er sea-lake stretched<br /> +That, autumn-robed in purple and in gold,<br /> +Pontific vestment, guard the memories still<br /> +Of monks who reared thereon their mystic cells,<br /> +Finian and Kieran, Fiacre, and Enda’s self<br /> +Of hermits sire, and that sea-facing Saint<br /> +Brendan, who, in his wicker boat of skins<br /> +Before that Genoese a thousand years<br /> +Found a new world; and many more that now<br /> +Under wind-wasted Cross of Clonmacnoise<br /> +Await the day of Christ.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> So +rushed they on<br /> +From all sides, and, close met, in circling storm<br /> +Besieged the enclouded steep of Cruachan,<br /> +That scarce the difference knew ’twixt night and day<br /> +More than the sunless pole. Him sought they, him<br /> +Whom infinitely near they might approach,<br /> +Not touch, while firm his faith—their Foe that dragged,<br +/> +Sole-kneeling on that wood-girt mountain’s base,<br /> +With both hands forth their realm’s foundation stone.<br /> +Thus ruin filled the mountain: day by day<br /> +The forest torment deepened; louder roared<br /> +The great aisles of the devastated woods;<br /> +Black cave replied to cave; and oaks, whole ranks,<br /> +Colossal growth of immemorial years,<br /> +Sown ere Milesius landed, or that race<br /> +He vanquished, or that earliest Scythian tribe,<br /> +Fell in long line, like deep-mined castle wall,<br /> +At either side God’s warrior. Slowly died<br /> +At last, far echoed in remote ravines,<br /> +The thunder: then crept forth a little voice<br /> +That shrilly whispered to him thus in scorn:<br /> +“Two thousand years yon race hath walked in blood<br /> +Neck-deep; and shall it serve thy Lord of Peace?”<br /> +That whisper ceased. Again from all sides burst<br /> +Tenfold the storm; and as it waxed, the Saint<br /> +Waxed in strong heart; and, kneeling with stretched hands,<br /> +Made for himself a panoply of prayer,<br /> +And wound it round his bosom twice and thrice,<br /> +And made a sword of comminating psalm,<br /> +And smote at them that mocked him. Day by day,<br /> +Till now the second Sunday’s vesper bell<br /> +Gladdened the little churches round the isle,<br /> +That conflict raged: then, maddening in their ire,<br /> +Sudden the Princedoms of the Dark, that rode<br /> +This way and that way through the tempest, brake<br /> +Their sceptres, and with one great cry it fell:<br /> +At once o’er all was silence: sunset lit<br /> +The world, that shone as though with face upturned<br /> +It gazed on heavens by angel faces thronged<br /> +And answered light with light. A single bird<br /> +Carolled; and from the forest skirt down fell,<br /> +Gem-like, the last drops of the exhausted storm.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then bowed the Saint his forehead to the +ground<br /> +Thanking his God; and there in sacred trance,<br /> +Which was not sleep, abode not hours alone<br /> +But silent nights and days; and, ’mid that trance,<br /> +God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments,<br /> +Immortal food. Awaking, Patrick felt<br /> +Yearnings for nearer commune with his God,<br /> +Though great its cost; and gat him on his feet,<br /> +And, mile by mile, ascended through the woods<br /> +Till stunted were its growths; and still he clomb<br /> +Printing with sandalled foot the dewy steep:<br /> +But when above the mountain rose the moon<br /> +Brightening each mist, while sank the prone morass<br /> +In double night, he came upon a stone<br /> +Tomb-shaped, that flecked that steep: a little stream<br /> +Dropped by it from the summits to the woods:<br /> +Thereon he knelt; and was once more in prayer.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor prayed unnoticed by that race abhorred.<br +/> +No sooner had his knees the mountain touched<br /> +Than through their realm vibration went; and straight<br /> +His prayer detecting back they trooped in clouds<br /> +And o’er him closed, blotting with bat-like wing<br /> +And inky pall, the moon. Then thunder pealed<br /> +Once more, nor ceased from pealing. Over all<br /> +Night ruled, except when blue and forkèd flash<br /> +Revealed the on-circling waterspout or plunge<br /> +Of rain beneath the blown cloud’s ravelled hem,<br /> +Or, huge on high, that lion-coloured steep<br /> +Which, like a lion, roared into the night<br /> +Answering the roaring from sea-caves far down.<br /> +Dire was the strife. That hour the Mountain old,<br /> +An anarch throned ’mid ruins flung himself<br /> +In madness forth on all his winds and floods,<br /> +An omnipresent wrath! For God reserved,<br /> +Too long the prey of demons he had been;<br /> +Possession foul and fell. Now nigh expelled<br /> +Those demons rent their victim freed. Aloft,<br /> +They burst the rocky barrier of the tarn<br /> +That downward dashed its countless cataracts,<br /> +Drowning far vales. On either side the Saint<br /> +A torrent rushed—mightiest of all these twain—<br /> +Peeling the softer substance from the hills<br /> +Their flesh, till glared, deep-trenched, the mountain’s +bones;<br /> +And as those torrents widened, rocks down rolled<br /> +Showering upon that unsubverted head<br /> +Sharp spray ice-cold. Before him closed the flood,<br /> +And closed behind, till all was raging flood,<br /> +All but that tomb-like stone whereon he knelt.</p> +<p class="poetry">Unshaken there he knelt with hands +outstretched,<br /> +God’s Athlete! For a mighty prize he strove,<br /> +Nor slacked, nor any whit his forehead bowed:<br /> +Fixed was his eye and keen; the whole white face<br /> +Keen as that eye itself, though—shapeless yet—<br /> +The infernal horde to ear not eye addressed<br /> +Their battle. Back he drave them, rank on rank,<br /> +Routed, with psalm, and malison, and ban,<br /> +As from a sling flung forth. Revolt’s blind spawn<br +/> +He named them; one time Spirits, now linked with brute,<br /> +Yea, bestial more and baser: and as a ship<br /> +Mounts with the mounting of the wave, so he<br /> +O’er all the insurgent tempest of their wrath<br /> +Rising rode on triumphant. Days went by,<br /> +Then came a lull; and lo! a whisper shrill,<br /> +Once heard before, again its poison cold<br /> +Distilled: “Albeit to Christ this land should bow,<br /> +Some conqueror’s foot one day would quell her +Faith.”<br /> +It ceased. Tenfold once more the storm burst forth:<br /> +Once more the ecstatic passion of his prayer<br /> +Met it, and, breasting, overbore, until<br /> +Sudden the Princedoms of the dark that rode<br /> +This way and that way through the whirlwind, dashed<br /> +Their vanquished crowns of darkness to the ground<br /> +With one long cry. Then silence came; and lo!<br /> +The white dawn of the fourth fair Day of God<br /> +O’erflowed the world. Slowly the Saint upraised<br /> +His wearied eyes. Upon the mountain lawns<br /> +Lay happy lights; and birds sang; and a stream<br /> +That any five-years’ child might overleap,<br /> +Beside him lapsed crystalline between banks<br /> +With violets all empurpled, and smooth marge<br /> +Green as that spray which earliest sucks the spring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Patrick raised to God his orison<br /> +On that fair mount, and planted in the grass<br /> +His crozier staff, and slept; and in his sleep<br /> +God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments,<br /> +Manna of might divine. Three days he slept;<br /> +The fourth he woke. Upon his heart there rushed<br /> +Yearning for closer converse with his God<br /> +Though great its cost; and on his feet he gat,<br /> +And high, and higher yet, that mountain scaled,<br /> +And reached at noon the summit. Far below<br /> +Basking the island lay, through rainbow shower<br /> +Gleaming in part, with shadowy moor, and ridge<br /> +Blue in the distance looming. Westward stretched<br /> +A galaxy of isles, and, these beyond,<br /> +Infinite sea with sacred light ablaze,<br /> +And high o’erhead there hung a cloudless heaven.</p> +<p class="poetry">Upon that summit kneeling, face to sea<br /> +The Saint, with hands held forth and thanks returned,<br /> +Claimed as his stately heritage that realm<br /> +From north to south: but instant as his lip<br /> +Printed with earliest pulse of Christian prayer<br /> +That clear aërial clime Pagan till then;<br /> +The Host Accursed, sagacious of his act,<br /> +Rushed back from all the isle and round him met<br /> +With anger seven times heated, since their hour,<br /> +And this they knew, was come. Nor thunder din<br /> +And challenge through the ear alone, sufficed<br /> +That hour their rage malign that, craving sore<br /> +Material bulk to rend his bulk—their foe’s—<br +/> +Through fleshly strength of that their murder-lust<br /> +Flamed forth in fleshly form phantoms night-black<br /> +Though bodiless yet to bodied mass as nigh<br /> +As Spirits can reach. More thick than vultures winged<br /> +To fields with carnage piled, the Accursèd thronged<br /> +Making thick night which neither earth nor sky<br /> +Could pierce, from sense expunged. In phalanx now,<br /> +Anon in breaking legion, or in globe,<br /> +With clang of iron pinion on they rushed<br /> +And spectral dart high-held. Nor quailed the Saint,<br /> +Contending for his people on that Mount,<br /> +Nor spared God’s foes; for as old minster towers<br /> +Besieged by midnight storm send forth reply<br /> +In storm outrolled of bells, so sent he forth<br /> +Defiance from fierce lip, vindictive chaunt,<br /> +And blight and ban, and maledictive rite<br /> +Potent on face of Spirits impure to raise<br /> +These plague-spots three, Defeat, Madness, Despair;<br /> +Nor stinted flail of taunt—“When first my bark<br /> +Threatened your coasts, as now upon the hills<br /> +Hung ye in cloud; as now, I raised this Cross;<br /> +Ye fled before it and again shall fly!”<br /> +So hurled he back their squadrons. Day by day<br /> +The hurricanes of war shook earth and heaven:<br /> +Till now, on Holy Saturday, that hour<br /> +Returned which maketh glad the Church of God<br /> +When over Christendom in widowed fanes<br /> +Two days by penance stripped, and dumb as though<br /> +Some Antichrist had trodd’n them down, once more<br /> +Swells forth amid the new-lit paschal lights<br /> +The “Gloria in Excelsis:” sudden then<br /> +That mighty conflict ceased, save one low voice<br /> +Twice heard before, now edged with bitterer scoff,<br /> +“That race thou lov’st, though fierce in wrath, is +soft:<br /> +Plenty and peace will melt their Faith one day:”<br /> +Then with that whisper dying, died the night:<br /> +Then forth from darkness issued earth and sky:<br /> +Then fled the phantoms far o’er ocean’s wave,<br /> +Thence to return not till the day of doom.</p> +<p class="poetry">But he, their conqueror wept, upon that +height<br /> +Standing; nor of his victory had he joy,<br /> +Nor of that jubilant isle restored to light,<br /> +Nor of that heaven relit; so worked that scoff<br /> +Winged from the abyss; and ever thus the man<br /> +With darkness communed and that poison cold:<br /> +“If Faith indeed should flood the land with peace,<br /> +And peace with gold, and gold eat out her heart<br /> +Once true, till Faith one day through Faith’s reward<br /> +Or die, or live diseased, the shame of Faith,<br /> +Then blacker were this land and more accursed<br /> +Than lands that knew no Christ.” And musing thus<br +/> +The whole heart of the man was turned to tears,<br /> +A fount of bale and chalice brimmed with death—<br /> +For oft a thought chance-born more racks than truth<br /> +Proven and sure—and, weeping, still he wept<br /> +Till drenched was all his sad monastic cowl<br /> +As sea-weed on the dripping shelf storm-cast<br /> +Latest, and tremulous still.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> As +thus he wept<br /> +Sudden beside him on that summit broad,<br /> +Ran out a golden beam like sunset path<br /> +Gilding the sea: and, turning, by his side<br /> +Victor, God’s angel, stood with lustrous brow<br /> +Fresh from that Face no man can see and live.<br /> +He, putting forth his hand, with living coal<br /> +Snatched from God’s altar, made that dripping cowl<br /> +Dry as an Autumn sheaf. The angel spake:<br /> +“Rejoice, for they are fled that hate thy land,<br /> +And those are nigh that love it.” Then the Saint<br +/> +Upraised his head; and lo! in snowy sheen<br /> +Cresting high rock, and ridge, and airy peak,<br /> +Innumerable the Sons of God all round<br /> +Vested the invisible mountain with white light,<br /> +As when the foam-white birds of ocean throng<br /> +Sea-rock so close that none that rock may see.<br /> +In trance the Living Creatures stood, with wings<br /> +That pointing crossed upon their breasts; nor seemed<br /> +As new arrived but native to that site<br /> +Though veiled till now from mortal vision. Song<br /> +They sang to soothe the vexed heart of the Saint—<br /> +Love-song of Heaven: and slowly as it died<br /> +Their splendours waned; and through that vanishing light<br /> +Earth, sea, and heaven returned.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> To +Patrick then,<br /> +Thus Victor spake: “Depart from Cruachan,<br /> +Since God hath given thee wondrous gifts, immense,<br /> +And through thy prayer routed that rebel host.”<br /> +And Patrick, “Till the last of all my prayers<br /> +Be granted, I depart not though I die:—<br /> +One said, ‘Too fierce that race to bend to +faith.’”<br /> +Then spake God’s angel, mild of voice, and kind:<br /> +“Not all are fierce that fiercest seem, for oft<br /> +Fierceness is blindfold love, or love ajar.<br /> +Souls thou wouldst have: for every hair late wet<br /> +In this thy tearful cowl and habit drenched<br /> +God gives thee myriads seven of Souls redeemed<br /> +From sin and doom; and Souls, beside, as many<br /> +As o’er yon sea in legioned flight might hang<br /> +Far as thine eye can range. But get thee down<br /> +From Cruachan, for mighty is thy prayer.”<br /> +And Patrick made reply: “Not great thy boon!<br /> +Watch have I kept, and wearied are mine eyes<br /> +And dim; nor see they far o’er yonder deep.”<br /> +And Victor: “Have thou Souls from coast to coast<br /> +In cloud full-stretched; but, get thee down: this Mount<br /> +God’s Altar is, and puissance adds to prayer.”<br /> +And Patrick: “On this Mountain wept have I;<br /> +And therefore giftless will I not depart:<br /> +One said, ‘Although that People should believe<br /> +Yet conqueror’s heel one day would quell their +Faith.’”<br /> +To whom the angel, mild of voice, and kind:<br /> +“Conquerors are they that subjugate the soul:<br /> +This also God concedes thee; conquering foe<br /> +Trampling this land, shall tread not out her Faith<br /> +Nor sap by fraud, so long as thou in heaven<br /> +Look’st on God’s Face; nay, by that Faith subdued,<br +/> +That foe shall serve and live. But get thee down<br /> +And worship in the vale.” Then Patrick said,<br /> +“Live they that list! Full sorely wept have I,<br /> +Nor will I hence depart unsatisfied:<br /> +One said; ‘Grown soft, that race their Faith will +shame;’<br /> +Say therefore what the Lord thy God will grant,<br /> +Nor stint His hand; since never scanter grace<br /> +Fell yet on head of nation-taming man<br /> +Than thou to me hast portioned till this hour.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then answer made the angel, soft of voice:<br +/> +“Not all men stumble when a Nation falls;<br /> +There are that stand upright. God gives thee this:<br /> +They that are faithful to thy Faith, that walk<br /> +Thy way, and keep thy covenant with God,<br /> +And daily sing thy hymn, when comes the Judge<br /> +With Sign blood-red facing Jehosaphat,<br /> +And fear lays prone the many-mountained world,<br /> +The same shall ’scape the doom.” And Patrick +said,<br /> +“That hymn is long, and hard for simple folk,<br /> +And hard for children.” And the angel thus:<br /> +“At least from ‘Christum Illum’ let them +sing,<br /> +And keep thy Faith: when comes the Judge, the pains<br /> +Shall take not hold of such. Is that enough?”<br /> +And Patrick answered, “That is not enough.”<br /> +Then Victor: “Likewise this thy God accords:<br /> +The Dreadful Coming and the Day of Doom<br /> +Thy land shall see not; for before that day<br /> +Seven years, a great wave arched from out the deep,<br /> +Ablution pure, shall sweep the isle and take<br /> +Her children to its peace. Is that enough?”<br /> +And Patrick answered, “That is not enough.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then spake once more that courteous angel +kind:<br /> +“What boon demand’st then?” And the +Saint, “No less<br /> +Than this. Though every nation, ere that day<br /> +Recreant from creed and Christ, old troth forsworn,<br /> +Should flee the sacred scandal of the Cross<br /> +Through pride, as once the Apostles fled through fear,<br /> +This Nation of my love, a priestly house,<br /> +Beside that Cross shall stand, fate-firm, like him<br /> +That stood beside Christ’s Mother.” +Straightway, as one<br /> +Who ends debate, the angel answered stern:<br /> +“That boon thou claimest is too great to grant:<br /> +Depart thou from this mountain, Cruachan,<br /> +In peace; and find that Nation which thou lov’st,<br /> +That like thy body is, and thou her head,<br /> +For foes are round her set in valley and plain,<br /> +And instant is the battle.” Then the Saint:<br /> +“The battle for my People is not there,<br /> +With them, low down, but here upon this height<br /> +From them apart, with God. This Mount of God<br /> +Dowerless and bare I quit not till I die;<br /> +And dying, I will leave a Man Elect<br /> +To keep its keys, and pray my prayer, and name<br /> +Dying in turn, his heir, successive line,<br /> +Even till the Day of Doom.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Then +heavenward sped<br /> +Victor, God’s angel, and the Man of God<br /> +Turned to his offering; and all day he stood<br /> +Offering in heart that Offering Undefiled<br /> +Which Abel offered, and Melchisedek,<br /> +And Abraham, Patriarch of the faithful race,<br /> +In type, and which in fulness of the times<br /> +The Victim-Priest offered on Calvary,<br /> +And, bloodless, offers still in Heaven and Earth,<br /> +Whose impetration makes the whole Church one.<br /> +Thus offering stood the man till eve, and still<br /> +Offered; and as he offered, far in front<br /> +Along the aërial summit once again<br /> +Ran out that beam like fiery pillar prone<br /> +Or sea-path sunset-paved; and by his side<br /> +That angel stood. Then Patrick, turning not<br /> +His eyes in prayer upon the West close held<br /> +Demanded, “From the Maker of all worlds<br /> +What answer bring’st thou?” Victor made +reply:<br /> +“Down knelt in Heaven the Angelic Orders Nine,<br /> +And all the Prophets and the Apostles knelt,<br /> +And all the Creatures of the hand of God<br /> +Visible, and invisible, down knelt,<br /> +While thou thy mighty Mass, though altarless,<br /> +Offeredst in spirit, and thine Offering joined;<br /> +And all God’s Saints on earth, or roused from sleep<br /> +Or on the wayside pausing, knelt, the cause<br /> +Not knowing; likewise yearned the Souls to God<br /> +In that fire-clime benign that clears from sin;<br /> +And lo! the Lord thy God hath heard thy prayer,<br /> +Since fortitude in prayer—and this thou +know’st,”—<br /> +Smiling the Bright One spake, “is that which lays<br /> +Man’s hand upon God’s sceptre. That thou +sought’st<br /> +Shall lack not consummation. Many a race<br /> +Shrivelling in sunshine of its prosperous years,<br /> +Shall cease from faith, and, shamed though shameless, sink<br /> +Back to its native clay; but over thine<br /> +God shall extend the shadow of His Hand,<br /> +And through the night of centuries teach to her<br /> +In woe that song which, when the nations wake,<br /> +Shall sound their glad deliverance: nor alone<br /> +This nation, from the blind dividual dust<br /> +Of instincts brute, thoughts driftless, warring wills<br /> +By thee evoked and shapen by thy hands<br /> +To God’s fair image which confers alone<br /> +Manhood on nations, shall to God stand true;<br /> +But nations far in undiscovered seas,<br /> +Her stately progeny, while ages fleet<br /> +Shall wear the kingly ermine of her Faith,<br /> +Fleece uncorrupted of the Immaculate Lamb,<br /> +For ever: lands remote shall raise to God<br /> +<i>Her</i> fanes; and eagle-nurturing isles hold fast<br /> +<i>Her</i> hermit cells: thy nation shall not walk<br /> +Accordant with the Gentiles of this world,<br /> +But as a race elect sustain the Crown<br /> +Or bear the Cross: and when the end is come,<br /> +When in God’s Mount the Twelve great Thrones are set,<br /> +And round it roll the Rivers Four of fire,<br /> +And in their circuit meet the Peoples Three<br /> +Of Heaven, and Earth, and Hell, fulfilled that day<br /> +Shall be the Saviour’s word, what time He stretched<br /> +Thy crozier-staff forth from His glory-cloud<br /> +And sware to thee, ‘When they that with Me walked<br /> +Sit with Me on their everlasting thrones<br /> +Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine Israel,<br /> +Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou therefore kneel, and bless thy Land of +Eire.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then Patrick knelt, and blessed the land, and +said,<br /> +“Praise be to God who hears the sinner’s +prayer.”</p> +<h3>EPILOGUE.</h3> +<h4>THE CONFESSION OF SAINT PATRICK.</h4> +<h5>ARGUMENT.</h5> +<p>Before his death, Saint Patrick makes confession to his +brethren concerning his life; of his love for that land which had +been his House of Bondage; of his ceaseless prayer in youth: of +his sojourn at Tours, where St. Martin had made abode, at +Auxerres with St. Germanus, and at Lerins with the +Contemplatives: of that mystic mountain where the Redeemer +Himself lodged the Crozier Staff in his hand; of Pope Celestine +who gave him his Mission; of his Visions; of his Labours. +His last charge to the sons of Erin is that they should walk in +Truth; that they should put from them the spirit of Revenge; and +that they should hold fast to the Faith of Christ.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">At</span> Saul then, by the +inland-spreading sea,<br /> +There where began my labour, comes the end:<br /> +I, blind and witless, willed it otherwise:<br /> +God willed it thus. When prescience came of death<br /> +I said, “My Resurrection place I choose”—<br /> +O fool, for ne’er since boyhood choice was mine<br /> +Save choice to subject will of mine to God—<br /> +“At great Ardmacha.” Thitherward I +turned;<br /> +But in my pathway, with forbidding hand,<br /> +Victor, God’s angel stood. “Not so,” he +said,<br /> +“For in Ardmacha stands thy princedom fixed,<br /> +Age after age, thy teaching, and thy law,<br /> +But not thy grave. Return thou to that shore<br /> +Thy place of small beginnings, and thereon<br /> +Lessen in body and mind, and grow in spirit:<br /> +Then sing to God thy little hymn and die.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Yea, Lord, my mouth would praise Thee ere I +die,<br /> +The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit<br /> +Who knittest in His Church the just to Christ:<br /> +Help me, my sons—mine orphans soon to be—<br /> +Help me to praise Him; ye that round me sit<br /> +On those grey rocks; ye that have faithful been,<br /> +Honouring, despite dishonour of my sins,<br /> +His servant: I would praise Him yet once more,<br /> +Though mine the stammerer’s voice, or as a +child’s;<br /> +For it is written, “Stammerers shall speak plain<br /> +Sounding Thy Gospel.” “They whom Christ hath +sent<br /> +Are Christ’s Epistle, borne to ends of earth,<br /> +Writ by His Spirit, and plain to souls elect:”<br /> +Lord, am not I of Thine Apostolate?</p> +<p class="poetry">Yea, by abjection Thine, by suffering Thine!<br +/> +Till I was humbled I was as a stone<br /> +In deep mire sunk. Then, stretched from heaven, Thy hand<br +/> +Slid under me in might, and lifted me,<br /> +And fixed me in Thy Temple where Thou wouldst.<br /> +Wonder, ye great ones, wonder, ye the wise!<br /> +On me, the last and least, this charge was laid<br /> +This crown, that I in humbleness and truth<br /> +Should walk this nation’s Servant till I die.</p> +<p class="poetry">Therefore, a youth of sixteen years, or +less,<br /> +With others of my land by pirates seized<br /> +I stood on Erin’s shore. Our bonds were just;<br /> +Our God we had forsaken, and His Law,<br /> +And mocked His priests. Tending a stern man’s +swine<br /> +I trod those Dalaraida hills that face<br /> +Eastward to Alba. Six long years went by;<br /> +But—sent from God—Memory, and Faith, and Fear<br /> +Moved on my spirit as winds upon the sea,<br /> +And the Spirit of Prayer came down. Full many a day<br /> +Climbing the mountain tops, one hundred times<br /> +I flung upon the storm my cry to God.<br /> +Nor frost, nor rain might harm me, for His love<br /> +Burned in my heart. Through love I made my fast;<br /> +And in my fasts one night I heard this voice,<br /> +“Thou fastest well: soon shalt thou see thy Land.”<br +/> +Later, once more thus spake it: “Southward fly,<br /> +Thy ship awaits thee.” Many a day I fled,<br /> +And found the black ship dropping down the tide,<br /> +And entered with those Gentiles by Thy grace<br /> +Vanquished, though first they spurned me, and was free.<br /> +It was Thy leading, Lord; the Hand was Thine!<br /> +For now when, perils past, I walked secure,<br /> +Kind greetings round me, and the Christian Rite,<br /> +There rose a clamorous yearning in my heart,<br /> +And memories of that land so far, so fair,<br /> +And lost in such a gloom. And through that gloom<br /> +The eyes of little children shone on me,<br /> +So ready to believe! Such children oft<br /> +Ran by me naked in and out the waves,<br /> +Or danced in circles upon Erin’s shores,<br /> +Like creatures never fallen! Thought of such<br /> +Passed into thought of others. From my youth<br /> +Both men and women, maidens most, to me<br /> +As children seemed; and O the pity then<br /> +To mark how oft they wept, how seldom knew<br /> +Whence came the wound that galled them! As I walked,<br /> +Each wind that passed me whispered, “Lo, that race<br /> +Which trod thee down! Requite with good their ill!<br /> +Thou know’st their tongue; old man to thee, and youth,<br +/> +For counsel came, and lambs would lick thy foot;<br /> +And now the whole land is a sheep astray<br /> +That bleats to God.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Alone +one night I mused,<br /> +Burthened with thought of that vocation vast.<br /> +O’er-spent I sank asleep. In visions then,<br /> +Satan my soul plagued with temptation dire.<br /> +Methought, beneath a cliff I lay, and lo!<br /> +Thick-legioned demons o’er me dragged a rock,<br /> +That falling, seemed a mountain. Near, more near,<br /> +O’er me it blackened. Sudden from my heart<br /> +This thought leaped forth: “Elias! Him +invoke!”<br /> +That name invoked, vanished the rock; and I,<br /> +On mountains stood watching the rising sun,<br /> +As stood Elias once on Carmel’s crest,<br /> +Gazing on heaven unbarred, and that white cloud,<br /> +A thirsting land’s salvation.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Might +Divine!<br /> +Thou taught’st me thus my weakness; and I vowed<br /> +To seek Thy strength. I turned my face to Tours,<br /> +There where in years gone by Thy soldier-priest<br /> +Martin had ruled, my kinsman in the flesh.<br /> +Dead was the lion; but his lair was warm:<br /> +In it I laid me, and a conquering glow<br /> +Rushed up into my heart. I heard discourse<br /> +Of Martin still, his valour in the Lord,<br /> +His rugged warrior zeal, his passionate love<br /> +For Hilary, his vigils, and his fasts,<br /> +And all his pitiless warfare on the Powers<br /> +Of darkness; and one day, in secrecy,<br /> +With Ninian, missioned then to Alba’s shore,<br /> +I peered into his branch-enwoven cell,<br /> +Half-way between the river and the rocks,<br /> +From Tours a mile and more.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> So +passed eight years<br /> +Till strengthened was my heart by discipline:<br /> +Then spake a priest, “Brother, thy will is good,<br /> +Yet rude thou art of learning as a beast;<br /> +Fare thee to great Germanus of Auxerres,<br /> +Who lightens half the West!” I heard, and went,<br /> +And to that Saint was subject fourteen years.<br /> +He from my mind removed the veil; “Lift up,”<br /> +He said, “thine eyes!” and like a mountain land<br /> +The Queenly Science stood before me plain,<br /> +From rocky buttress up to peak of snow:<br /> +The great Commandments first, Edicts, and Laws<br /> +That bastion up man’s life:—then high o’er +these<br /> +The forest huge of Doctrine, one, yet many,<br /> +Forth stretching in innumerable aisles,<br /> +At the end of each, the self-same glittering star:—<br /> +Lastly, the Life God-hidden. Day by day,<br /> +With him for guide, that first and second realm<br /> +I tracked, and learned to shun the abyss flower-veiled,<br /> +And scale heaven-threatening heights. This, too, he +taught,<br /> +Himself long time a ruler and a prince,<br /> +The regimen of States from chaos won<br /> +To order, and to Christ. Prudence I learned,<br /> +And sageness in the government of men,<br /> +By me sore needed soon. O stately man,<br /> +In all things great, in action and in thought,<br /> +And plain as great! To Britain called, the Saint<br /> +Trod down that great Pelagian Blasphemy,<br /> +Chief portent of the age. But better far<br /> +He loved his cell. There sat he vigil-worn,<br /> +In cowl and dusky tunic hued like earth<br /> +Whence issued man and unto which returns;<br /> +I marvelled at his wrinkled brows, and hands<br /> +Still tracing, enter or depart who would,<br /> +From morn to night his parchments.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> There, +once more,<br /> +O God, Thine eye was on me, or my hand<br /> +Once more had missed the prize. Temptation now<br /> +Whispered in softness, “Wisdom’s home is here:<br /> +Here bide untroubled.” Almost I had fallen;<br /> +But, by my side, in visions of the night,<br /> +God’s angel, Victor, stood as one that hastes,<br /> +On travel sped. Unnumbered missives lay<br /> +Clasped in his hands. One stretched he forth, inscribed<br +/> +“The wail of Erin’s Children.” As I +read<br /> +The cry of babes, from Erin’s western coast<br /> +And Fochlut’s forest, and the wintry sea,<br /> +Shrilled o’er me, clamouring, “Holy youth, return!<br +/> +Walk then among us!” I could read no more.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thenceforth rose up renewed +mine old desire:<br /> +My kinsfolk mocked me. “What! past woes too scant!<br +/> +Slave of four masters, and the best a churl!<br /> +Thy Gospel they will trample under foot,<br /> +And rend thee! Late to them Palladius preached:<br /> +They drave him as a leper from their shores.”<br /> +I stood in agony of staggering mind<br /> +And warring wills. Then, lo! at dead of night<br /> +I heard a mystic voice, till then unheard,<br /> +I knew not if within me or close by<br /> +That swelled in passionate pleading; nor the words<br /> +Grasped I, so great they seemed and wonderful,<br /> +Till sank that tempest to a whisper:—“He<br /> +Who died for thee is He that in thee groans.”<br /> +Then fell, methought, scales from mine inner eyes:<br /> +Then saw I—terrible that sight, yet sweet—<br /> +Within me saw a Man that in me prayed<br /> +With groans unutterable. That Man was girt<br /> +For mission far. My heart recalled that word,<br /> +“The Spirit helpeth our infirmities;<br /> +That which we lack we know not, but the Spirit<br /> +Himself for us doth intercession make<br /> +With groanings which may never be revealed.”<br /> +That hour my vow was vowed; and he approved,<br /> +My master and my guide. “But go,” he said,<br +/> +“First to that island in the Tyrrhene Sea,<br /> +Where live the high Contemplatives to God:<br /> +There learn perfection; there that Inner Life<br /> +Win thou, God’s strength amid the world’s loud +storm:<br /> +Nor fear lest God should frown on such delay,<br /> +For Heavenly Wisdom is compassionate:<br /> +Slowly before man’s weakness moves it on;<br /> +Softly: so moved of old the Wise Men’s Star,<br /> +Which curbed its lightning ardours and forbore<br /> +Honouring the pensive tread of hoary Eld,<br /> +Honouring the burthened slave, the camel line<br /> +Long-linked, with level head and foot that fell<br /> +As though in sleep, printing the silent sands.”<br /> +Thus, smiling, spake Germanus, large in lore.</p> +<p class="poetry">So in that island-Eden I sojourned,<br /> +Lerins, and saw where Vincent lived, and his,<br /> +Life fountained from on high. That life was Love;<br /> +For all their mighty knowledge food became<br /> +Of Love Divine, and took, by Love absorbed,<br /> +Shape from his flame-like body. Hard their beds;<br /> +Ceaseless their prayers. They tilled a sterile soil;<br /> +Beneath their hands it blossomed like the rose:<br /> +O’er thymy hollows blew the nectared airs;<br /> +Blue ocean flashed through olives. They had fled<br /> +From praise of men; yet cities far away<br /> +Rapt those meek saints to fill the bishop’s throne.<br /> +I saw the light of God on faces calm<br /> +That blended with man’s meditative might<br /> +Simplicity of childhood, and, with both<br /> +The sweetness of that flower-like sex which wears<br /> +Through love’s Obedience twofold crowns of Love.<br /> +O blissful time! In that bright island bloomed<br /> +The third high region on the Hills of God,<br /> +Above the rock, above the wood, the cloud:—<br /> +There laughs the luminous air, there bursts anew<br /> +Spring bud in summer on suspended lawns;<br /> +There the bell tinkles while once more the lamb<br /> +Trips by the sun-fed runnel: there green vales<br /> +Lie lost in purple heavens.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Transfigured +Life!<br /> +This was thy glory, that, without a sigh,<br /> +Who loved thee yet could leave thee! Thus it fell:<br /> +One morning I was on the sea, and lo!<br /> +An isle to Lerins near, but fairer yet,<br /> +Till then unseen! A grassy vale sea-lulled<br /> +Wound inward, breathing balm, with fruited trees,<br /> +And stream through lilies gliding. By a door<br /> +There stood a man in prime, and others sat<br /> +Not far, some grey; and one, a weed of years,<br /> +Lay like a withered wreath. An old man spake:<br /> +“See what thou seest, and scan the mystery well!<br /> +The man who stands so stately in his prime<br /> +Is of this company the eldest born.<br /> +The Saviour in His earthly sojourn, Risen,<br /> +Perchance, or ere His Passion, who can tell,<br /> +Stood up at this man’s door; and this man rose,<br /> +And let Him in, and made for Him a feast;<br /> +And Jesus said, ‘Tarry, till I return.’<br /> +Moreover, others are there on this isle,<br /> +Both men and maids, who saw the Son of Man,<br /> +And took Him in, and shine in endless youth;<br /> +But we, the rest, in course of nature fade,<br /> +For we believe, yet saw not God, nor touched.”<br /> +Then spake I, “Here till death my home I make,<br /> +Where Jesus trod.” And answered he in prime,<br /> +“Not so; the Master hath for thee thy task.<br /> +Parting, thus spake He: ‘Here for Mine Elect<br /> +Abide thou. Bid him bear this crozier staff;<br /> +My blessing rests thereon: the same shall drive<br /> +The foes of God before him.’” Answer thus<br /> +I made, “That crozier staff I will not touch<br /> +Until I take it from that nail-pierced Hand.”<br /> +From these I turned, and clomb a mountain high,<br /> +Hermon by name; and there—was this, my God,<br /> +In visions of the Lord, or in the flesh?—<br /> +I spake with Him, the Lord of Life, Who died;<br /> +He from the glory stretched the Hand nail-pierced,<br /> +And placed in mine that crozier staff, and said:<br /> +“Upon that day when they that with Me walked<br /> +Sit with Me on their everlasting Thrones,<br /> +Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine Israel,<br /> +Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Forthwith to Rome I fled; there knelt I down<br +/> +Above the bones of Peter and of Paul,<br /> +And saw the mitred embassies from far,<br /> +And saw Celestine with his head high held<br /> +As though it bore the Blessed Sacrament;<br /> +Chief Shepherd of the Saviour’s flock on earth.<br /> +Tall was the man, and swift; white-haired; with eye<br /> +Starlike and voice a trumpet clear that pealed<br /> +God’s Benediction o’er the city and globe;<br /> +Yea, and whene’er his palm he lifted, still<br /> +Blessing before it ran. Upon my head<br /> +He laid both hands, and “Win,” he said, “to +Christ<br /> +One realm the more!” Moreover, to my charge<br /> +Relics he gave, unnumbered, without price;<br /> +And when those relics lost had been, and found,<br /> +And at his feet I wept, he chided not;<br /> +But, smiling, said, “Thy glorious task fulfilled,<br /> +House them in thy new country’s stateliest church<br /> +By cresset girt of ever-burning lamps,<br /> +And never-ceasing anthems.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Northward +then<br /> +Returned I, missioned. Yet once more, but once,<br /> +That old temptation proved me. When they sat,<br /> +The Elders, making inquest of my life,<br /> +Sudden a certain brother rose, and spake,<br /> +“Shall this man be a Bishop, who hath sinned?”<br /> +My dearest friend was he. To him alone<br /> +One time had I divulged a sin by me<br /> +Through ignorance wrought when fifteen years of age;<br /> +And after thirty years, behold, once more,<br /> +That sin had found me out! He knew my mission:<br /> +When in mine absence slander sought my name,<br /> +Mine honour he had cleared. Yet now—yet now—<br +/> +That hour the iron passed into my soul:<br /> +Yea, well nigh all was lost. I wept, “Not one,<br /> +No heart of man there is that knows my heart,<br /> +Or in its anguish shares.”</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Yet, +O my God!<br /> +I blame him not: from Thee that penance came:<br /> +Not for man’s love should Thine Apostle strive,<br /> +Thyself alone his great and sole reward.<br /> +Thou laid’st that hour a fiery hand of love<br /> +Upon a faithless heart; and it survived.</p> +<p class="poetry">At dead of night a Vision gave me peace.<br /> +Slowly from out the breast of darkness shone<br /> +Strange characters, a writing unrevealed:<br /> +And slowly thence and infinitely sad,<br /> +A Voice: “Ill-pleased, this day have we beheld<br /> +The face of the Elect without a name.”<br /> +It said not, “Thou hast grieved,” but “We have +grieved;”<br /> +With import plain, “O thou of little faith!<br /> +Am I not nearer to thee than thy friends?<br /> +Am I not inlier with thee than thyself?”<br /> +Then I remembered, “He that touches you<br /> +Doth touch the very apple of mine eye.”<br /> +Serene I slept. At morn I rose and ran<br /> +Down to the shore, and found a boat, and sailed.</p> +<p class="poetry">That hour true life’s beginning was, O +Lord,<br /> +Because the work Thou gav’st into my hands<br /> +Prospered between them. Yea, and from the work<br /> +The Power forth issued. Strength in me was none,<br /> +Nor insight, till the occasion: then Thy sword<br /> +Flamed in my grasp, and beams were in mine eyes<br /> +That showed the way before me, and nought else.<br /> +Thou mad’st me know Thy Will. As taper’s +light<br /> +Veers with a wind man feels not, o’er my heart<br /> +Hovered thenceforth some Pentecostal flame<br /> +That bent before that Will. Thy Truth, not mine,<br /> +Lightened this People’s mind; Thy Love inflamed<br /> +Their hearts; Thy Hope upbore them as on wings.<br /> +Valiant that race, and simple, and to them<br /> +Not hard the godlike venture of belief:<br /> +Conscience was theirs: tortuous too oft in life<br /> +Their thoughts, when passionate most, then most were true,<br /> +Heart-true. With naked hand firmly they clasped<br /> +The naked Truth: in them Belief was Act.<br /> +A tribe from Thy far East they called themselves:<br /> +Their clans were Patriarch households, rude through war:<br /> +Old Pagan Rome had known them not; their Isle<br /> +Virgin to Christ had come. Oh how unlike<br /> +Her sons to those old Roman Senators,<br /> +Scorn of Germanus oft, who breathed the air<br /> +Fouled by dead Faiths successively blown out,<br /> +Or Grecian sophist with his world of words,<br /> +That, knowing all, knew nothing! Praise to Thee,<br /> +Lord of the night-time as the day, Who keep’st<br /> +Reserved in blind barbaric innocence,<br /> +Pure breed, when boastful lights corrupt the wise,<br /> +With healthier fruit to bless a later age.</p> +<p class="poetry"> I to that people all things +made myself<br /> +For Christ’s sake, building still that good they lacked<br +/> +On good already theirs. In courts of kings<br /> +I stood: before mine eye their eye went down,<br /> +For Thou wert with me. Gentle with the meek,<br /> +I suffered not the proud to mock my face:<br /> +Thus by the anchors twain of Love and Fear,<br /> +Since Love, not perfected, gains strength from Fear,<br /> +I bound to thee This nation. Parables<br /> +I spake in; parables in act I wrought<br /> +Because the people’s mind was in the sense.<br /> +At Imbher Dea they scoffed Thy word: I raised<br /> +Thy staff, and smote with barrenness that flood:<br /> +Then learned they that the world was Thine, not ruled<br /> +By Sun or Moon, their famed “God-Elements:”<br /> +Yea, like Thy Fig-tree cursed, that river banned<br /> +Witnessed Thy Love’s stern pureness. From the +grass<br /> +The little three-leaved herb, I stooped and plucked,<br /> +And preached the Trinity. Thy Staff I raised,<br /> +And bade—not ravening beast—but reptiles foul<br /> +Flee to the abyss like that blind herd of old;<br /> +Then spake I: “Be not babes, but understand:<br /> +Thus in your spirit lift the Cross of Christ:<br /> +Banish base lusts; so God shall with you walk<br /> +As once with man in Eden.” With like aim<br /> +Convents I reared for holy maids, then sought<br /> +The marriage feast, and cried, “If God thus draws<br /> +Close to Himself those virgin hearts, and yet<br /> +Blesses the bridal troth, and infant’s font,<br /> +How white a thing should be the Christian home!”<br /> +Marvelling, they learned what heritage their God<br /> +Possessed in them! how wide a realm, how fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord, save in one thing only, I was +weak—<br /> +I loved this people with a mother’s love,<br /> +For their sake sanctified my spirit to thee<br /> +In vigil, fast, and meditation long,<br /> +On mountain and on moor. Thus, Lord, I wrought,<br /> +Trusting that so Thy lineaments divine,<br /> +Deeplier upon my spirit graved, might pass<br /> +Thence on that hidden burthen which my heart<br /> +Still from its substance feeding, with great pangs<br /> +Strove to bring forth to Thee. O loyal race!<br /> +Me too they loved. They waited me all night<br /> +On lonely roads; and, as I preached, the day<br /> +To those high listeners seemed a little hour.<br /> +Have I not seen ten thousand brows at once<br /> +Flash in the broad light of some Truth new risen,<br /> +And felt like him, that Saint who cried, flame-girt,<br /> +“At last do I begin to be a Christian?”<br /> +Have I not seen old foes embrace? Seen him,<br /> +That white-haired man who dashed him on the ground,<br /> +Crying aloud, “My buried son, forgive!<br /> +Thy sire hath touched the hand that shed thy blood?”<br /> +Fierce chiefs knelt down in penance! Lord! how oft<br /> +Shook I their tear-drop sparkles from my gown!<br /> +’Twas the forgiveness taught them all the debt,<br /> +Great-hearted penitents! How many a youth<br /> +Contemned the praise of men! How many a maid—<br /> +O not in narrowness, but Love’s sweet pride<br /> +And love-born shyness—jealous for a mate<br /> +Himself not jealous—spurned terrestrial love,<br /> +Glorying in heavenly Love’s fair oneness! Race<br /> +High-dowered! God’s Truth seemed some remembered +thing<br /> +To them; God’s Kingdom smiled, their native haunt<br /> +Prophesied then their daughters and their sons:<br /> +Each man before the face of each upraised<br /> +His hand on high, and said, “The Lord hath risen!”<br +/> +Then, like a stream from ice released, forth fled<br /> +And wafted far the tidings, flung them wide,<br /> +Shouted them loud from rocky ridge o’er bands<br /> +Marching far down to war! The sower sowed<br /> +With happier hope; the reaper bending sang,<br /> +“Thus shall God’s Angels reap the field of God<br /> +When we are ripe for heaven.” Lovers new-wed<br /> +Drank of that water changed to wine, thenceforth<br /> +Breathing on earth heaven’s sweetness. Unto such<br +/> +More late, whate’er of brightness time or will<br /> +Infirm had dimmed, shone back from infant brows<br /> +By baptism lit. Each age its garland found:<br /> +Fair shone on trustful childhood faith divine:<br /> +Eld, once a weight of wrinkles now upsoared<br /> +In venerable lordship of white hairs,<br /> +Seer-like and sage. Healed was a nation’s wound:<br +/> +All men believed who willed not disbelief;<br /> +And sat in that oppugnancy steel-mailed:<br /> +They cried, “Before thy priests our bards shall bow,<br /> +And all our clans put on thy great Clan Christ!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> For your sake, O my brethren, +and my sons<br /> +These things have I recorded. Something I wrought:<br /> +Strive ye in loftier labours; strive, and win:<br /> +Your victory shall be mine: my crown are ye.<br /> +My part is ended now. I lived for Truth:<br /> +I to this people gave that truth I knew;<br /> +My witnesses ye are I grudged it not:<br /> +Freely did I receive, freely I gave;<br /> +Baptising, or confirming, or ordaining,<br /> +I sold not things divine. Of mine own store<br /> +Ofttimes the hire of fifteen men I paid<br /> +For guard where bandits lurked. When prince or chief<br /> +Laid on God’s altar ring, or torque, or gold,<br /> +I sent them back. Too fortunate, too beloved,<br /> +I said, “Can he Apostle be who bears<br /> +Such scanty marks of Christ’s Apostolate,<br /> +Hunger, and thirst, and scorn of men?” For this,<br +/> +Those pains they spared I spared not to myself,<br /> +The body’s daily death. I make not boast:<br /> +What boast have I? If God His servant raised,<br /> +He knoweth—not ye—how oft I fell; how low;<br /> +How oft in faithless longings yearned my heart<br /> +For faces of His Saints in mine own land,<br /> +Remembered fields far off. This, too, He knoweth,<br /> +How perilous is the path of great attempts,<br /> +How oft pride meets us on the storm-vexed height,<br /> +Pride, or some sting its scourge. My hope is He:<br /> +His hand, my help so long, will loose me never:<br /> +And, thanks to God, the sheltering grave is near.</p> +<p class="poetry"> How still this eve! The +morn was racked with storm:<br /> +’Tis past; the skylark sings; the tide at flood<br /> +Sighs a soft joy: alone those lines of weed<br /> +Report the wrath foregone. Yon watery plain<br /> +Far shines, a mingled sea of glass and fire,<br /> +Even as that Beatific Sea outspread<br /> +Before the Throne of God. ’Tis Paschal +Tide;—<br /> +O sorrowful, O blissful Paschal Tide!<br /> +Fain would I die on Holy Saturday;<br /> +For then, as now, the storm is past—the woe;<br /> +And, somewhere ’mid the shades of Olivet<br /> +Lies sealed the sacred cave of that Repose<br /> +Watched by the Holy Women. Earth, that sing’st,<br /> +Since first He made thee, thy Creator’s praise,<br /> +Sing, sing, thy Saviour’s! Myriad-minded sea,<br /> +How that bright secret thrills thy rippling lips<br /> +Which shake, yet speak not! Thou that mad’st the +worlds,<br /> +Man, too, Thou mad’st; within Thy Hands the life<br /> +Of each was shapen, and new-wov’n ran out,<br /> +New-willed each moment. What makes up that life?<br /> +Love infinite, and nothing else save love!<br /> +Help ere need came, deliverance ere defeat;<br /> +At every step an angel to sustain us,<br /> +An angel to retrieve! My years are gone:<br /> +Sweet were they with a sweetness felt but half<br /> +Till now;—not half discerned. Those blessèd +years<br /> +I would re-live, deferring thus so long<br /> +The Vision of Thy Face, if thus with gaze<br /> +Cast backward I might <i>see</i> that guiding hand<br /> +Step after step, and kiss it.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Happy +isle!<br /> +Be true; for God hath graved on thee His Name:<br /> +God, with a wondrous ring, hath wedded thee;<br /> +God on a throne divine hath ’stablished thee:—<br /> +Light of a darkling world! Lamp of the North!<br /> +My race, my realm, my great inheritance,<br /> +To lesser nations leave inferior crowns;<br /> +Speak ye the thing that is; be just, be kind;<br /> +Live ye God’s Truth, and in its strength be free!</p> +<p class="poetry">This day to Him, the Faithful and the True,<br +/> +For Whom I toiled, my spirit I commend.<br /> +That which I am, He knoweth: I know not now:<br /> +But I shall know ere long. If I have loved Him<br /> +I seek but this for guerdon of my love<br /> +With holier love to love Him to the end:<br /> +If I have vanquished others to His love<br /> +Would God that this might be their meed and mine<br /> +In witness for His love to pour our blood<br /> +A glad stream forth, though vultures or wild beasts<br /> +Rent our unburied bones! Thou setting sun,<br /> +That sink’st to rise, that time shall come at last<br /> +When in thy splendours thou shalt rise no more;<br /> +And, darkening with the darkening of thy face,<br /> +Who worshipped thee with thee shall cease; but those<br /> +Who worshipped Christ shall shine with Christ abroad,<br /> +Eternal beam, and Sun of Righteousness,<br /> +In endless glory. For His sake alone<br /> +I, bondsman in this land, re-sought this land.<br /> +All ye who name my name in later times,<br /> +Say to this People, since vindictive rage<br /> +Tempts them too often, that their Patriarch gave<br /> +Pattern of pardon ere in words he preached<br /> +That God who pardons. Wrongs if they endure<br /> +In after years, with fire of pardoning love<br /> +Sin-slaying, bid them crown the head that erred:<br /> +For bread denied let them give Sacraments,<br /> +For darkness light, and for the House of Bondage<br /> +The glorious freedom of the sons of God:<br /> +This is my last Confession ere I die.</p> +<h2>NOTES.</h2> +<p><a name="footnote10a"></a><a href="#citation10a" +class="footnote">[10a]</a> Cotton MSS., Nero, E.’; +Codex Salisburiensis; and a MS. in the Monastery of St. +Vaast.</p> +<p><a name="footnote10b"></a><a href="#citation10b" +class="footnote">[10b]</a> The Book of Armagh, preserved at +Trinity College, Dublin, contains a Life of St. Patrick, with his +writings, and consists in chief part of a description of all the +books of the New Testament, including the Epistle of Paul to the +Laodiceans. Traces found here and there of the name of the +copyist and of the archbishop for whom the copy was made, fix its +date almost to a year as 807 or 811–812.</p> +<p><a name="footnote77"></a><a href="#citation77" +class="footnote">[77]</a> The Isle of Man.</p> +<p><a name="footnote101"></a><a href="#citation101" +class="footnote">[101]</a> Now Limerick.</p> +<p><a name="footnote111"></a><a href="#citation111" +class="footnote">[111]</a> Foynes.</p> +<p><a name="footnote116"></a><a href="#citation116" +class="footnote">[116]</a> The Giant’s Causeway.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 7165-h.htm or 7165-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/1/6/7165 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Legends of Saint Patrick + +Author: Aubrey de Vere + +Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7165] +[This file was first posted on March 18, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK *** + + + + +This etext was prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset. + + + + +THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK BY +AUBREY DE VERE, LL.D. + + + + +CONTENTS. + +INTRODUCTION BY HENRY MORLEY. + +SAINT PATRICK--FROM "ENGLISH WRITERS," BY HENRY MORLEY. + +PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR. + +POEMS:- +THE BAPTISM OF SAINT PATRICK. +THE DISBELIEF OF MILCHO. +SAINT PATRICK AT TARA. +SAINT PATRICK AND THE TWO PRINCESSES. +SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDREN OF FOCHLUT WOOD. +SAINT PATRICK AND KING LAEGHAIRE. +SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR. +SAINT PATRICK AT CASHEL. +SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDLESS MOTHER. +SAINT PATRICK AT THE FEAST OF KNOCK CAE. +SAINT PATRICK AND KING EOCHAID. +SAINT PATRICK AND THE FOUNDING OF ARMAGH CATHEDRAL. +THE ARRAIGNMENT OF SAINT PATRICK. +THE STRIVING OF SAINT PATRICK ON MOUNT CRUACHAN. +EPILOGUE. THE CONFESSION OF SAINT PATRICK. + + + +INTRODUCTION BY HENRY MORLEY. + +Once more our readers are indebted to a living poet for wide +circulation of a volume of delightful verse. The name of Aubrey de +Vere is the more pleasantly familiar because its association with +our highest literature has descended from father to son. In 1822, +sixty-seven years ago, Sir Aubrey de Vere, of Curragh Chase, by +Adare, in the county of Limerick--then thirty-four years old--first +made his mark with a dramatic poem upon "Julian the Apostate." In +1842 Sir Aubrey published Sonnets, which his friend Wordsworth +described as "the most perfect of our age;" and in the year of his +death he completed a dramatic poem upon "Mary Tudor," published in +the next year, 1847, with the "Lamentation of Ireland, and other +Poems." Sir Aubrey de Vere's "Mary Tudor" should be read by all who +have read Tennyson's play on the same subject. + +The gift of genius passed from Sir Aubrey to his third son, Aubrey +Thomas de Vere, who was born in 1814, and through a long life has +put into music only noble thoughts associated with the love of God +and man, and of his native land. His first work, published forty- +seven years ago, was a lyrical piece, in which he gave his sympathy +to devout and persecuted men whose ways of thought were not his own. +Aubrey de Vere's poems have been from time to time revised by +himself, and they were in 1884 finally collected into three volumes, +published by Messrs. Kegan Paul. Left free to choose from among +their various contents, I have taken this little book of "Legends of +St. Patrick," first published in 1872, but in so doing I have +unwillingly left many a piece that would please many a reader. + +They are not, however, inaccessible. Of the three volumes of +collected works, each may be had separately, and is complete in +itself. The first contains "The Search after Proserpine, and other +Poems--Classical and Meditative." The second contains the "Legends +of St. Patrick, and Legends of Ireland's Heroic Age," including a +version of the "Tain Bo." The third contains two plays, "Alexander +the Great," "St. Thomas of Canterbury," and other Poems. + +For the convenience of some readers, the following extract from the +second volume of my "English Writers," may serve as a prosaic +summary of what is actually known about St. Patrick. + H. M. + + + + +ST. PATRICK. + +FROM "ENGLISH WRITERS." + +The birth of St. Patrick, Apostle and Saint of Ireland, has been +generally placed in the latter half of the fourth century; and he is +said to have died at the age of a hundred and twenty. As he died in +the year 493--and we may admit that he was then a very old man--if +we may say that he reached the age of eighty-eight, we place his +birth in the year 405. We may reasonably believe, therefore, that +he was born in the early part of the fifth century. His birthplace, +now known as Kilpatrick, was at the junction of the Levin with the +Clyde, in what is now the county of Dumbarton. His baptismal name +was Succath. His father was Calphurnius, a deacon, son of Potitus, +who was a priest. His mother's name was Conchessa, whose family may +have belonged to Gaul, and who may thus have been, as it is said she +was, of the kindred of St. Martin of Tours; for there is a tradition +that she was with Calphurnius as a slave before he married her. +Since Eusebius spoke of three bishops from Britain at the Council of +Arles, Succath, known afterwards in missionary life by his name in +religion, Patricius (pater civium), might very reasonably be a +deacon's son. + +In his early years Succath was at home by the Clyde, and he speaks +of himself as not having been obedient to the teaching of the +clergy. When he was sixteen years old he, with two of his sisters +and other of his countrymen, was seized by a band of Irish pirates +that made descent on the shore of the Clyde and carried him off to +slavery. His sisters were taken to another part of the island, and +he was sold to Milcho MacCuboin in the north, whom he served for six +or seven years, so learning to speak the language of the country, +while keeping his master's sheep by the Mountain of Slieve Miss. +Thoughts of home and of its Christian life made the youth feel the +heathenism that was about him; his exile seemed to him a punishment +for boyish indifference; and during the years when young enthusiasm +looks out upon life with new sense of a man's power--growing for +man's work that is to do--Succath became filled with religious zeal. + +Three Latin pieces are ascribed to St. Patrick: a "Confession," +which is in the Book of Armagh, and in three other manuscripts; +{10a} a letter to Coroticus, and a few "Dieta Patricii," which are +also in the Book of Armagh. {10b} There is no strong reason for +questioning the authenticity of the "Confession," which is in +unpolished Latin, the writer calling himself "indoctus, +rusticissimus, imperitus," and it is full of a deep religious +feeling. It is concerned rather with the inner than the outer life, +but includes references to the early days of trial by which +Succath's whole heart was turned to God. He says, "After I came +into Ireland I pastured sheep daily, and prayed many times a day. +The love and fear of God, and faith and spirit, wrought in me more +and more, so that in one day I reached to a hundred prayers, and in +the night almost as many, and stayed in the woods and on the +mountains, and was urged to prayer before the dawn, in snow, in +frost, in rain, and took no harm, nor, I think, was there any sloth +in me. And there one night I heard a voice in a dream saying to me, +'Thou hast well fasted; thou shalt go back soon to thine own land;' +and again after a little while, 'Behold! thy ship is ready.'" In +all this there is the passionate longing of an ardent mind for home +and Heaven. + +At the age of twenty-two Succath fled from his slavery to a vessel +of which the master first refused and finally consented to take him +on board. He and the sailors were then cast by a storm upon a +desert shore of Britain, possibly upon some region laid waste by +ravages from over sea. Having at last made his way back, by a sea +passage, to his home on the Clyde, Succath was after a time captured +again, but remained captive only for two months, and went back home. +Then the zeal for his Master's service made him feel like the +Seafarer in the Anglo-Saxon poem; and all the traditions of his home +would have accorded with the rise of the resolve to cross the sea, +and to spread Christ's teaching in what had been the land of his +captivity. + +There were already centres of Christian work in Ireland, where +devoted men were labouring and drew a few into their fellowship. +Succath aimed at the gathering of all these scattered forces, by a +movement that should carry with it the whole people. He first +prepared himself by giving about four years to study of the +Scriptures at Auxerre, under Germanus, and then went to Rome, under +the conduct of a priest, Segetius, and probably with letters from +Germanus to Pope Celestine. Whether he received his orders from the +Pope seems doubtful; but the evidence is strong that Celestine sent +him on his Irish mission. Succath left Rome, passed through North +Italy and Gaul, till he met on his way two followers of Palladius, +Augustinus and Benedictus, who told him of their master's failure, +and of his death at Fordun. Succath then obtained consecration from +Amathus, a neighbouring bishop, and as Patricius, went straight to +Ireland. He landed near the town of Wicklow, by the estuary of the +River Varty, which had been the landing-place of Palladius. In that +region he was, like Palladius, opposed; but he made some +conversions, and advanced with his work northward that he might +reach the home of his old master, Milcho, and pay him the purchase- +money of his stolen freedom. But Milcho, it is said, burnt himself +and his goods rather than bear the shame of submission to the +growing power of his former slave. + +St. Patrick addressed the ruling classes, who could bring with them +their followers, and he joined tact with his zeal; respecting +ancient prejudices, opposing nothing that was not directly hostile +to the spirit of Christianity, and handling skilfully the chiefs +with whom he had to deal. An early convert--Dichu MacTrighim--was a +chief with influential connections, who gave the ground for the +religious house now known as Saul. This chief satisfied so well the +inquiries of Laeghaire, son of Niall, King of Erin, concerning the +stranger's movements, that St. Patrick took ship for the mouth of +the Boyne, and made his way straight to the king himself. The +result of his energy was that he met successfully all the opposition +of those who were concerned in the maintenance of old heathen +worship, and brought King Laeghaire to his side. + +Then Laeghaire resolved that the old laws of the country as +established by the judges, whose order was named Brehon, should be +revised, and brought into accord with the new teaching. So the +Brehon laws of Ireland were revised, with St. Patrick's assistance, +and there were no ancient customs broken or altered, except those +that could not be harmonised with Christian teaching. The good +sense of St. Patrick enabled this great work to be done without +offence to the people. The collection of laws thus made by the +chief lawyers of the time, with the assistance of St. Patrick, is +known as the "Senchus Mor," and, says an old poem - + + "Laeghaire, Corc Dairi, the brave; + Patrick, Beuen, Cairnech, the just; + Rossa, Dubtach, Fergus, the wise; + These are the nine pillars of the Senchus Mor." + +This body of laws, traditions, and treatises on law is found in no +manuscript of a date earlier than the fourteenth century. It +includes, therefore, much that is of later date than the fifth +century. + +St. Patrick's greatest energies are said to have been put forth in +Ulster and Leinster. Among the churches or religious communities +founded by him in Ulster was that of Armagh. If he was born about +the year 405, when he was carried to Ireland as a prisoner at the +age of sixteen the date would have been 421. His age would have +been twenty-two when he escaped, after six or seven years of +captivity, and the date 427. A year at home, and four years with +Germanus at Auxerre, would bring him to the age of twenty-seven, and +the year 432, when he began his great endeavour to put Christianity +into the main body of the Irish people. That work filled all the +rest of his life, which was long. If we accept the statement, in +which all the old records agree, that the time of Patrick's labour +in Ireland was not less than sixty years; sixty years bring him to +the age of eighty-eight in the year 493. And in that year he died. + +The "Letter to Coroticus," ascribed to St. Patrick, is addressed to +a petty king of Brittany who persecuted Christians, and was meant +for the encouragement of Christian soldiers who served under him. +It may, probably, be regarded as authentic. The mass of legend +woven into the life of the great missionary lies outside this piece +and the "Confession." The "Confession" only expresses heights and +depths of religious feeling haunted by impressions and dreams, +through which, to the fervid nature out of which they sprang heaven +seemed to speak. St. Patrick did not attack heresies among the +Christians; he preached to those who were not Christians the +Christian faith and practice. His great influence was not that of a +writer, but of a speaker. He must have been an orator, profoundly +earnest, who could put his soul into his voice; and, when his words +bred deeds, conquered all difficulties in the way of action with +right feeling and good sense. + HENRY MORLEY. + + + + + TO THE MEMORY + OF + WORDSWORTH. + + + +AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO "THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK." + +The ancient records of Ireland abound in legends respecting the +greatest man and the greatest benefactor that ever trod her soil; +and of these the earlier are at once the more authentic and the +nobler. Not a few have a character of the sublime; many are +pathetic; some have a profound meaning under a strange disguise; but +their predominant character is their brightness and gladsomeness. A +large tract of Irish history is dark: but the time of Saint +Patrick, and the three centuries which succeeded it, were her time +of joy. That chronicle is a song of gratitude and hope, as befits +the story of a nation's conversion to Christianity, and in it the +bird and the brook blend their carols with those of angels and of +men. It was otherwise with the later legends connecting Ossian with +Saint Patrick. A poet once remarked, while studying the frescoes of +Michael Angelo in the Sistine Chapel, that the Sibyls are always +sad, while the Prophets alternated with them are joyous. In the +legends of the Patrician Cycle the chief-loving old Bard is ever +mournful, for his face is turned to the past glories of his country; +while the Saint is always bright, because his eyes are set on to the +glory that has no end. + +These legends are to be found chiefly in several very ancient lives +of Saint Patrick, the most valuable of which is the "Tripartite +Life," ascribed by Colgan to the century after the Saint's death, +though it has not escaped later interpolations. The work was long +lost, but two copies of it were re-discovered, one of which has been +recently translated by that eminent Irish scholar, Mr. Hennessy. +Whether regarded from the religious or the philosophic point of +view, few things can be more instructive than the picture which it +delineates of human nature at a period of critical transition, and +the dawning of the Religion of Peace upon a race barbaric, but far +indeed from savage. That wild race regarded it doubtless as a +notable cruelty when the new Faith discouraged an amusement so +popular as battle; but in many respects they were in sympathy with +that Faith. It was one in which the nobler affections, as well as +the passions, retained an unblunted ardour; and where Nature is +strongest and least corrupted it most feels the need of something +higher than itself, its interpreter and its supplement. It prized +the family ties, like the Germans recorded by Tacitus; and it could +not but have been drawn to Christianity, which consecrated them. +Its morals were pure, and it had not lost that simplicity to which +so much of spiritual insight belongs. Admiration and wonder were +among its chief habits; and it would not have been repelled by +Mysteries in what professed to belong to the Infinite. Lawless as +it was, it abounded also in loyalty, generosity, and self-sacrifice; +it was not, therefore, untouched by the records of martyrs, examples +of self-sacrifice, or the doctrine of a great Sacrifice. It loved +children and the poor; and Christianity made the former the +exemplars of faith, and the latter the eminent inheritors of the +Kingdom. On the other hand, all the vices of the race ranged +themselves against the new religion. + +In the main the institutions and traditions of Ireland were +favourable to Christianity. She had preserved in a large measure +the patriarchal system of the East. Her clans were families, and +her chiefs were patriarchs who led their households to battle, and +seized or recovered the spoil. To such a people the Christian +Church announced herself as a great family--the family of man. Her +genealogies went up to the first parent, and her rule was parental +rule. The kingdom of Christ was the household of Christ; and its +children in all lands formed the tribes of a larger Israel. Its +laws were living traditions; and for traditions the Irish had ever +retained the Eastern reverence. + +In the Druids no formidable enemy was found; it was the Bards who +wielded the predominant social influence. As in Greece, where the +sacerdotal power was small, the Bards were the priests of the +national Imagination, and round them all moral influences had +gathered themselves. They were jealous of their rivals; but those +rivals won them by degrees. Secknall and Fiacc were Christian +Bards, trained by St. Patrick, who is said to have also brought a +bard with him from Italy. The beautiful legend in which the Saint +loosened the tongue of the dumb child was an apt emblem of +Christianity imparting to the Irish race the highest use of its +natural faculties. The Christian clergy turned to account the Irish +traditions, as they had made use of the Pagan temples, purifying +them first. The Christian religion looked with a genuine kindness +on whatever was human, except so far as the stain was on it; and +while it resisted to the face what was unchristian in spirit, it +also, in the Apostolic sense, "made itself all things to all men." +As legislator, Saint Patrick waged no needless war against the +ancient laws of Ireland. He purified them, and he amplified them, +discarding only what was unfit for a nation made Christian. Thus +was produced the great "Book of the Law," or "Senchus Mohr," +compiled A.D. 439. + +The Irish received the Gospel gladly. The great and the learned, in +other nations the last to believe, among them commonly set the +example. With the natural disposition of the race an appropriate +culture had concurred. It was one which at least did not fail to +develop the imagination, the affections, and a great part of the +moral being, and which thus indirectly prepared ardent natures, and +not less the heroic than the tender, to seek their rest in spiritual +things, rather than in material or conventional. That culture, +without removing the barbaric, had blended it with the refined. It +had created among the people an appreciation of the beautiful, the +pathetic, and the pure. The early Irish chronicles, as well as +songs, show how strong among them that sentiment had ever been. The +Borromean Tribute, for so many ages the source of relentless wars, +had been imposed in vengeance for an insult offered to a woman; and +a discourtesy shown to a poet had overthrown an ancient dynasty. +The education of an Ollambh occupied twelve years; and in the third +century, the time of Oiseen and Fionn, the military rules of the +Feine included provisions which the chivalry of later ages might +have been proud of. It was a wild, but not wholly an ungentle time. +An unprovoked affront was regarded as a grave moral offence; and +severe punishments were ordained, not only for detraction, but for a +word, though uttered in jest, which brought a blush on the cheek of +a listener. Yet an injury a hundred years old could meet no +forgiveness, and the life of man was war! It was not that laws were +wanting; a code, minute in its justice, had proportioned a penalty +to every offence, and specified the Eric which was to wipe out the +bloodstain in case the injured party renounced his claim to right +his own wrong. It was not that hearts were hard--there was at least +as much pity for others as for self. It was that anger was +implacable, and that where fear was unknown, the war field was what +among us the hunting field is. + +The rapid growth of learning as well as piety in the three centuries +succeeding the conversion of Ireland, prove that the country had not +been till then without a preparation for the gift. It had been the +special skill of Saint Patrick to build the good which was lacked +upon that which existed. Even the material arts of Ireland he had +pressed into the service of the Faith; and Irish craftsmen had +assisted him, not only in the building of his churches, but in +casting his church bells, and in the adornment of his chalices, +crosiers, and ecclesiastical vestments. Once elevated by +Christianity, Ireland's early civilisation was a memorable thing. +It sheltered a high virtue at home, and evangelised a great part of +Northern Europe; and amidst many confusions it held its own till the +true time of barbarism had set in--those two disastrous centuries +when the Danish invasions trod down the sanctuaries, dispersed the +libraries, and laid waste the colleges to which distant kings had +sent their sons. + +Perhaps nothing human had so large an influence in the conversion of +the Irish as the personal character of her Apostle. Where others, +as Palladius, had failed, he succeeded. By nature, by grace, and by +providential training, he had been specially fitted for his task. +We can still see plainly even the finer traits of that character, +while the land of his birth is a matter of dispute, and of his early +history we know little, except that he was of noble birth, that he +was carried to Ireland by pirates at the age of sixteen, and that +after five years of bondage he escaped thence, to return A.D. 432, +when about forty-five years old; belonging thus to that great age of +the Church which was made illustrious by the most eminent of its +Fathers, and tasked by the most critical of its trials. In him a +great character had been built on the foundations of a devout +childhood, and of a youth ennobled by adversity. Everywhere we +trace the might and the sweetness which belonged to it, the +versatile mind yet the simple heart, the varying tact yet the fixed +resolve, the large design taking counsel for all, yet the minute +solicitude for each, the fiery zeal yet the genial temper, the skill +in using means yet the reliance on God alone, the readiness in +action with the willingness to wait, the habitual self-possession +yet the outbursts of an inspiration which raised him above himself, +the abiding consciousness of authority--an authority in him, but not +of him--and yet the ever-present humility. Above all, there burned +in him that boundless love, which seems the main constituent of the +Apostolic character. It was love for God; but it was love for man +also, an impassioned love, and a parental compassion. It was not +for the spiritual weal alone of man that he thirsted. Wrong and +injustice to the poor he resented as an injury to God. His vehement +love for the poor is illustrated by his "Epistle to Coroticus," +reproaching him with his cruelty, as well as by his denunciations of +slavery, which piracy had introduced into parts of Ireland. No +wonder that such a character should have exercised a talismanic +power over the ardent and sensitive race among whom he laboured, a +race "easy to be drawn, but impossible to be driven," and drawn more +by sympathy than even by benefits. That character can only be +understood by one who studies, and in a right spirit, that account +of his life which he bequeathed to us shortly before its close--the +"Confession of Saint Patrick." The last poem in this series +embodies its most characteristic portions, including the visions +which it records. + +The "Tripartite Life" thus ends: --"After these great miracles, +therefore, after resuscitating the dead, after healing lepers, and +the blind, and the deaf, and the lame, and all diseases; after +ordaining bishops, and priests, and deacons, and people of all +orders in the Church; after teaching the men of Erin, and after +baptising them; after founding churches and monasteries; after +destroying idols and images and Druidical arts, the hour of death of +Saint Patrick approached. He received the body of Christ from the +Bishop Tassach, according to the counsel of the Angel Victor. He +resigned his spirit afterwards to Heaven, in the one hundred and +twentieth year of his age. His body is still here in the earth, +with honour and reverence. Though great his honour here, greater +honour will be to him in the Day of Judgment, when judgment will be +given on the fruit of his teaching, as of every great Apostle, in +the union of the Apostles and Disciples of Jesus; in the union of +the Nine Orders of Angels, which cannot be surpassed; in the union +of the Divinity and Humanity of the Son of God; in the union, which +is higher than all unions, of the Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and +Holy Ghost." + A. DE VERE. + + + +THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK. + + + +THE BAPTISM OF ST. PATRICK. + +"How can the babe baptised be + Where font is none and water none?" +Thus wept the nurse on bended knee, + And swayed the Infant in the sun. + +"The blind priest took that Infant's hand: + With that small hand, above the ground +He signed the Cross. At God's command + A fountain rose with brimming bound. + +"In that pure wave from Adam's sin + The blind priest cleansed the Babe with awe; +Then, reverently, he washed therein + His old, unseeing face, and saw! + +"He saw the earth; he saw the skies, + And that all-wondrous Child decreed +A pagan nation to baptise, + To give the Gentiles light indeed." + +Thus Secknall sang. Far off and nigh + The clansmen shouted loud and long; +While every mother tossed more high + Her babe, and glorying joined the song. + + + +THE DISBELIEF OF MILCHO, +OR, SAINT PATRICK'S ONE FAILURE. + +ARGUMENT. + +Fame of St. Patrick goes ever before him, and men of + goodwill believe gladly; but Milcho, a mighty merchant, + and one given wholly to pride and greed, wills to + disbelieve. St. Patrick sends him greeting and gifts; + but he, discovering that the prophet welcomed by all + had once been his slave, hates him the more. + Notwithstanding, he fears that when that prophet + arrives, he, too, may be forced to believe, though + against his will. He resolves to set fire to his + castle and all his wealth, and make new fortunes in far + lands. The doom of Milcho, who willed to disbelieve. + +When now at Imber Dea that precious bark +Freighted with Erin's future, touched the sands +Just where a river, through a woody vale +Curving, with duskier current clave the sea, +Patrick, the Island's great inheritor, +His perilous voyage past, stept forth and knelt +And blessed his God. The peace of those green meads +Cradled 'twixt purple hills and purple deep, +Seemed as the peace of heaven. The sun had set; +But still those summits twinned, the "Golden Spears," +Laughed with his latest beam. The hours went by: +The brethren paced the shore or musing sat, +But still their Patriarch knelt and still gave thanks +For all the marvellous chances of his life +Since those his earlier years when, slave new-trapped, +He comforted on hills of Dalaraide +His hungry heart with God, and, cleansed by pain, +In exile found the spirit's native land. +Eve deepened into night, and still he prayed: +The clear cold stars had crowned the azure vault; +And, risen at midnight from dark seas, the moon +Had quenched those stars, yet Patrick still prayed on: +Till from the river murmuring in the vale, +Far off, and from the morning airs close by +That shook the alders by the river's mouth, +And from his own deep heart a voice there came, +"Ere yet thou fling'st God's bounty on this land +There is a debt to cancel. Where is he, +Thy five years' lord that scourged thee for his swine? +Alas that wintry face! Alas that heart +Joyless since earliest youth! To him reveal it! +To him declare that God who Man became +To raise man's fall'n estate, as though a man, +All faculties of man unmerged, undimmed, +Had changed to worm and died the prey of worms, +That so the mole might see!" + + Thus Patrick mused +Not ignorant that from low beginnings rise +Oftenest the works of greatness; yet of this +Unweeting, that his failure, one and sole +Through all his more than mortal course, even now +Before that low beginning's threshold lay, +Betwixt it and that Promised Land beyond +A bar of scandal stretched. Not otherwise +Might whatsoe'er was mortal in his strength +Dying, put on the immortal. + + With the morn +Deep sleep descended on him. Waking soon, +He rose a man of might, and in that might +Laboured; and God His servant's toil revered; +And gladly on that coast Erin to Christ +Paid her firstfruits. Three days he preached his Lord: +The fourth embarking, cape succeeding cape +They passed, and heard the lowing herds remote +In hollow glens, and smelt the balmy breath +Of gorse on golden hillsides; till at eve, +The Imber Domnand reached, on silver sands +Grated their keel. Around them flocked at dawn +Warriors with hunters mixed, and shepherd youths +And maids with lips as red as mountain berries +And eyes like sloes, or keener eyes, dark-fringed +And gleaming like the blue-black spear. They came +With milk-pail, and with kid, and kindled fire +And spread the genial board. Upon that shore +Full many knelt and gave themselves to Christ, +Strong men, and men at midmost of their hopes +By sickness felled; old chiefs, at life's dim close +That oft had asked, "Beyond the grave what hope?" +Worn sailors weary of the toilsome seas, +And craving rest; they, too, that sex which wears +The blended crowns of Chastity and Love; +Wondering, they hailed the Maiden-Motherhood; +And listening children praised the Babe Divine, +And passed Him, each to each. + + Ere long, once more +Their sails were spread. Again by grassy marge +They rowed, and sylvan glades. The branching deer +Like flying gleams went by them. Oft the cry +Of fighting clans rang out: but oftener yet +Clamour of rural dance, or mart confused +With many-coloured garb and movements swift, +Pageant sun-bright: or on the sands a throng +Girdled with circle glad some bard whose song +Shook the wild clan as tempest shakes the woods. +Still north the wanderers sailed: at evening, mists +Cumbered the shore and on them leaned the blast, +And fierce rain flashed mingling with dim-lit sea. +All night they toiled; next day at noon they kenned +A seaward stream that shone like golden tress +Severed and random-thrown. That river's mouth +Ere long attained was all with lilies white +As April field with daisies. Entering there +They reached a wood, and disembarked with joy: +There, after thanks to God, silent they sat +In thought, and watched the ripples, dusk yet bright, +That lived and died like things that laughed at time, +On gliding 'neath those many-centuried boughs. +But, midmost, Patrick slept. Then through the trees, +Shy as a fawn half-tamed now stole, now fled +A boy of such bright aspect faery child +He seemed, or babe exposed of royal race: +At last assured beside the Saint he stood, +And dropped on him a flower, and disappeared: +Thus flower on flower from the great wood he brought +And hid them in the bosom of the Saint. +The monks forbade him, saying, "Lest thou wake +The master from his sleep." But Patrick woke, +And saw the boy, and said, "Forbid him not; +The heir of all my kingdom is this child." +Then spake the brethren, "Wilt thou walk with us?" +And he, "I will:" and so for his sweet face +They called his name Benignus: and the boy +Thenceforth was Christ's. Beneath his parent's roof +At night they housed. Nowhere that child would sleep +Except at Patrick's feet. Till Patrick's death +Unchanged to him he clave, and after reigned +The second at Ardmacha. + + Day by day +They held their course; ere long the hills of Mourne +Loomed through sea-mist: Ulidian summits next +Before them rose: but nearer at their left +Inland with westward channel wound the wave +Changed to sea-lake. Nine miles with chant and hymn +They tracked the gold path of the sinking sun; +Then southward ran 'twixt headland and green isle +And landed. Dewy pastures sunset-dazed, +At leisure paced by mild-eyed milk-white kine +Smiled them a welcome. Onward moved in sight +Swiftly, with shadow far before him cast, +Dichu, that region's lord, a martial man +And merry, and a speaker of the truth. +Pirates he deemed them first and toward them faced +With wolf-hounds twain that watched their master's eye +To spring, or not to spring. The imperious face +Forbidding not, they sprang; but Patrick raised +His hand, and stone-like crouched they chained and still: +Then, Dichu onward striding fierce, the Saint +Between them signed the Cross; and lo, the sword +Froze in his hand, and Dichu stood like stone. +The amazement past, he prayed the man of God +To grace his house; and, side by side, a mile +They clomb the hills. Ascending, Patrick turned, +His heart with prescience filled. Beneath, there lay +A gleaming strait; beyond, a dim vast plain +With many an inlet pierced: a golden marge +Girdled the water-tongues with flag and reed; +But, farther off, a gentle sea-mist changed +The fair green flats to purple. "Night comes on;" +Thus Dichu spake, and waited. Patrick then +Advanced once more, and Sabhall soon was reached, +A castle half, half barn. There garnered lay +Much grain, and sun-imbrowned: and Patrick said, +"Here where the earthly grain was stored for man +The bread of angels man shall eat one day." +And Patrick loved that place, and Patrick said, +"King Dichu, give thou to the poor that grain, +To Christ, our Lord, thy barn." The strong man stood +In doubt; but prayers of little orphaned babes +Reared by his hand, went up for him that hour: +Therefore that barn he ceded, and to Christ +By Patrick was baptised. Where lay the corn +A convent later rose. There dwelt he oft; +And 'neath its roof more late the stranger sat, +Exile, or kingdom-wearied king, or bard, +That haply blind in age, yet tempest-rocked +By memories of departed glories, drew +With gradual influx into his old heart +Solace of Christian hope. + + With Dichu bode +Patrick somewhile, intent from him to learn +The inmost of that people. Oft they spake +Of Milcho. "Once his thrall, against my will +In earthly things I served him: for his soul +Needs therefore must I labour. Hard was he; +Unlike those hearts to which God's Truth makes way +Like message from a mother in her grave: +Yet what I can I must. Not heaven itself +Can force belief; for Faith is still good will." +Dichu laughed aloud: "Good will! Milcho's good will +Neither to others, nor himself, good will +Hath Milcho! Fireless sits he, winter through, +The logs beside his hearth: and as on them +Glimmers the rime, so glimmers on his face +The smile. Convert him! Better thrice to hang him! +Baptise him! He will film your font with ice! +The cold of Milcho's heart has winter-nipt +That glen he dwells in! From the sea it slopes +Unfinished, savage, like some nightmare dream, +Raked by an endless east wind of its own. +On wolf's milk was he suckled not on woman's! +To Milcho speed! Of Milcho claim belief! +Milcho will shrivel his small eye and say +He scorns to trust himself his father's son, +Nor deems his lands his own by right of race +But clutched by stress of brain! Old Milcho's God +Is gold. Forbear him, sir, or ere you seek him +Make smooth your way with gold." + + Thus Dichu spake; +And Patrick, after musings long, replied: +"Faith is no gift that gold begets or feeds, +Oftener by gold extinguished. Unto God, +Unbribed, unpurchased, yearns the soul of man; +Yet finds perforce in God its great reward. +Not less this Milcho deems I did him wrong, +His slave, yet fleeing. To requite that loss +Gifts will I send him first by messengers +Ere yet I see his face." + + Then Patrick sent +His messengers to Milcho, speaking thus: +"If ill befell thy herds through flight of mine +Fourfold that loss requite I, lest, for hate +Of me, thou disesteem my Master's Word. +Likewise I sue thy friendship; and I come +In few days' space, with gift of other gold +Than earth concedes, the Tidings of that God +Who made all worlds, and late His Face hath shown, +Sun-like to man. But thou, rejoice in hope!" + + +Thus Patrick, once by man advised in part, +Though wont to counsel with his God alone. + + +Meantime full many a rumour vague had vexed +Milcho much musing. He had dealings large +And distant. Died a chief? He sent and bought +The widow's all; or sold on foodless shores +For usury the leanest of his kine. +Meantime, his dark ships and the populous quays +With news still murmured. First from Imber Dea +Came whispers how a sage had landed late, +And how when Nathi fain had barred his way, +Nathi that spurned Palladius from the land, +That sage with levelled eyes, and kingly front +Had from his presence driven him with a ban +Cur-like and craven; how on bended knee +Sinell believed, the royal man well-loved +Descending from the judgment-seat with joy: +And how when fishers spurned his brethren's quest +For needful food, that sage had raised his rod, +And all the silver harvest of blue streams +Lay black in nets and sand. His wrinkled brow +Wrinkling yet more, thus Milcho answer made: +"Deceived are those that will to be deceived: +This knave has heard of gold in river-beds, +And comes a deft sand-groper; let him come! +He'll toil ten years ere gold enough he finds +To make a crooked torque." + + From Tara next +The news: "Laeghaire, the King, sits close in cloud +Of sullen thought, or storms from court to court, +Because the chiefest of the Druid race +Locru, and Luchat prophesied long since +That one day from the sea a Priest would come +With Doctrine and a Rite, and dash to earth +Idols, and hurl great monarchs from their thrones; +And lo! At Imber Boindi late there stept +A priest from roaring waves with Creed and Rite, +And men before him bow." Then Milcho spake: +"Not flesh enough from thy strong bones, Laeghaire, +These Druids, ravens of the woods, have plucked, +But they must pluck thine eyes! Ah priestly race, +I loathe ye! 'Twixt the people and their King +Ever ye rub a sore!" Last came a voice: +"This day in Eire thy saying is fulfilled, +Conn of the 'Hundred Battles,' from thy throne +Leaping long since, and crying, 'O'er the sea +The Prophet cometh, princes in his train, +Bearing for regal sceptres bended staffs, +Which from the land's high places, cliff and peak, +Shall drag the fair flowers down!'" Scoffing he heard: +"Conn of the 'Hundred Battles!' Had he sent +His hundred thousand kernes to yonder steep +And rolled its boulders down, and built a mole +To fence my laden ships from spring-tide surge, +Far kinglier pattern had he shown, and given +More solace to the land." + + He rose and turned +With sideway leer; and printing with vague step +Irregular the shining sands, on strode +Toward his cold home, alone; and saw by chance +A little bird light-perched, that, being sick, +Plucked from the fissured sea-cliff grains of sand; +And, noting, said, "O bird, when beak of thine +From base to crown hath gorged this huge sea-wall, +Then shall that man of Creed and Rite make null +The strong rock of my will!" Thus Milcho spake, +Feigning the peace not his. + + Next day it chanced +Women he heard in converse. Thus the first: +"If true the news, good speed for him, my boy! +Poor slaves by Milcho scourged on earth shall wear +In heaven a monarch's crown! Good speed for her +His little sister, not reserved like us +To bend beneath these loads." To whom her mate: +"Doubt not the Prophet's tidings! Not in vain +The Power Unknown hath shaped us! Come He must, +Or send, and help His people on their way. +Good is He, or He ne'er had made these babes!" +They passed, and Milcho said, "Through hate of me +All men believe!" And straightway Milcho's face +Grew bleaker than that crab-tree stem forlorn +That hid him, wanner than that sea-sand wet +That whitened round his foot down-pressed. + + Time passed. +One morn in bitter mockery Milcho mused: +"What better laughter than when thief from thief +Pilfers the pilfered goods? Our Druid thief +Two thousand years hath milked and shorn this land; +Now comes the thief outlandish that with him +Would share milk-pail and fleece! O Bacrach old, +To hear thee shout 'Impostor!'" Straight he went +To Bacrach's cell hid in a skirt wind-shav'n +Of low-grown wood, and met, departing thence, +Three sailors sea-tanned from a ship late-beached. +Within a corner huddled, on the floor, +The Druid sat, cowering, and cold, and mazed: +Sudden he rose, and cried, by conquering joy +Clothed as with youth restored: "The God Unknown, +That God who made the earth, hath walked the earth! +This hour His Prophet treads the isle! Three men +Have seen him; and their speech is true. To them +That Prophet spake: 'Four hundred years ago, +Sinless God's Son on earth for sinners died: +Black grew the world, and graves gave up their dead.' +Thus spake the Seer. Four hundred years ago! +Mark well the time! Of Ulster's Druid race +What man but yearly, those four hundred years, +Trembled that tale recounting which with this +Tallies as footprint with the foot of man? +Four hundred years ago--that self-same day - +Connor, the son of Nessa, Ulster's King, +Sat throned, and judged his people. As he sat, +Under clear skies, behold, o'er all the earth +Swept a great shadow from the windless east; +And darkness hung upon the air three hours; +Dead fell the birds, and beasts astonied fled. +Then to his Chief of Druids, Connor spake +Whispering; and he, his oracles explored, +Shivering made answer, 'From a land accursed, +O King, that shadow sweeps; therein, this hour, +By sinful men sinless God's Son is slain.' +Then Ulster's king, down-dashing sceptre and crown, +Rose, clamouring, 'Sinless! shall the sinless die?' +And madness fell on him; and down that steep +He rushed whereon the Emanian Palace stood, +And reached the grove, Lambraidhe, with two swords, +The sword of battle, and the sword of state, +And hewed and hewed, crying, 'Were I but there +Thus they should fall who slay that Sinless One;' +And in that madness died. Old Erin's sons +Beheld this thing; nor ever in the land +Hath ceased the rumour, nor the tear for him +Who, wroth at justice trampled, martyr died. +And now we know that not for any dream +He died, but for the truth: and whensoe'er +The Prophet of that Son of God who died +Sinless for sinners, standeth in this place, +I, Bacrach, oldest Druid in this Isle, +Will rise the first, and kiss his vesture's hem." + +He spake; and Milcho heard, and without speech +Departed from that house. + + A later day +When the wild March sunset, gone almost ere come, +By glacial shower was hustled out of life, +Under a blighted ash tree, near his house, +Thus mused the man: "Believe, or Disbelieve! +The will does both; Then idiot who would be +For profitless belief to sell himself? +Yet disbelief not less might work our bane! +For, I remember, once a sickly slave +Ill shepherded my flock: I spake him plain; +'When next, through fault of thine, the midnight wolf +Worries my sheep, on yonder tree you hang:' +The blear-eyed idiot looked into my face, +And smiled his disbelief. On that day week +Two lambs lay dead. I hanged him on a tree. +What tree? this tree! Why, this is passing strange! +For, three nights since, I saw him in a dream: +Weakling as wont he stood beside my bed, +And, clutching at his wrenched and livid throat, +Spake thus, 'Belief is safest.'" + + Ceased the hail +To rattle on the ever barren boughs, +And friendlier sound was heard. Beside his door +Wayworn the messengers of Patrick stood, +And showed the gifts, and held his missive forth. +Then learned that lost one all the truth. That sage +Confessed by miracles, that prophet vouched +By warnings old, that seer by words of might +Subduing all things to himself--that priest, +None other was than the uncomplaining boy +Five years his slave and swineherd! In him rage +Burst forth, with fear commixed, as when a beast +Strains in the toils. "Can I alone stand firm?" +He mused; and next, "Shall I, in mine old age, +Byword become--the vassal of my slave? +Shall I not rather drive him from my door +With wolf hounds and a curse?" As thus he stood +He marked the gifts, and bade men bare them in, +And homeward signed the messengers unfed. + +But Milcho slept not all that night for thought, +And, forth ere sunrise issuing, paced a moor +Stone-roughened like the graveyard of dead hosts, +Till noontide. Sudden then he stopt, and thus +Discoursed within: "A plot from first to last, +The fraudulent bondage, flight, and late return; +For now I mind me of a foolish dream +Chance-sent, yet drawn by him awry. One night +Methought that boy from far hills drenched in rain +Dashed through my halls, all fire. From hands and head, +From hair and mouth, forth rushed a flaming fire +White, like white light, and still that mighty flame +Into itself took all. With hands outstretched +I spurned it. On my cradled daughters twain +It turned, and they were ashes. Then in burst +The south wind through the portals of the house, +Tempest rose-sweet, and blew those ashes forth +Wide as the realm. At dawn I sought the knave; +He glossed my vision thus: 'That fire is Faith - +Faith in the God Triune, the God made Man, +Sole light wherein I walk, and walking burn; +And they that walk with me shall burn like me +By Faith. But thou that radiance wilt repel, +Housed through ill-will, in Error's endless night. +Not less thy little daughters shall believe +With glory and great joy; and, when they die, +Report of them, like ashes blown abroad, +Shall light far lands, and health to men of Faith +Stream from their dust.' I drave the impostor forth: +Perjured ere long he fled, and now returns +To reap a harvest from his master's dream" - +Thus mused he, while black shadow swept the moor. + So day by day darker was Milcho's heart, +Till, with the endless brooding on one thought, +Began a little flaw within that brain +Whose strength was still his boast. Was no friend nigh? +Alas! what friend had he? All men he scorned; +Knew truly none. In each, the best and sweetest +Near him had ever pined, like stunted growth +Dwarfed by some glacier nigh. The fifth day dawned: +And inly thus he muttered, darkly pale: +"Five days; in three the messengers returned: +In three--in two--the Accursed will be here, +Or blacken yonder Sleemish with his crew +Descending. Then those idiots, kerne and slave - +The mighty flame into itself takes all - +Full swarm will fly to meet him! Fool! fool! fool! +The man hath snared me with those gifts he sent; +Else had I barred the mountains: now 'twere late, +My people in revolt. Whole weeks his horde +Will throng my courts, demanding board and bed, +With hosts by Dichu sent to flout my pang, +And sorer make my charge. My granaries sacked, +My larder lean as ship six months ice-bound, +The man I hate will rise, and open shake +The invincible banner of his mad new Faith, +Till all that hear him shout, like winds or waves, +Belief; and I be left sole recusant; +Or else perhaps that Fury who prevails +At times o'er knee-joints of reluctant men, +By magic imped, may crumble into dust +By force my disbelief." + + He raised his head, +And lo, before him lay the sea far ebbed +Sad with a sunset all but gone: the reeds +Sighed in the wind, and sighed a sweeter voice +Oft heard in childhood--now the last time heard: +"Believe!" it whispered. Vain the voice! That hour, +Stirred from the abyss, the sins of all his life +Around him rose like night--not one, but all - +That earliest sin which, like a dagger, pierced +His mother's heart; that worst, when summer drouth +Parched the brown vales, and infants thirsting died, +While from full pail he gorged his swine with milk +And flung the rest away. Sin-walled he stood: +God's Angels could not pierce that cincture dread, +Nor he look through it. Yet he dreamed he saw: +His life he saw; its labours, and its gains +Hard won, long-waited, wonder of his foes; +The manifold conquests of a Will oft tried; +Victory, Defeat, Retrieval; last, that scene +Around him spread: the wan sea and grey rocks; +And he was 'ware that on that self-same ledge +He, Milcho, thirty years gone by, had stood, +While pirates pushed to sea, leaving forlorn +On that wild shore a scared and weeping boy, +(His price two yearling kids and half a sheep) +Thenceforth his slave. + + Not sole he mused that hour. +The Demon of his House beside him stood +Upon that iron coast, and whispered thus: +"Masterful man art thou for wit and strength; +Yet girl-like standst thou brooding! Weave a snare! +He comes for gold, this prophet. All thou hast +Heap in thy house; then fire it! In far lands +Build thee new fortunes. Frustrate thus shall he +Stare but on stones, his destined vassal scaped." + +So fell the whisper; and as one who hears +And does, the stiff-necked man obsequious bent +His strong will to a stronger, and returned, +And gave command to heap within his house +His stored up wealth--yea, all things that were his - +Borne from his ships and granaries. It was done. +Then filled he his huge hall with resinous beams +Seasoned for far sea-voyage, and the ribs +Of ocean-sundering vessels deep in sea; +Which ended, to his topmost tower he clomb, +And therein sat two days, with face to south, +Clutching a brand; and oft through clenched teeth hissed, +Hissed long, "Because I will to disbelieve." + But ere the second sunset two brief hours, +Where comfortless leaned forth that western ridge +Long patched with whiteness by half melted snows, +There crept a gradual shadow. Soon the man +Discerned its import. There they hung--he saw them - +That company detested; hung as when +Storm-boding cloud on mountain hangs half way +Scarce moving, and in fear the shepherd cries, +"Would that the worse were come!" So dread to him +Those Heralds of fair Peace! He gazed upon them +With blood-shot eyes; a moment passed: he stood +Sole in his never festal hall, and flung +His lighted brand into that pile far forth, +And smiled that smile men feared to see, and turned, +And issuing faced the circle of his serfs +That wondering gathered round in thickening mass, +Eyeing that unloved House. + + His place he chose +Beside that blighted ash, fronting those towers +Palled with red smoke, and muttered low, "So be it! +Worse to be vassal to the man I hate," +With hueless lips. His whole white face that hour +Was scorched; and blistered was the dead tree's bark; +Yet there he stood; and in that fiery light +His life, no more triumphant, passed once more +In underthought before him, while on spread +The swift, contagious madness of that fire, +And muttered thus, not knowing it, the man, +"The mighty flame into itself takes all," +Mechanic iteration. Not alone +Stood he that hour. The Demon of his House +By him once more and closer than of old, +Stood, whispering thus, "Thy game is now played out; +Henceforth a byword art thou--rich in youth - +Self-beggared in old age." And as the wind +Of that shrill whisper cut his listening soul, +The blazing roof fell in on all his wealth, +Hard-won, long-waited, wonder of his foes; +And, loud as laughter from ten thousand fiends, +Up rushed the fire. With arms outstretched he stood; +Stood firm; then forward with a wild beast's cry +He dashed himself into that terrible flame, +And vanished as a leaf. + + Upon a spur +Of Sleemish, eastward on its northern slope, +Stood Patrick and his brethren, travel-worn, +When distant o'er the brown and billowy moor +Rose the white smoke, that changed ere long to flame, +From site unknown; for by the seaward crest +That keep lay hidden. Hands to forehead raised, +Wondering they watched it. One to other spake: +"The huge Dalriad forest is afire +Ere melted are the winter's snows!" Another, +"In vengeance o'er the ocean Creithe or Pict, +Favoured by magic, or by mist, have crossed, +And fired old Milcho's ships." But Patrick leaned +Upon his crosier, pale as the ashes wan +Left by a burned out city. Long he stood +Silent, till, sudden, fiercelier soared the flame +Reddening the edges of a cloud low hung; +And, after pause, vibration slow and stern +Troubling the burthened bosom of the air, +Upon a long surge of the northern wind +Came up--a murmur as of wintry seas +Far borne at night. All heard that sound; all felt it; +One only know its import. Patrick turned; +"The deed is done: the man I would have saved +Is dead, because he willed to disbelieve." + +Yet Patrick grieved for Milcho, nor that hour +Passed further north. Three days on Sleemish hill +He dwelt in prayer. To Tara's royal halls +Then turned he, and subdued the royal house +And host to Christ, save Erin's king, Laeghaire. +But Milcho's daughters twain to Christ were born +In baptism, and each Emeria named: +Like rose-trees in the garden of the Lord +Grew they and flourished. Dying young, one grave +Received them at Cluanbrain. Healing thence +To many from their relics passed; to more +The spirit's happier healing, Love and Faith. + + + +SAINT PATRICK AT TARA. + +The King is wroth with a greater wrath + Than the wrath of Nial or the wrath of Conn! +From his heart to his brow the blood makes path, + And hangs there, a red cloud, beneath his crown. + +Is there any who knows not, from south to north, + That Laeghaire to-morrow his birthday keeps? +No fire may be lit upon hill or hearth +Till the King's strong fire in its kingly mirth + Up rushes from Tara's palace steeps! + +Yet Patrick has lighted his Paschal fire + At Slane--it is holy Saturday - +And blessed his font 'mid the chaunting choir! + From hill to hill the flame makes way; +While the king looks on it his eyes with ire + Flash red, like Mars, under tresses grey. + +The chiefs and the captains with drawn swords rose: + To avenge their Lord and the Realm they swore; + The Druids rose and their garments tore; +"The strangers to us and our Gods are foes!" +Then the king to Patrick a herald sent, + Who spake, 'Come up at noon and show +Who lit thy fire and with what intent: + These things the great king Laeghaire would know." + +But Laeghaire had hid twelve men by the way, +Who swore by the sun the Saint to slay. + +When the waters of Boyne began to bask + And fields to flash in the rising sun +The Apostle Evangelist kept his Pasch, + And Erin her grace baptismal won: +Her birthday it was: his font the rock, +He blessed the land, and he blessed his flock. + +Then forth to Tara he fared full lowly: + The Staff of Jesus was in his hand: +Twelve priests paced after him chaunting slowly, + Printing their steps on the dewy land. +It was the Resurrection morn; +The lark sang loud o'er the springing corn; +The dove was heard, and the hunter's horn. + +The murderers twelve stood by on the way; +Yet they saw nought save the lambs at play. + +A trouble lurked in the monarch's eye +When the guest he counted for dead drew nigh: +He sat in state at his palace gate; + His chiefs and nobles were ranged around; +The Druids like ravens smelt some far fate; + Their eyes were gloomily bent on the ground. +Then spake Laeghaire: "He comes--beware! +Let none salute him, or rise from his chair!" + +Like some still vision men see by night, + Mitred, with eyes of serene command, +Saint Patrick moved onward in ghostly white: + The Staff of Jesus was in his hand; +Twelve priests paced after him unafraid, +And the boy, Benignus, more like a maid; +Like a maid just wedded he walked and smiled, +To Christ new plighted, that priestly child. + +They entered the circle; their anthem ceased; + The Druids their eyes bent earthward still: +On Patrick's brow the glory increased + As a sunrise brightening some sea-beat hill. +The warriors sat silent: strange awe they felt: +The chief bard, Dubtach, rose and knelt: + +Then Patrick discoursed of the things to be +When time gives way to eternity, +Of kingdoms that fall, which are dreams not things, +And the Kingdom built by the King of kings. +Of Him he spake who reigns from the Cross; +Of the death which is life, and the life which is loss; +How all things were made by the Infant Lord, +And the small hand the Magian kings adored. +His voice sounded on like a throbbing flood +That swells all night from some far-off wood, +And when it ended--that wondrous strain - +Invisible myriads breathed "Amen!" + +While he spake, men say that the refluent tide + On the shore by Colpa ceased to sink: +They say that the white stag by Mulla's side + O'er the green marge bending forbore to drink: +That the Brandon eagle forgat to soar; + That no leaf stirred in the wood by Lee: +Such stupor hung the island o'er, + For none might guess what the end would be. + +Then whispered the king to a chief close by, +"It were better for me to believe than die!" + +Yet the king believed not; but ordinance gave + That whoso would might believe that word: +So the meek believed, and the wise, and brave, + And Mary's Son as their God adored. +And the Druids, because they could answer nought, +Bowed down to the Faith the stranger brought. +That day on Erin God poured His Spirit: +Yet none like the chief of the bards had merit, +Dubtach! He rose and believed the first, +Ere the great light yet on the rest had burst. + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND THE TWO PRINCESSES. + +FEDELM "THE RED ROSE," AND ETHNA "THE FAIR." + +Like two sister fawns that leap, + Borne, as though on viewless wings, +Down bosky glade and ferny steep + To quench their thirst at silver springs, +From Cruachan palace through gorse and heather, +Raced the Royal Maids together. +Since childhood thus the twain had rushed + Each morn to Clebach's fountain-cell +Ere earliest dawn the East had flushed + To bathe them in its well: +Each morn with joy their young hearts tingled; + Each morn as, conquering cloud or mist, +The first beam with the wavelet mingled, + Mouth to mouth they kissed! + +They stand by the fount with their unlooped hair - +A hand each raises--what see they there? +A white Form seated on Clebach stone; + A kinglike presence: the monks stood nigh: +Fronting the dawn he sat alone; + On the star of morning he fixed his eye: +That crozier he grasped shone bright; but brighter +The sunrise flashed from Saint Patrick's mitre! +They gazed without fear. To a kingdom dear + From the day of their birth those Maids had been; +Of wrong they had heard; but it came not near; + They hoped they were dear to the Power unseen. +They knelt when that Vision of Peace they saw; +Knelt, not in fear, but in loving awe: +The "Red Rose" bloomed like that East afar; +The "Fair One" shone like that morning star. + +Then Patrick rose: no word he said, + But thrice he made the sacred Sign: +At the first, men say that the demons fled; + At the third flocked round them the Powers divine +Unseen. Like children devout and good, +Hands crossed on their bosoms, the maidens stood. + +"Blessed and holy! This land is Eire: +Whence come ye to her, and the king our sire?" + +"We come from a Kingdom far off yet near +Which the wise love well, and the wicked fear: +We come with blessing and come with ban, +We come from the Kingdom of God with man." + +"Whose is that Kingdom? And say, therein + Are the chiefs all brave, and the maids all fair? +Is it clean from reptiles, and that thing, sin? + Is it like this kingdom of King Laeghaire?" + +"The chiefs of that kingdom wage war on wrong, +And the clash of their swords is sweet as song; +Fair are the maids, and so pure from taint +The flash of their eyes turns sinner to saint; +There reptile is none, nor the ravening beast; +There light has no shadow, no end the feast." + +"But say, at that feast hath the poor man place? + Is reverence there for the old head hoar? +For the cripple that never might join the race? + For the maimed that fought, and can fight no more?" + +"Reverence is there for the poor and meek; +And the great King kisses the worn, pale cheek; +And the King's Son waits on the pilgrim guest; +And the Queen takes the little blind child to her breast: +There with a crown is the just man crowned; +But the false and the vengeful are branded and bound +In knots of serpents, and flung without pity +From the bastions and walls of the saintly City." + +Then the eyes of the Maidens grew dark, as though + That judgment of God had before them passed: +And the two sweet faces grew dim with woe; + But the rose and the radiance returned at last. + +"Are gardens there? Are there streams like ours? + Is God white-headed, or youthful and strong? +Hang there the rainbows o'er happy bowers? + Are there sun and moon and the thrush's song?" + +"They have gardens there without noise or strife, +And there is the Tree of immortal Life: +Four rivers circle that blissful bound; +And Spirits float o'er it, and Spirits go round: +There, set in the midst, is the golden throne; +And the Maker of all things sits thereon: +A rainbow o'er-hangs him; and lo! therein +The beams are His Holy Ones washed from sin." + +As he spake, the hearts of the Maids beat time + To music in heaven of peace and love; +And the deeper sense of that lore sublime + Came out from within them, and down from above; +By degrees came down; by degrees came out: +Who loveth, and hopeth, not long shall doubt. + +"Who is your God? Is love on His brow? +Oh how shall we love Him and find Him? How?" +The pure cheek flamed like the dawn-touched dew: +There was silence: then Patrick began anew. +The princes who ride in your father's train +Have courted your love, but sued in vain; - +Look up, O Maidens; make answer free: +What boon desire you, and what would you be?" + +"Pure we would be as yon wreath of foam, + Or the ripple which now yon sunbeams smite: +And joy we would have, and a songful home; + And one to rule us, and Love's delight." + +"In love God fashioned whatever is, + The hills, and the seas, and the skiey fires; +For love He made them, and endless blis + Sustains, enkindles, uplifts, inspires: +That God is Father, and Son, and Spirit; +And the true and spotless His peace inherit: +And God made man, with his great sad heart, +That hungers when held from God apart. +Your sire is a King on earth: but I +Would mate you to One who is Lord on high: +There bride is maid: and her joy shall stand, +For the King's Son hath laid on her head His hand." +As he spake, the eyes of that lovely twain + Grew large with a tearful but glorious light, +Like skies of summer late cleared by rain, + When the full-orbed moon will be soon in sight. + +"That Son of the King--is He fairest of men? + That mate whom He crowns--is she bright and blest? +Does she chase the red deer at His side through the glen? + Does she charm Him with song to His noontide rest?" + +"That King's Son strove in a long, long war: +His people He freed; yet they wounded Him sore; +And still in His hands, and His feet, and His side, +The scars of His sorrow are 'graved, deep-dyed." + +Then the breasts of the Maidens began to heave + Like harbour waves when beyond the bar +The great waves gather, and wet winds grieve, + And the roll of the tempest is heard afar. + +"We will kiss, we will kiss those bleeding feet; + On the bleeding hands our tears shall fall; +And whatever on earth is dear or sweet, + For that wounded heart we renounce them all. + +"Show us the way to His palace-gate:" - +"That way is thorny, and steep, and straight; +By none can His palace-gate be seen, +Save those who have washed in the waters clean." + +They knelt; on their heads the wave he poured +Thrice in the name of the Triune Lord: +And he signed their brows with the Sign adored. +On Fedelm the "Red Rose," on Ethna "The Fair," +God's dew shone bright in that morning air: +Some say that Saint Agnes, 'twixt sister and sister, +As the Cross touched each, bent over and kissed her. + +Then sang God's new-born Creatures, "Behold! + We see God's City from heaven draw nigh: +But we thirst for the fountains divine and cold: + We must see the great King's Son, or die! +Come, Thou that com'st! Our wish is this, + That the body might die, and the soul, set free, +Swell out, like an infant's lips, to the kiss + Of the Lover who filleth infinity!" + +"The City of God, by the water's grace, +Ye see: alone, they behold His Face, +Who have washed in the baths of Death their eyes, +And tasted His Eucharist Sacrifice." + +"Give us the Sacrifice!" Each bright head + Bent toward it as sunflowers bend to the sun: +They ate; and the blood from the warm cheek fled: + The exile was over: the home was won: +A starry darkness o'erflowed their brain: + Far waters beat on some heavenly shore: +Like the dying away of a low, sweet strain, + The young life ebbed, and they breathed no more: +In death they smiled, as though on the breast +Of the Mother Maid they had found their rest. + +The rumour spread: beside the bier + The King stood mute, and his chiefs and court: +The Druids dark-robed drew surlily near, + And the Bards storm-hearted, and humbler sort: +The "Staff of Jesus" Saint Patrick raised: + Angelic anthems above them swept: +There were that muttered; there were that praised: + But none who looked on that marvel wept. + +For they lay on one bed, like Brides new-wed, + By Clebach well; and, the dirge days over, +On their smiling faces a veil was spread, + And a green mound raised that bed to cover. +Such were the ways of those ancient days - + To Patrick for aye that grave was given; +And above it he built a church in their praise; + For in them had Eire been spoused to heaven. + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDREN OF FOCHLUT WOOD. + +ARGUMENT. + +Saint Patrick makes way into Fochlut wood by the sea, the + oldest of Erin's forests, whence there had been borne + unto him, then in a distant land, the Children's Wail + from Erin. He meets there two young Virgins, who sing + a dirge of man's sorrowful condition. Afterwards they + lead him to the fortress of the king, their father. + There are sung two songs, a song of Vengeance and a + song of Lament; which ended, Saint Patrick makes + proclamation of the Advent and of the Resurrection. + The king and all his chiefs believe with full + contentment. + +One day as Patrick sat upon a stone +Judging his people, Pagan babes flocked round, +All light and laughter, angel-like of mien, +Sueing for bread. He gave it, and they ate: +Then said he, "Kneel;" and taught them prayer: but lo! +Sudden the stag hounds' music dinned the wind; +They heard; they sprang; they chased it. Patrick spake; +"It was the cry of children that I heard +Borne from the black wood o'er the midnight seas: +Where are those children? What avails though Kings +Have bowed before my Gospel, and in awe +Nations knelt low, unless I set mine eyes +On Fochlut Wood?" Thus speaking, he arose, +And, journeying with the brethren toward the West, +Fronted the confine of that forest old. + +Then entered they that darkness; and the wood +Closed as a cavern round them. O'er its roof +Leaned roof of cloud, and hissing ran the wind, +And moaned the trunks for centuries hollowed out +Yet stalwart still. There, rooted in the rock, +Stood the huge growths, by us unnamed, that frowned +Perhaps on Partholan, the parricide, +When that first Pagan settler fugitive +Landed, a man foredoomed. Between the stems +The ravening beast now glared, now fled. Red leaves, +The last year's phantoms, rattled here and there. +The oldest wood that ever grew in Eire +Was Fochlut Wood, and gloomiest. Spirits of Ill +Made it their palace, and its labyrinths sowed +With poisons. Many a cave, with horrors thronged +Within it yawned, and many a chasm unseen +Waited the unwary treader. Cry of wolf +Pierced the cold air, and gibbering ghosts were heard; +And o'er the black marsh passed those wandering lights +That lure lost feet. A thousand pathways wound +From gloom to gloom. One only led to light: +That path was sharp with flints. + + Then Patrick mused, +"O life of man, how dark a wood art thou! +Erring how many track thee till Despair, +Sad host, receives them in his crypt-like porch +At nightfall." Mute he paced. The brethren feared; +And fearing, knelt to God. Made strong by prayer +Westward once more they trod that dark, sharp way +Till deeper gloom announced the night, then slept +Guarded by angels. But the Saint all night +Watched, strong in prayer. The second day still on +They fared, like mariners o'er strange seas borne, +That keep in mist their soundings when the rocks +Vex the dark strait, and breakers roar unseen. +At last Benignus cried, "To God be praise! +He sends us better omens. See! the moss +Brightens the crag!" Ere long another spake: +"The worst is past! This freshness in the air +Wafts us a welcome from the great salt sea; +Fair spreads the fern: green buds are on the spray, +And violets throng the grass." + + A few steps more +Brought them to where, with peaceful gleam, there spread +A forest pool that mirrored yew trees twain +With beads like blood-drops hung. A sunset flash +Kindled a glory in the osiers brown +Encircling that still water. From the reeds +A sable bird, gold-circled, slowly rose; +But when the towering tree-tops he outsoared, +Eastward a great wind swept him as a leaf. +Serenely as he rose a music soft +Swelled from afar; but, as that storm o'ertook him, +The music changed to one on-rushing note +O'ertaken by a second; both, ere long, +Blended in wail unending. Patrick's brow, +Listening that wail, was altered, and he spake: +"These were the Voices that I heard when stood +By night beside me in that southern land +God's angel, girt for speed. Letters he bare +Unnumbered, full of woes. He gave me one, +Inscribed, 'The Wailing of the Irish Race;' +And as I read that legend on mine ear +Forth from a mighty wood on Erin's coast +There rang the cry of children, 'Walk once more +Among us; bring us help!'" Thus Patrick spake: +Then towards that wailing paced with forward head. + +Ere long they came to where a river broad, +Swiftly amid the dense trees winding, brimmed +The flower-enamelled marge, and onward bore +Green branches 'mid its eddies. On the bank +Two virgins stood. Whiter than earliest streak +Of matin pearl dividing dusky clouds +Their raiment; and, as oft in silent woods +White beds of wind-flower lean along the earth-breeze, +So on the river-breeze that raiment wan +Shivered, back blown. Slender they stood and tall, +Their brows with violets bound; while shone, beneath, +The dark blue of their never-tearless eyes. +Then Patrick, "For the sake of Him who lays +His blessing on the mourners, O ye maids, +Reveal to me your grief--if yours late sent, +Or sped in careless childhood." And the maids: +"Happy whose careless childhood 'scaped the wound:" +Then she that seemed the saddest added thus: +"Stranger! this forest is no roof of joy, +Nor we the only mourners; neither fall +Bitterer the widow's nor the orphan's tears +Now than of old; nor sharper than long since +That loss which maketh maiden widowhood. +In childhood first our sorrow came. One eve +Within our foster-parents' low-roofed house +The winter sunset from our bed had waned: +I slept, and sleeping dreamed. Beside the bed +There stood a lovely Lady crowned with stars; +A sword went through her heart. Down from that sword +Blood trickled on the bed, and on the ground. +Sorely I wept. The Lady spake: 'My child, +Weep not for me, but for thy country weep; +Her wound is deeper far than mine. Cry loud! +The cry of grief is Prayer.' I woke, all tears; +And lo! my little sister, stiff and cold, +Sat with wide eyes upon the bed upright: +That starry Lady with the bleeding heart +She, too, had seen, and heard her. Clamour vast +Rang out; and all the wall was fiery red; +And flame was on the sea. A hostile clan +Landing in mist, had fired our ships and town, +Our clansmen absent on a foray far, +And stricken many an old man, many a boy +To bondage dragged. Oh night with blood redeemed! +Upon the third day o'er the green waves rushed +The vengeance winged, with axe and torch, to quit +Wrong with new wrong, and many a time since then. +That night sad women on the sea sands toiled, +Drawing from wreck and ruin, beam or plank +To shield their babes. Our foster-parents slain, +Unheeded we, the children of the chief, +Roamed the great forest. There we told our dream +To children likewise orphaned. Sudden fear +Smote them as though themselves had dreamed that dream, +And back from them redoubled upon us; +Until at last from us and them rang out - +The dark wood heard it, and the midnight sea - +A great and bitter cry." + + "That cry went up, +O children, to the heart of God; and He +Down sent it, pitying, to a far-off land, +And on into my heart. By that first pang +Which left the eternal pallor in your cheeks, +O maids, I pray you, sing once more that song +Ye sang but late. I heard its long last note: +Fain would I hear the song that such death died." + +They sang: not scathless those that sing such song! +Grief, their instructress, of the Muses chief +To hearts by grief unvanquished, to their hearts +Had taught a melody that neither spared +Singer nor listener. Pale when they began, +Paler it left them. He not less was pale +Who, out of trance awaking, thanked them thus: +"Now know I of that sorrow in you fixed; +What, and how great it is, and bless that Power +Who called me forth from nothing for your sakes, +And sent me to this wood. Maidens, lead on! +A chieftain's daughters ye; and he, your sire, +And with him she who gave you your sweet looks +(Sadder perchance than you in songless age) +They, too, must hear my tidings. Once a Prince +Went solitary from His golden throne, +Tracking the illimitable wastes, to find +One wildered sheep, the meanest of the flock, +And on His shoulders bore it to that House +Where dwelt His Sire. 'Good Shepherd' was His Name. +My tidings these: heralds are we, footsore, +That bring the heart-sore comfort." + + On they paced, +On by the rushing river without words. +Beside the elder sister Patrick walked, +Benignus by the younger. Fair her face; +Majestic his, though young. Her looks were sad +And awe-struck; his, fulfilled with secret joy, +Sent forth a gleam as when a morn-touched bay +Through ambush shines of woodlands. Soon they stood +Where sea and river met, and trod a path +Wet with salt spray, and drank the clement breeze, +And saw the quivering of the green gold wave, +And, far beyond, that fierce aggressor's bourn, +Fair haunt for savage race, a purple ridge +By rainy sunbeam gemmed from glen to glen, +Dim waste of wandering lights. The sun, half risen, +Lay half sea-couched. A neighbouring height sent forth +Welcome of baying hounds; and, close at hand, +They reached the chieftain's keep. + + A white-haired man +And long since blind, there sat he in his hall, +Untamed by age. At times a fiery gleam +Flashed from his sightless eyes; and oft the red +Burned on his forehead, while with splenetic speech +Stirred by ill news or memory stung, he banned +Foes and false friend. Pleased by his daughters' tale, +At once he stretched his huge yet aimless hands +In welcome towards his guests. Beside him stood +His mate of forty years by that strong arm +From countless suitors won. Pensive her face: +With parted youth the confidence of youth +Had left her. Beauty, too, though with remorse, +Its seat had half relinquished on a cheek +Long time its boast, and on that willowy form, +So yielding now, where once in strength upsoared +The queenly presence. Tenderest grace not less +Haunted her life's dim twilight--meekness, love - +That humble love, all-giving, that seeks nought, +Self-reverent calm, and modesty in age. +She turned an anxious eye on him she loved; +And, bending, kissed at times that wrinkled hand, +By years and sorrows made his wife far more +Than in her nuptial bloom. These two had lost +Five sons, their hope, in war. + + That eve it chanced +High feast was holden in the chieftain's tower +To solemnise his birthday. In they flocked, +Each after each, the warriors of the clan, +Not without pomp heraldic and fair state +Barbaric, yet beseeming. Unto each +Seat was assigned for deeds or lineage old, +And to the chiefs allied. Where each had place +Above him waved his banner. Not for this +Unhonoured were the pilgrim guests. They sat +Where, fed by pinewood and the seeded cone, +The loud hearth blazed. Bathed were the wearied feet +By maidens of the place and nurses grey, +And dried in linen fragrant still with flowers +Of years when those old nurses too were fair. +And now the board was spread, and carved the meat, +And jests ran round, and many a tale was told, +Some rude, but none opprobrious. Banquet done, +Page-led the harper entered, old, and blind: +The noblest ranged his chair, and spread the mat; +The loveliest raised his wine cup, one light hand +Laid on his shoulder, while the golden hair +Commingled with the silver. "Sing," they cried, +"The death of Deirdre; or that desolate sire +That slew his son, unweeting; or that Queen +Who from her palace pacing with fixed eyes +Stared at those heads in dreadful circle ranged, +The heads of traitor-friends that slew her lord +Then mocked the friend they murdered. Leal and true, +The Bard who wrought that vengeance!" Thus he sang: + + + + THE LAY OF THE HEADS. + + The Bard returns to a stricken house: + What shape is that he rears on high? + A withe of the Willow, set round with Heads: + They blot that evening sky. + + A Widow meets him at the gates: + What fixes thus that Widow's eye? + She names the name; but she sees not the man, + Nor beyond him that reddening sky. + + "Bard of the Brand, thou Foster-Sire + Of him they slew--their friend--my lord - + What Head is that--the first--that frowns + Like a traitor self-abhorred?" + + "Daughter of Orgill wounded sore, + Thou of the fateful eye serene, + Fergus is he. The feast he made + That snared thy Cuchullene." + + "What Head is that--the next--half-hid + In curls full lustrous to behold? + They mind me of a hand that once + I saw amid their gold." + + "'Tis Manadh. He that by the shore + Held rule, and named the waves his steeds: + 'Twas he that struck the stroke accursed - + Headless this day he bleeds." + + "What Head is that close by--so still, + With half-closed lids, and lips that smile? + Methinks I know their voice: methinks + HIS wine they quaffed erewhile!" + + "'Twas he raised high that severed head: + Thy head he raised, my Foster-Child! + That was the latest stroke I struck: + I struck that stroke, and smiled." + + "What Heads are those--that twain, so like, + Flushed as with blood by yon red sky?" + "Each unto each, HIS Head they rolled; + Red on that grass they lie." + + "That paler twain, which face the East?" + "Laegar is one; the other Hilt; + Silent they watched the sport! they share + The doom, that shared the guilt." + + "Bard of the Vengeance! well thou knew'st + Blood cries for blood! O kind, and true, + How many, kith and kin, have died + That mocked the man they slew?" + + "O Woman of the fateful eye, + The untrembling voice, the marble mould, + Seven hundred men, in house or field, + For the man they mocked, lie cold." + + "Their wives, thou Bard? their wives? their wives? + Far off, or nigh, through Inisfail, + This hour what are they? Stand they mute + Like me; or make their wail?" + + "O Eimer! women weep and smile; + The young have hope, the young that mourn; + But I am old; my hope was he: + He that can ne'er return! + + "O Conal! lay me in his grave: + Oh! lay me by my husband's side: + Oh! lay my lips to his in death;" + She spake, and, standing, died. + + She fell at last--in death she fell - + She lay, a black shade, on the ground; + And all her women o'er her wailed + Like sea-birds o'er the drowned. + + Thus to the blind chief sang that harper blind, +Hymning the vengeance; and the great hall roared +With wrath of those wild listeners. Many a heel +Smote the rough stone in scorn of them that died +Not three days past, so seemed it! Direful hands, +Together dashed, thundered the Avenger's praise. +At last the tide of that fierce tumult ebbed +O'er shores of silence. From her lowly seat +Beside her husband's spake the gentle Queen: +"My daughters, from your childhood ye were still +A voice of music in your father's house - +Not wrathful music. Sing that song ye made +Or found long since, and yet in forest sing, +If haply Power Unknown may hear and help." +She spake, and at her word her daughters sang. + +"Lost, lost, all lost! O tell us what is lost? +Behold, this too is hidden! Let him speak, +If any knows. The wounded deer can turn +And see the shaft that quivers in its flank; +The bird looks back upon its broken wing; +But we, the forest children, only know +Our grief is infinite, and hath no name. +What woman-prophet, shrouded in dark veil, +Whispered a Hope sadder than Fear? Long since, +What Father lost His children in the wood? +Some God? And can a God forsake? Perchance +His face is turned to nobler worlds new-made; +Perchance his palace owns some later bride +That hates the dead Queen's children, and with charm +Prevails that they are exiled from his eyes, +The exile's winter theirs--the exile's song. + +"Blood, ever blood! The sword goes raging on +O'er hill and moor; and with it, iron-willed, +Drags on the hand that holds it and the man +To slake its ceaseless thirst for blood of men; +Fire takes the little cot beside the mere, +And leaps upon the upland village: fire +Up clambers to the castle on the crag; +And whom the fire has spared the hunger kills; +And earth draws all into her thousand graves. + +"Ah me! the little linnet knows the branch +Whereon to build; the honey-pasturing bee +Knows the wild heath, and how to shape its cell; +Upon the poisonous berry no bird feeds; +So well their mother, Nature, helps her own. +Mothers forsake not;--can a Father hate? +Who knows but that He yearns--that Sire Unseen - +To clasp His children? All is sweet and sane, +All, all save man! Sweet is the summer flower, +The day-long sunset of the autumnal woods; +Fair is the winter frost; in spring the heart +Shakes to the bleating lamb. O then what thing +Might be the life secure of man with man, +The infant's smile, the mother's kiss, the love +Of lovers, and the untroubled wedded home? +This might have been man's lot. Who sent the woe? +Who formed man first? Who taught him first the ill way? +One creature, only, sins; and he the highest! + +"O Higher than the highest! Thou Whose hand +Made us--Who shaped'st that hand Thou wilt not clasp, +The eye Thou open'st not, the sealed-up ear! +Be mightier than man's sin: for lo, how man +Seeks Thee, and ceases not: through noontide cave +And dark air of the dawn-unlighted peak +To Thee how long he strains the weak, worn eye +If haply he might see Thy vesture's hem +On farthest winds receding! Yea, how oft +Against the blind and tremulous wall of cliff +Tormented by sea surge, he leans his ear +If haply o'er it name of Thine might creep; +Or bends above the torrent-cloven abyss, +If falling flood might lisp it! Power unknown! +He hears it not: Thou hear'st his beating heart +That cries to Thee for ever! From the veil +That shrouds Thee, from the wood, the cloud, the void, +O, by the anguish of all lands evoked, +Look forth! Though, seeing Thee, man's race should die, +One moment let him see Thee! Let him lay +At least his forehead on Thy foot in death!" + + So sang the maidens: but the warriors frowned; +And thus the blind king muttered, "Bootless weed +Is plaint where help is none!" But wives and maids +And the thick-crowding poor, that many a time +Had wailed on war-fields o'er their brethren slain, +Went down before that strain as river reeds +Before strong wind, went down when o'er them passed +Its last word, "Death;" and grief's infection spread +From least to first; and weeping filled the hall. +Then on Saint Patrick fell compassion great; +He rose amid that concourse, and with voice +And words now lost, alas, or all but lost, +Such that the chief of sight amerced, beheld +The imagined man before him crowned with light, +Proclaimed that God who hideth not His face, +His people's King and Father; open flung +The portals of His realm, that inward rolled, +With music of a million singing spheres +Commanded all to enter. Who was He +Who called the worlds from nought? His name is Love! +In love He made those worlds. They have not lost, +The sun his splendour, nor the moon her light: +THAT miracle survives. Alas for thee! +Thou better miracle, fair human love, +That splendour shouldst have been of home and hearth, +Now quenched by mortal hate! Whence come our woes +But from our lusts? O desecrated law +By God's own finger on our hearts engraved, +How well art thou avenged! No dream it was, +That primal greatness, and that primal peace: +Man in God's image at the first was made, +A God to rule below! + + He told it all - +Creation, and that Sin which marred its face; +And how the great Creator, creature made, +God--God for man incarnate--died for man: +Dead, with His Cross he thundered on the gates +Of Death's blind Hades. Then, with hands outstretched +His Holy Ones that, in their penance prison +From hope in Him had ceased not, to the light +Flashed from His bleeding hands and branded brow +Through darkness soared: they reign with Him in heaven: +Their brethren we, the children of one Sire. +Long time he spake. The winds forbore their wail; +The woods were hushed. That wondrous tale complete, +Not sudden fell the silence; for, as when +A huge wave forth from ocean toiling mounts +High-arched, in solid bulk, the beach rock-strewn, +Burying his hoar head under echoing cliffs, +And, after pause, refluent to sea returns +Not all at once is stillness, countless rills +Or devious winding down the steep, or borne +In crystal leap from sea-shelf to sea-well, +And sparry grot replying; gradual thus +With lessening cadence sank that great discourse, +While round him gazed Saint Patrick, now the old +Regarding, now the young, and flung on each +In turn his boundless heart, and gazing longed +As only Apostolic heart can long +To help the helpless. + + "Fair, O friends, the bourn +We dwell in! Holy King makes happy land: +Our King is in our midst. He gave us gifts; +Laws that are Love, the sovereignty of Truth. +What, sirs, ye knew Him not! But ye by signs +Foresaw His coming, as, when buds are red +Ye say, 'The spring is nigh us.' Him, unknown, +Each loved who loved his brother! Shepherd youths, +Who spread the pasture green beneath your lambs +And freshened it with snow-fed stream and mist? +Who but that Love unseen? Grey mariners, +Who lulled the rough seas round your midnight nets, +And sent the landward breeze? Pale sufferers wan, +Rejoice! His are ye; yea, and His the most! +Have ye not watched the eagle that upstirs +Her nest, then undersails her falling brood +And stays them on her plumes, and bears them up +Till, taught by proof, they learn their unguessed powers +And breast the storm? Thus God stirs up His people; +Thus proves by pain. Ye too, O hearths well-loved! +How oft your sin-stained sanctities ye mourned! +Wives! from the cradle reigns the Bethelem Babe! +Maidens! henceforth the Virgin Mother spreads +Her shining veil above you! + + "Speak aloud, +Chieftains world-famed! I hear the ancient blood +That leaps against your hearts! What? Warriors ye! +Danger your birthright, and your pastime death! +Behold your foes! They stand before you plain: +Ill passions, base ambitions, falsehood, hate: +Wage war on these! A King is in your host! +His hands no roses plucked but on the Cross: +He came not hand of man in woman's tasks +To mesh. In woman's hand, in childhood's hand, +Much more in man's, He lodged His conquering sword; +Them too His soldiers named, and vowed to war. +Rise, clan of Kings, rise, champions of man's race, +Heaven's sun-clad army militant on earth, +One victory gained, the realm decreed is ours. +The bridal bells ring out, for Low with High +Is wed in endless nuptials. It is past, +The sin, the exile, and the grief. O man, +Take thou, renewed, thy sister-mate by hand; +Know well thy dignity, and hers: return, +And meet once more Thy Maker, for He walks +Once more within thy garden, in the cool +Of the world's eve!" + + The words that Patrick spake +Were words of power, not futile did they fall: +But, probing, healed a sorrowing people's wound. +Round him they stood, as oft in Grecian days, +Some haughty city sieged, her penitent sons +Thronging green Pnyx or templed Forum hushed +Hung listening on that People's one true Voice, +The man that ne'er had flattered, ne'er deceived, +Nursed no false hope. It was the time of Faith; +Open was then man's ear, open his heart: +Pride spurned not then that chiefest strength of man +The power, by Truth confronted, to believe. +Not savage was that wild, barbaric race: +Spirit was in them. On their knees they sank, +With foreheads lowly bent; and when they rose +Such sound went forth as when late anchored fleet +Touched by dawn breeze, shakes out its canvas broad +And sweeps into new waters. Man with man +Clasped hands; and each in each a something saw +Till then unseen. As though flesh-bound no more, +Their souls had touched. One Truth, the Spirit's life, +Lived in them all, a vast and common joy. +And yet as when, that Pentecostal morn, +Each heard the Apostle in his native tongue, +So now, on each, that Truth, that Joy, that Life +Shone forth with beam diverse. Deep peace to one +Those tidings seemed, a still vale after storm; +To one a sacred rule, steadying the world; +A third exulting saw his youthful hope +Written in stars; a fourth triumphant hailed +The just cause, long oppressed. Some laughed, some wept: +But she, that aged chieftain's mournful wife +Clasped to her boding breast his hoary head +Loud clamouring, "Death is dead; and not for long +That dreadful grave can part us." Last of all, +He too believed. That hoary head had shaped +Full many a crafty scheme: --behind them all +Nature held fast her own. + + O happy night! +Back through the gloom of centuries sin-defaced +With what a saintly radiance thou dost shine! +They slept not, on the loud-resounding shore +In glory roaming. Many a feud that night +Lay down in holy grave, or, mockery made, +Was quenched in its own shame. Far shone the fires +Crowning dark hills with gladness: soared the song; +And heralds sped from coast to coast to tell +How He the Lord of all, no Power Unknown +But like a man rejoicing in his house, +Ruled the glad earth. That demon-haunted wood, +Sad Erin's saddest region, yet, men say, +Tenderest for all its sadness, rang at last +With hymns of men and angels. Onward sailed +High o'er the long, unbreaking, azure waves +A mighty moon, full-faced, as though on winds +Of rapture borne. With earliest red of dawn +Northward once more the winged war-ships rushed +Swift as of old to that long hated shore - +Not now with axe and torch. His Name they bare +Who linked in one the nations. + + On a cliff +Where Fochlut's Wood blackened the northern sea +A convent rose. Therein those sisters twain +Whose cry had summoned Patrick o'er the deep, +Abode, no longer weepers. Pallid still, +In radiance now their faces shone; and sweet +Their psalms amid the clangour of rough brine. +Ten years in praise to God and good to men +That happy precinct housed them. In their morn +Grief had for them her great work perfected; +Their eve was bright as childhood. When the hour +Came for their blissful transit, from their lips +Pealed forth ere death that great triumphant chant +Sung by the Virgin Mother. Ages passed; +And, year by year, on wintry nights, THAT song +Alone the sailors heard--a cry of joy. + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND KING LAEGHAIRE. + +"Thou son of Calphurn, in peace go forth! + This hand shall slay them whoe'er shall slay thee! +The carles shall stand to their necks in earth + Till they die of thirst who mock or stay thee! + +"But my father, Nial, who is dead long since, + Permits not me to believe thy word; +For the servants of Jesus, thy heavenly Prince, + Once dead, lie flat as in sleep, interred: +But we are as men that through dark floods wade; +We stand in our black graves undismayed; +Our faces are turned to the race abhorred, +And at each hand by us stand spear or sword, +Ready to strike at the last great day, +Ready to trample them back into clay! + +"This is my realm, and men call it Eire, + Wherein I have lived and live in hate +Like Nial before me and Erc his sire, + Of the race Lagenian, ill-named the Great!" + +Thus spake Laeghaire, and his host rushed on, + A river of blood as yet unshed: - +At noon they fought: and at set of sun + That king lay captive, that host lay dead! + +The Lagenian loosed him, but bade him swear + He would never demand of them Tribute more: + So Laeghaire by the dread "God-Elements" swore, +By the moon divine and the earth and air; +He swore by the wind and the broad sunshine + That circle for ever both land and sea, +By the long-backed rivers, and mighty wine, + By the cloud far-seeing, by herb and tree, +By the boon spring shower, and by autumn's fan, +By woman's breast, and the head of man, +By Night and the noonday Demon he swore +He would claim the Boarian Tribute no more. + +But with time wrath waxed; and he brake his faith: +Then the dread "God-Elements" wrought his death; +For the Wind and Sun-Strength by Cassi's side +Came down and smote on his head that he died. +Death-sick three days on his throne he sate; +Then died, as his father died, great in hate. + +They buried their king upon Tara's hill, +In his grave upright--there stands he still: +Upright there stands he as men that wade +By night through a castle-moat, undismayed; +On his head is the crown, the spear in his hand; +And he looks to the hated Lagenian land. + +Such rites in the time of wrath and wrong + Were Eire's: baptised, they were hers no longer: +For Patrick had taught her his sweet new song, + "Though hate is strong, yet love is stronger." + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR; + +OR, MAC KYLE OF MAN. + +Mac Kyle, a child of death, dwells in a forest with other + men like unto himself, that slay whom they will. + Saint Patrick coming to that wood, a certain Impostor + devises how he may be deceived and killed; but God + smites the Impostor through his own snare, and he + dies. Mac Kyle believes, and demanding penance is + baptised. Afterwards he preaches in Manann {77} Isle, + and becomes a great Saint. + +In Uladh, near Magh Inis, lived a chief, +Fierce man and fell. From orphaned childhood he +Through lawless youth to blood-stained middle age +Had rushed as stormy morn to stormier noon, +Working, except that still he spared the poor, +All wrongs with iron will; a child of death. +Thus spake he to his followers, while the woods +Snow-cumbered creaked, their scales of icy mail +Angered by winter winds: "At last he comes, +He that deceives the people with great signs, +And for the tinkling of a little gold +Preaches new Gods. Where rises yonder smoke +Beyond the pinewood, camps this Lord of Dupes: +How say ye? Shall he track o'er Uladh's plains, +As o'er the land beside, his venomous way? +Forth with your swords! and if that God he serves +Can save him, let him prove it!" + + Dark with wrath +Thus spake Mac Kyle; and all his men approved, +Shouting, while downward fell the snows hard-caked Loosened by shock +of forest-echoed hands, +Save Garban. Crafty he, and full of lies, +That thing which Patrick hated. Sideway first +Glancing, as though some secret foe were nigh, +He spake: "Mac Kyle! a counsel for thine ear! +A man of counsel I, as thou of war! +The people love this stranger. Patrick slain, +Their wrath will blaze against us, and demand +An ERIC for his head. Let us by craft +Unravel first HIS craft: then safe our choice; +We slay a traitor, or great ransom take: +Impostors lack not gold. Lay me as dead +Upon a bier: above me spread yon cloth, +And make your wail: and when the seer draws nigh +Worship him, crying, 'Lo, our friend is dead! +Kneel, prophet, kneel, and pray that God thou serv'st +To raise him.' If he kneels, no prophet he, +But like the race of mortals. Sweep the cloth +Straight from my face; then, laughing, I will rise." + +Thus counselled Garban; and the counsel pleased; +Yet pleased not God. Upon a bier, branch-strewn, +They laid their man, and o'er him spread a cloth; +Then, moving towards that smoke behind the pines, +They found the Saint and brought him to that bier, +And made their moan--and Garban 'neath that cloth +Smiled as he heard it--"Lo, our friend is dead! +Great prophet kneel; and pray the God thou serv'st +To raise him from the dead." + + The man of God +Upon them fixed a sentence-speaking eye: +"Yea! he is dead. In this ye have not lied: +Behold, this day shall Garban's covering be +The covering of the dead. Remove that cloth." + +Then drew they from his face the cloth; and lo! +Beneath it Garban lay, a corpse stone-cold. + +Amazement fell upon that bandit throng, +Contemplating that corpse, and on Mac Kyle +Grief for his friend, remorse, and strong belief, +A threefold power: for she that at his birth, +Her brief life faithful to that Law she knew, +Had died, in region where desires are crowned +That hour was strong in prayer. "From God he came," +Thus cried they; "and we worked a work accursed, +Tempting God's prophet." Patrick heard, and spake; +"Not me ye tempted, but the God I serve." +At last Mac Kyle made answer: "I have sinned; +I, and this people, whom I made to sin: +Now therefore to thy God we yield ourselves +Liegemen henceforth, his thralls as slave to Lord, +Or horse to master. That which thou command'st +That will we do." And Patrick said, "Believe; +Confess your sins; and be baptised to God, +The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit, +And live true life." Then Patrick where he stood +Above the dead, with hands uplifted preached +To these in anguish and in terror bowed +The tidings of great joy from Bethlehem's Crib +To Calvary's Cross. Sudden upon his knees, +Heart-pierced, as though he saw that Head thorn-pierced, +Fell that wild chief, and was baptised to God; +And, lifting up his great strong hands, while still +The waters streamed adown his matted locks, +He cried, "Alas, my master, and my sire! +I sinned a mighty sin; for in my heart +Fixed was my purpose, soon as thou hadst knelt, +To slay thee with my sword. Therefore judge thou +What ERIC I must pay to quit my sin?" +Him Patrick answered, "God shall be thy Judge: +Arise, and to the seaside flee, as one +That flies his foe. There shalt thou find a boat +Made of one hide: eat nought, and nothing take +Except one cloak alone: but in that boat +Sit thou, and bear the sin-mark on thy brow, +Facing the waves, oarless and rudderless; +And bind the boat chain thrice around thy feet, +And fling the key with strength into the main, +Far as thou canst: and wheresoe'er the breath +Of God shall waft thee, there till death abide +Working the Will Divine." Then spake that chief, +"I, that commanded others, can obey; +Such lore alone is mine: but for this man +That sinned my sin, alas, to see him thus!" +To whom the Saint, "For him, when thou art gone, +My prayer shall rise. If God will raise the dead +He knows: not I." + + Then rose that chief, and rushed +Down to the shore, as one that flies his foe; +Nor ate, nor drank, nor spake to wife or child, +But loosed a little boat, of one hide made, +And sat therein, and round his ankles wound +The boat chain thrice; and flung the key far forth +Above the ridged sea foam. The Lord of all +Gave ordinance to the wind, and, as a leaf +Swift rushed that boat, oarless and rudderless, +Over the on-shouldering, broad-backed, glaucous wave +Slow-rising like the rising of a world, +And purple wastes beyond, with funeral plume +Crested, a pallid pomp. All night the chief +Under the roaring tempest heard the voice +That preached the Son of Man; and when the morn +Shone out, his coracle drew near the surge +Reboant on Manann's Isle. Not unbeheld +Rose it, and fell; not unregarded danced +A black spot on the inrolling ridge, then hung +Suspense upon the mile-long cataract +That, overtoppling, changed grass-green to light, +And drowned the shores in foam. Upon the sands +Two white-haired Elders in the salt air knelt, +Offering to God their early orisons, +Coninri and Romael. Sixty years +These two unto a hard and stubborn race +Had preached the Word; and gaining by their toil +But thirty souls, had daily prayed their God +To send ere yet they died some ampler arm, +And reap the ill-grown harvest of their youth. +Ten years they prayed, not doubting, and from God, +Who hastens not, this answer had received, +"Ye shall not die until ye see his face." +Therefore, each morning, peered they o'er the waves, +Long-watching. These through breakers dragged the man, +Their wished-for prize, half-frozen, and nigh to death, +And bare him to their cell, and warmed and fed him, +And heaped his couch with skins. Deep sleep he slept +Till evening lay upon the level sea +With roses strewn like bridal chamber's floor; +Within it one star shone. Rested, he woke +And sought the shore. From earth, and sea, and sky, +Then passed into his spirit the Spirit of Love; +And there he vowed his vow, fierce chief no more, +But soldier of the cross. + + The weeks ran on, +And daily those grey Elders ministered +God's teaching to that chief, demanding still, +"Son, understandst thou? Gird thee like a man +To clasp, and hold, the total Faith of Christ, +And give us leave to die." The months fled fast: +Ere violets bloomed, he knew the creed; and when +Far heathery hills purpled the autumnal air, +He sang the psalter whole. That tale he told +Had power, and Patrick's name. His strenous arm +Labouring with theirs, reaped harvest heavy and sound, +Till wondering gazed their wearied eyes on barns +Knee-deep in grain. At last an eve there fell, +When, on the shore in commune, with such might +Discoursed that pilgrim of the things of God, +Such insight calm, and wisdom reverence-born, +Each on the other gazing in their hearts +Received once more an answer from the Lord, +"Now is your task completed: ye shall die." + +Then on the red sand knelt those Elders twain +With hands upraised, and all their hoary hair +Tinged like the foam-wreaths by that setting sun, +And sang their "Nunc Dimittis." At its close +High on the sandhills, 'mid the tall hard grass +That sighed eternal o'er the unbounded waste +With ceaseless yearnings like their own for death +They found the place where first, that bark descried, +Their sighs were changed to songs. That spot they marked, +And said, "Our resurrection place is here:" +And, on the third day dying, in that place +The man who loved them laid them, at their heads +Planting one cross because their hearts were one +And one their lives. The snowy-breasted bird +Of ocean o'er their undivided graves +Oft flew with wailing note; but they rejoiced +'Mid God's high realm glittering in endless youth. + +These two with Christ, on him, their son in Christ +Their mantle fell; and strength to him was given. +Long time he toiled alone; then round him flocked +Helpers from far. At last, by voice of all +He gat the Island's great episcopate, +And king-like ruled the region. This is he, +Mac Kyle of Uladh, bishop, and Penitent, +Saint Patrick's missioner in Manann's Isle, +Sinner one time, and, after sinner, Saint +World-famous. May his prayer for sinners plead! + + + +SAINT PATRICK AT CASHEL; + +OR, THE BAPTISM OF AENGUS. + +ARGUMENT. + +Saint Patrick goes to Cashel of the Rings to celebrate + the Feast of the Annunciation. Aengus, who reigns + there, receives him with all honour. He and his + people believe, and by Baptism are added unto the + Church. Aengus desires to resign his sovereignty, and + become a monk. The Saint suffers not this, because + he had discovered by two notable signs, both at the + baptism of Aengus and before it, that the Prince is of + those who are called by God to rule men. + +When Patrick now o'er Ulster's forest bound, +And Connact, echoing to the western wave, +And Leinster, fair with hill-suspended woods, +Had raised the cross, and where the deep night ruled, +Splendour had sent of everlasting light, +Sole peace of warring hearts, to Munster next, +Thomond and Desmond, Heber's portion old, +He turned; and, fired by love that mocks at rest +Pushed on through raging storm the whole night long, +Intent to hold the Annunciation Feast +At Cashel of the Kings. The royal keep +High-seated on its Rock, as morning broke +Faced them at last; and at the selfsame hour +Aengus, in his father's absence lord, +Rising from happy sleep and heaven-sent dreams +Went forth on duteous tasks. With sudden start +The prince stept back; for, o'er the fortress court +Like grove storm-levelled lay the idols huge, +False gods and foul that long had awed the land, +Prone, without hand of man. O'er-awed he gazed; +Then on the air there rang a sound of hymns, +And by the eastern gate Saint Patrick stood, +The brethren round him. On their shaggy garb +Auroral mist, struck by the rising sun, +Glittered, that diamond-panoplied they seemed, +And as a heavenly vision. At that sight +The youth, descending with a wildered joy, +Welcomed his guests: and, ere an hour, the streets +Sparkled far down like flowering meads in spring, +So thronged the folk in holiday attire +To see the man far-famed. "Who spurns our gods?" +Once they had cried in wrath: but, year by year, +Tidings of some deliverance great and strange, +Some life more noble, some sublimer hope, +Some regal race enthroned beyond the grave, +Had reached them from afar. The best believed, +Great hearts for whom nor earthly love sufficed +Nor earthly fame. The meaner scoffed: yet all +Desired the man. Delay had edged their thirst. + +Then Patrick, standing up among them, spake, +And God was with him. Not as when loose tongue +Babbles vain rumour, or the Sophist spins +Thought's air-hung cobwebs gay with Fancy's dews, +Spake he, but words of might, as when a man +Bears witness to the things which he has seen, +And tells of that he knows: and as the harp +Attested is by rapture of the ear, +And sunlight by consenting of the eye +That, seeing, knows it sees, and neither craves +Inferior demonstration, so his words +Self-proved, went forth and conquered: for man's mind, +Created in His image who is Truth, +Challenged by truth, with recognising voice +Cries out "Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone," +And cleaves thereto. In all that listening host +One vast, dilating heart yearned to its God. +Then burst the bond of years. No haunting doubt +They knew. God dropped on them the robe of Truth +Sun-like: down fell the many-coloured weed +Of error; and, reclothed ere yet unclothed, +They walked a new-born earth. The blinded Past +Fled, vanquished. Glorious more than strange it seemed +That He who fashioned man should come to man, +And raise by ruling. They, His trumpet heard, +In glory spurned demons misdeemed for gods: +The great chief had returned: the clan enthralled +Trod down the usurping foe. + + Then rose the cry, +"Join us to Christ!" His strong eyes on them set, +Patrick replied, "Know ye what thing ye seek +Ye that would fain be house-mates with my King? +Ye seek His cross!" He paused, then added slow: +"If ye be liegeful, sirs, decree the day, +His baptism shall be yours." + + That eve, while shone +The sunset on the green-touched woods, that, grazed +By onward flight of unalighting spring, +Caught warmth yet scarcely flamed, Aengus stood +With Patrick in a westward-facing tower +Which overlooked far regions town-besprent, +And lit with winding waters. Thus he spake: +"My Father! what is sovereignty of man? +Say, can I shield yon host from death, from sin, +Taking them up into my breast, like God? +I trow not so! Mine be the lowliest place +Following thy King who left his Father's throne +To walk the lowliest!" Patrick answered thus: +"Best lot thou choosest, son. If thine that lot +Thou know'st not yet; nor I. The Lord, thy God, +Will teach us." + + When the day decreed had dawned +Loud rang the bull-horn; and on every breeze +Floated the banners, saffron, green, and blue; +While issuing from the horizon's utmost verge +The full-voiced People flocked. So swarmed of old +Some migratory nation, instinct-urged +To fly their native wastes sad winter's realm; +So thronged on southern slopes when, far below, +Shone out the plains of promise. Bright they came! +No summer sea could wear a blithsomer sheen +Though every dancing crest and milky plume +Ran on with rainbows braided. Minstrel songs +Wafted like winds those onward hosts, or swayed +Or stayed them; while among them heralds passed +Lifting white wands of office. Foremost rode +Aileel, the younger brother of the prince: +He ruled a milk-white horse. Fluttered, breeze-borne +His mantle green, while all his golden hair +Streamed back redundant from the ring of gold +Circling his head uncovered. Loveliest light +Of innocence and joy was on that face: +Full well the young maids marked it! Brighter yet +Beamed he, his brother noting. On the verge +Of Cashel's Rock that hour Aengus stood, +By Patrick's side. That concourse nearer now +He gazed upon it, crying, with clasped hands, +"My Father, fair is sunrise, fair the sea, +The hills, the plains, the wind-stirred wood, the maid; +But what is like a People onward borne +In gladness? When I see that sight, my heart +Expands like palace-gates wide open flung +That say to all men, 'Enter.'" Then the Saint +Laid on that royal head a hand of might, +And said, "The Will of God decrees thee King! +Son of this People art thou: Sire one day +Thou shalt be! Son and Sire in one are King. +Shepherd for God thy flock, thou Shepherd true!" +He spake: that word was ratified in Heaven. + + Meantime that multitude innumerable +Had reached the Rock, and, now the winding road +In pomp ascending, faced those fair-wrought gates +Which, by the warders at the prince's sign +Drawn back, to all gave entrance. In they streamed, +Filling the central courtway. Patrick stood +High stationed on a prostrate idol's base, +In vestments of the Vigil of that Feast +The Annunciation, which with annual boon +Whispers, while melting snows dilate those streams +Purer than snows, to universal earth +That Maiden Mother's joy. The Apostle watched +The advancing throng, and gave them welcome thus; +"As though into the great Triumphant Church, +O guests of God, ye flock! Her place is Heaven: +Sirs! we this day are militant below: +Not less, advance in faith. Behold your crowns - +Obedience and Endurance." + + There and then +The Rite began: his people's Chief and Head +Beside the font Aengus stood; his face +Sweet as a child's, yet grave as front of eld: +For reverence he had laid his crown aside, +And from the deep hair to the unsandalled feet +Was raimented in white. With mitred head +And massive book, forward Saint Patrick leaned, +Stayed by the gem-wrought crosier. Prayer on prayer +Went up to God; while gift on gift from God, +All Angel-like, invisibly to man, +Descended. Thrice above that princely brow +Patrick the cleansing waters poured, and traced +Three times thereon the Venerable Sign, +Naming the Name Triune. The Rite complete, +Awestruck that concourse downward gazed. At last +Lifting their eyes, they marked the prince's face +That pale it was though bright, anguished and pale, +While from his naked foot a blood-stream gushed +And o'er the pavement welled. The crosier's point, +Weighted with weight of all that priestly form, +Had pierced it through. "Why suffer'dst thou so long +The pain in silence?" Patrick spake, heart-grieved: +Smiling, Aengus answered, "O my Sire, +I thought, thus called to follow Him whose feet +Were pierced with nails, haply the blissful Rite +Bore witness to their sorrows." + + At that word +The large eyes of the Apostolic man +Grew larger; and within them lived that light +Not fed by moon or sun, a visible flash +Of that invisible lightning which from God +Vibrates ethereal through the world of souls, +Vivific strength of Saints. The mitred brow +Uptowered sublime: the strong, yet wrinkled hands, +Ascending, ceased not, till the crosier's head +Glittered above the concourse like a star. +At last his hands disparting, down he drew +From Heaven the Royal Blessing, speaking thus: +"For this cause may the blessing, Sire of kings, +Cleave to thy seed forever! Spear and sword +Before them fall! In glory may the race +Of Nafrach's sons, Aengus, and Aileel, +Hold sway on Cashel's summit! Be their kings +Great-hearted men, potent to rule and guard +Their people; just to judge them; warriors strong; +Sage counsellors; faithful shepherds; men of God, +That so through them the everlasting King +May flood their land with blessing." Thus he spake; +And round him all that nation said, "Amen." + + Thus held they feast in Cashel of the Kings +That day till all that land was clothed with Christ: +And when the parting came from Cashel's steep +Patrick the People's Blessing thus forth sent: +"The Blessing fall upon the pasture broad, +On fruitful mead, and every corn-clad hill, +And woodland rich with flowers that children love: +Unnumbered be the homesteads, and the hearths: - +A blessing on the women, and the men, +On youth, and maiden, and the suckling babe: +A blessing on the fruit-bestowing tree, +And foodful river tide. Be true; be pure, +Not living from below, but from above, +As men that over-top the world. And raise +Here, on this rock, high place of idols once, +A kingly church to God. The same shall stand +For aye, or, wrecked, from ruin rise restored, +His witness till He cometh. Over Eire +The Blessing speed till time shall be no more +From Cashel of the Kings." + + The Saint fared forth: +The People bare him through their kingdom broad +With banner and with song; but o'er its bound +The women of that People followed still +A half day's journey with lamenting voice; +Then silent knelt, lifting their babes on high; +And, crowned with two-fold blessing, home returned. + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDLESS MOTHER. + +ARGUMENT. + +Saint Patrick finds an aged Pagan woman making great + lamentation above a tomb which she believes to be that + of her son. He kneels beside her in prayer, while + around them a wondrous tempest sweeps. After a long + time, he declares unto her the Death of Christ, and + how, through that Death, the Dead are blessed. + Lastly, he dissuades her from her rage of grief, and + admonishes her to pray for her son on a tomb hard by, + which is his indeed. The woman believes, and, being + consoled by a Sign of Heaven, departs in peace. + +Across his breast one hundred times each day +Saint Patrick drew the Venerable Sign, +And sixty times by night: and whensoe'er +In travel Cross was seen far off or nigh +On lonely moor, or rock, or heathy hill, +For Erin then was sown with Christian seed, +He sought it, and before it knelt. Yet once, +While cold in winter shone the star of eve +Upon their board, thus spake a youthful monk: +"Three times this day, my father, didst thou pass +The Cross of Christ unmarked. At morn thou saw'st +A last year's lamb that by it sheltered lay, +At noon a dove that near it sat and mourned, +At eve a little child that round it raced, +Well pleased with each; yet saw'st thou not that Cross, +Nor mad'st thou any reverence!" At that word +Wondering, the Saint arose, and left the meat, +And, wondering, went to venerate that Cross. + + Dark was the earth and dank ere yet he reached +That spot; and lo! where lamb had lain, and dove +Had mourned, and child had raced, there stood indeed +High-raised, the Cross of Christ. Before it long +He prayed, and kneeling, marked that on a tomb +That Cross was raised. Then, inly moved by God, +The Saint demanded, "Who, of them that walked +The sun-warmed earth lies here in darkness hid?" +And answer made a lamentable Voice: +"Pagan I lived, my own soul's bane: --when dead, +Men buried here my body." Patrick then: +"How stands the Cross of Christ on Pagan grave?" +And answered thus the lamentable Voice: +"A woman's work. She had been absent long; +Her son had died; near mine his grave was made; +Half blind was she through fleeting of her tears, +And, erring, raised the Cross upon my tomb, +Misdeeming it for his. Nightly she comes, +Wailing as only Pagan mothers wail; +So wailed my mother once, while pain tenfold +Ran through my bodiless being. For her sake, +If pity dwells on earth or highest heaven, +May it this mourner comfort! Christian she, +And capable of pity." + + Then the Saint +Cried loud, "O God, Thou seest this Pagan's heart, +That love within it dwells: therefore not his +That doom of Souls all hate, and self-exiled +To whom Thy Presence were a woe twice told. +Eternal Pity! pity Thou Thy work; - +Sole Peace of them that love Thee, grant him peace." +Thus Patrick prayed; and in the heaven of heavens +God heard his servant's prayer. Then Patrick mused +"Now know I why I passed that Cross unmarked; +It was not that it seemed." + + As thus he knelt, +Behold, upon the cold and bitter wind +Rang wail on wail; and o'er the moor there moved +What seemed a woman's if a human form. +That miserable phantom onward came +With cry succeeding cry that sank or swelled +As dipped or rose the moor. Arrived at last, +She heeded not the Saint, but on that grave +Dashed herself down. Long time that woman wailed; +And Patrick, long, for reverence of her woe +Forbore. At last he spake low-toned as when +Best listener knows not when the strain begins. +"Daughter! the sparrow falls not to the ground +Without his Maker. He that made thy son +Hath sent His Son to bear all woes of men, +And vanquish every foe--the latest, Death." +Then rolled that woman on the Saint an eye +As when the last survivor of a host +Glares on some pitying conqueror. "Ho! the man +That treads upon my grief! He ne'er had sons; +And thou, O son of mine, hast left no sons, +Though oft I said, 'When I am old, his babes +Shall climb my knees.' My boast was mine in youth; +But now mine age is made a barren stock +And as a blighted briar." In grief she turned; +And as on blackening tarn gust follows gust, +Again came wail on wail. On strode the night: +The jagged forehead of that forest old +Alone was seen: all else was gloom. At last +With voice, though kind, upbraiding, Patrick spake: +"Daughter, thy grief is wilful and it errs; +Errs like those sad and tear-bewildered eyes +That for a Christian's take a Pagan's grave, +And for a son's a stranger's. Ah! poor child, +Thy pride it was to raise, where lay thy son, +A Cross, his memory's honour. By thee close +All dewed and glimmering in yon rising moon, +Low lies a grave unhonoured, and unknown: +No cross stands on it; yet upon its breast +Graved shalt thou find what Christian tomb ne'er lacks, +The Cross of Christ. Woman, there lies thy son." + + She rose; she found that other tomb; she knelt; +And o'er it went her wandering palms, as though +Some stone-blind mother o'er an infant's face +Should spread an agonising hand, intent +To choose betwixt her own and counterfeit; +She found that cross deep-grav'n, and further sign +Close by, to her well known. One piercing shriek - +Another moment, and her body lay +Along that grave with kisses, and wild hands +As when some forest beast tears up the ground, +Seeking its prey there hidden. Then once more +Rang the wild wail above that lonely heath, +While roared far off the vast invisible woods, +And with them strove the blast, in eddies dire +Whirling both branch and bough. Through hurrying clouds +The scared moon rushed like ship that naked glares +One moment, lightning-lighted in the storm, +Anon in wild waves drowned. An hour went by: +Still wailed that woman, and the tempest roared; +While in the heart of ruin Patrick prayed. +He loved that woman. Unto Patrick dear, +Dear as God's Church was still the single Soul, +Dearest the suffering Soul. He gave her time; +He let the floods of anguish spend themselves: +But when her wail sank low; when woods were mute, +And where the skiey madness late had raged +Shone the blue heaven, he spake with voice in strength +Gentle like that which calmed the Syrian lake, +"My sister, God hath shown me of thy wound, +And wherefore with the blind old Pagan's cry +Hopeless thou mourn'st. Returned from far, thou found'st +Thy son had Christian died, and saw'st the Cross +On Christian graves: and ill thy heart endured +That tomb so dear should lack its reverence meet. +To him thou gav'st the Cross, albeit that Cross +Inly thou know'st not yet. That knowledge thine, +Thou hadst not left thy son amerced of prayer, +And given him tears, not succour." "Yea," she said, +"Of this new Faith I little understand, +Being an aged woman and in woe: +But since my son was Christian, such am I; +And since the Christian tomb is decked with Cross +He shall not lack his right." + + Then Patrick spake: +"O woman, hearken, for through me thy son +Invokes thee. All night long for thee, unknown, +My hands have risen: but thou hast raised no prayer +For him, thy dearest; nor from founts of God, +Though brimful, hast thou drawn for lips that thirst. +Arise, and kneel, and hear thy loved one's cry: +Too long he waiteth. Blessed are the dead: +They rest in God's high Will. But more than peace, +The rapturous vision of the Face of God, +Won by the Cross of Christ--for that they thirst +As thou, if viewless stood thy son close by, +Wouldst thirst to see his countenance. Eyes sin-sealed +Not yet can see their God. Prayer speeds the time: +The living help the dead; all praise to Him +Who blends His children in a league of help, +Making all good one good. Eternal Love! +Not thine the will that love should cease with life, +Or, living, cease from service, barren made, +A stagnant gall eating the mourner's heart +That hour when love should stretch a hand of might +Up o'er the grave to heaven. O great in love, +Perfect love's work: for well, sad heart, I know, +Hadst thou not trained thy son in virtuous ways, +Christian he ne'er had been." + + Those later words +That solitary mourner understood, +The earlier but in part, and answered thus: +"A loftier Cross, and farther seen, shall rise +Upon this grave new-found! No hireling hands - +Mine own shall raise it; yea, though thirty years +Should sweat beneath the task." And Patrick said: +"What means the Cross? That lore thou lack'st now learn." + + Then that which Kings desired to know, and seers +And prophets vigil-blind--that Crown of Truths, +Scandal of fools, yet conqueror of the world, +To her, that midnight mourner, he divulged, +Record authentic: how in sorrow and sin +The earth had groaned; how pity, like a sword, +Had pierced the great Paternal Heart in heaven; +How He, the Light of Light, and God of God, +Had man become, and died upon the Cross, +Vanquishing thus both sorrow and sin, and risen, +The might of death o'erthrown; and how the gates +Of heaven rolled inwards as the Anointed King +Resurgent and ascending through them passed +In triumph with His Holy Dead; and how +The just, thenceforth death-freed, the selfsame gates +Entering, shall share the everlasting throne. +Thus Patrick spake, and many a stately theme +Rehearsed beside, higher than heaven, and yet +Near as the farthest can alone be near. +Then in that grief-worn creature's bosom old +Contentions rose, and fiercer fires than burn +In sultry breasts of youth: and all her past, +Both good and evil, woke, in sleep long sealed; +And all the powers and forces of her soul +Rushed every way through darkness seeking light, +Like winds or tides. Beside her Patrick prayed, +And mightier than his preaching was his prayer, +Sheltering that crisis dread. At last beneath +The great Life-Giver's breath that Human Soul, +An inner world vaster than planet worlds, +In undulation swayed, as when of old +The Spirit of God above the waters moved +Creative, while the blind and shapeless void +Yearned into form, and form grew meet for life, +And downward through the abysses Law ran forth +With touch soul-soft, and seas from lands retired, +And light from dark, and wondering Nature passed +Through storm to calm, and all things found their home. + +Silence long time endured; at last, clear-voiced, +Her head not turning, thus the woman spake: +"That God who Man became--who died, and lives, - +Say, died He for my son?" And Patrick said, +"Yea, for thy son He died. Kneel, woman, kneel! +Nor doubt, for mighty is a mother's prayer, +That He who in the eternal light is throned, +Lifting the roseate and the nail-pierced palm, +Will make in heaven the Venerable Sign, +For He it is prays in us, and that Soul +Thou lov'st pass on to glory." + + At his word +She knelt, and unto God, with help of God, +Uprushed the strength of prayer, as when the cloud +Uprushes past some beetling mountain wall +From billowy deeps unseen. Long time she prayed; +While heaven and earth grew silent as that night +When rose the Saviour. Sudden ceased the prayer: +And rang upon the night her jubilant cry, +"I saw a Sign in Heaven. Far inward rolled +The gates; and glory flashed from God; and he +I love his entrance won." Then, fair and tall, +That woman stood with hands upraised to heaven +The dusky shadow of her youth renewed, +And instant Patrick spake, "Give thanks to God, +And speed thee home, and sleep; and since thy son +No children left, take to thee orphans twain +And rear them, in his honour, unto Christ; +And yearly, when the death-day of thy son +Returns, his birth-day name it; call thy friends; +Give alms; and range the poor around thy door, +So shall they feast, and pray. Woman, farewell: +All night the dark upon thy face hath lain; +Yet shall we know each other, met in heaven." + +Then blithe of foot that Mother crossed the moor; +And when she reached her door a zone of white +Loosening along a cloud that walled the east +Revealed the coming dawn. That dawn ere long +Lay, unawaking, on a face serene, +On tearless lids, and quiet, open palms, +On stormless couch and raiment calm that hid +A breast if faded now, yet happier far +Than when in prime its youthful wave first heaved +Rocking a sleeping Infant. + + + +SAINT PATRICK AT THE FEAST OF KNOCK CAE; +OR, THE FOUNDING OF MUNGRET. + +ARGUMENT. + +Saint Patrick, being bidden to a feast, discourses + on the way against the pride of the Bards, for whom + Fiacc pleads. Derball, a scoffer, requires the Saint + to remove a mountain. He kneels down and prays, and + Derball avers that the mountain moved. + Notwithstanding, Derball believes not, but departs. + The Saint declares that he saw not whether the + mountain moved. He places Nessan over his convent at + Mungret because he had given a little wether to the + hungry. Nessan's mother grudged the gift; and Saint + Patrick prophesies that her grave shall not be in her + son's church. + +In Limneach, {101} ere he reached it, fame there ran +Of Patrick's words and works. Before his foot +Aileel had fallen, loud wailing, with his wife, +And cried, "Our child is slain by savage beasts; +But thou, O prophet, if that God thou serv'st +Be God indeed, restore him!" Patrick turned +To Malach, praised of all men. "Brother, kneel, +And raise yon child." But Malach answered, "Nay, +Lest, tempting God, His service I should shame." +Then Patrick, "Answer of the base is thine; +And base shall be that house thou build'st on earth, +Little, and low. A man may fail in prayer: +What then? Thank God! the fault is ours not His, +And ours alone the shame." The Apostle turned +To Ibar, and to Ailbe, bishops twain, +And bade them raise the child. They heard and knelt: +And Patrick knelt between them; and these three +Upheaved a wondrous strength of prayer; and lo! +All pale, yet shining, rose the child, and sat, +Lifting small hands, and preached to those around, +And straightway they believed, and were baptized. + +Thus with loud rumour all the land was full, +And some believed; some doubted; and a chief, +Lonan, the son of Eire, that half believed, +Willing to draw from Patrick wonder and sign, +By messengers besought him, saying, "Come, +For in thy reverence waits thy servant's feast +Spread on Knock Cae." That pleasant hill ascends +Westward of Ara, girt by rivers twain, +Maigue, lily-lighted, and the "Morning Star" +Once "Samhair" named, that eastward through the woods +Winding, upon its rapids earliest meets +The morn, and flings it far o'er mead and plain. + +From Limneach therefore Patrick, while the dawn +Still dusk, its joyous secret kept, went forth, +O'er dustless road soon lost in dewy fields, +And groves that, touched by wakening winds, began +To load damp airs with scent. That time it was +When beech leaves lose their silken gloss, and maids +From whitest brows depose the hawthorn white, +Red rose in turn enthroning. Earliest gleams +Glimmered on leaves that shook like wings of birds: +Saint Patrick marked them well. He turned to Fiacc - +"God might have changed to Pentecostal tongues +The leaves of all the forests in the world, +And bade them sing His love! He wrought not thus: +A little hint He gives us and no more. +Alone the willing see. Thus they sin less +Who, if they saw, seeing would disbelieve. +Hark to that note! O foolish woodland choirs! +Ye sing but idle loves; and, idler far, +The bards sing war--war only!" + + Answered thus +The monk bard-loving: "Sing it! Ay, and make +The keys of all the tempests hang on zones +Of those cloud-spirits! They, too, can 'bind and loose:' +A bard incensed hath proved a kingdom's doom! +Such Aidan. Upon cakes of meal his host, +King Aileach, fed him in a fireless hall: +The bard complained not--ay, but issuing forth, +Sang in dark wood a keen and venomed song +That raised on the king's countenance plague-spots three; +Who saw him named them Scorn, Dishonour, Shame, +And blighted those three oak trees nigh his door. +What next? Before a month that realm lay drowned +In blood; and fire went o'er the opprobrious house!" +Thus spake the youth, and blushed at his own zeal +For bardic fame; then added, "Strange the power +Of song! My father, do I vainly dream +Oft thinking that the bards, perchance the birds, +Sing something vaster than they think or know? +Some fire immortal lives within their strings: +Therefore the people love them. War divine, +God's war on sin--true love-song best and sweetest - +Perforce they chaunt in spirit, not wars of clans: +Yea, one day, conscious, they shall sing that song; +One day by river clear of south or north, +Pagan no more, the laurelled head shall rise, +And chaunt the Warfare of the Realm of Souls, +The anguish and the cleansing, last the crown - +Prelude of songs celestial!" + + Patrick smiled: +"Still, as at first, a lover of the bards! +Hard task was mine to win thee to the cowl! +Dubtach, thy master, sole in Tara's hall +Who made me reverence, mocked my quest. He said, +'Fiacc thou wouldst?--my Fiacc? Few days gone by +I sent the boy with poems to the kings; +He loves me: hardly will he leave the songs +To wear thy tonsure!' As he spake, behold, +Thou enter'dst. Sudden hands on Dubtach's head +I laid, as though to gird with tonsure crown: +Then rose thy clamour, 'Erin's chief of bards +A tonsured man! Me, father, take, not him! +Far less the loss to Erin and the songs!' +Down knelt'st thou; and, ere long, old Dubtach's floor +Shone with thy vernal locks, like forest paths +Made gold by leaves of autumn!" + + As he spake, +The sun, new-risen, flashed on a breast of wood +That answered from a thousand jubilant throats: +Then Fiacc, with all their music in his face, +Resumed: "My father, upon Tara's steep +Patient thou sat'st whole months, sifting with care +The laws of Eire, recasting for all time, +Ill laws from good dissevering, as that Day +Shall sever tares from wheat. I see thee still, +As then we saw--thy clenched hand lost in beard +Propping thy chin; thy forehead wrinkle-trenched +Above that wondrous tome, the 'Senchus Mohr,' +Like his, that Hebrew lawgiver's, who sat +Throned on the clouded Mount, while far below +The Tribes waited in awe. Now answer make! +Three bishops, and three brehons, and three kings. +Ye toiled--who helped thee best?" "Dubtach, the bard," +Patrick replied--"Yea, wise was he, and knew +Man's heart like his own strings." "All bards are wise," +Shouted the youth, "except when war they wage +On thee, the wisest. In their music bath +They cleanse man's heart, not less, and thus prepare, +Though hating thee, thy way. The bards are wise +For all except themselves. Shall God not save them, +He who would save the worst? Such grace were hard +Unless, death past, their souls to birds might change, +And in the darksomest grove of Paradise +Lament, amerced, their error, yet rejoice +In souls that walked obedient!" "Darksomest grove," +Patrick made answer; "darksome is their life; +Darksome their pride, their love, their joys, their hopes; +Darksome, though gleams of happier lore they have, +Their light! Seest thou yon forest floor, and o'er it, +The ivy's flash--earth-light? Such light is theirs: +By such can no man walk." + + Thus, gay or grave, +Conversed they, while the Brethren paced behind; +Till now the morn crowded each cottage door +With clustered heads. They reached ere long in woods +A hamlet small. Here on the weedy thatch +White fruit-bloom fell: through shadow, there, went round +The swinging mill-wheel tagged with silver fringe; +Here rang the mallet; there was heard remote +The one note of the love-contented bird. +Though warm the sun, in shade the young spring morn +Was edged with winter yet, and icy film +Glazed the deep ruts. The swarthy smith worked hard, +And working sang; the wheelwright toiled close by; +An armourer next to these: through flaming smoke +Glared the fierce hands that on the anvil fell +In thunder down. A sorcerer stood apart +Kneading Death's messenger, that missile ball, +The Lia Laimbhe. To his heart he clasped it, +And o'er it muttered spells with flatteries mixed: +"Hail, little daughter mine! 'Twixt hand and heart +I knead thee! From the Red Sea came that sand +Which, blent with viper's poison, makes thy flesh! +Be thou no shadow wandering on the air! +Rush through the battle gloom as red-combed snake +Cleaves the blind waters! On! like Witch's glance, +Or forked flash, or shaft of summer pest, +And woe to him that meets thee! Mouth blood-red +My daughter hath: --not healing be her kiss!" +Thus he. In shade he stood, and phrensy-fired; +And yet he marked who watched him. Without word +Him Patrick passed; but spake to all the rest +With voice so kindly reverent, "Is not this," +Men asked, "the preacher of the 'Tidings Good?'" +"What tidings? Has he found a mine?" "He speaks +To princes as to brothers; to the hind +As we to princes' children! Yea, when mute, +Saith not his face 'Rejoice'?" + + At times the Saint +Laid on the head of age his strong right hand, +Gentle as touch of soft-accosting eyes; +And once before an open door he stopped, +Silent. Within, all glowing like a rose, +A mother stood for pleasure of her babes +That--in them still the warmth of couch late left - +Around her gambolled. On his face, as hers, +Their sport regarding, long time lay the smile; +Then crept a shadow o'er it, and he spake +In sadness: "Woman! when a hundred years +Have passed, with opening flower and falling snow, +Where then will be thy children?" Like a cloud +Fear and great wrath fell on her. From the wall +She snatched a battle-axe and raised it high +In both hands, clamouring, "Wouldst thou slay my babes?" +He answered, "I would save them. Woman, hear! +Seest thou yon floating shape? It died a worm; +It lives, the blue-winged angel of spring meads. +Thy children, likewise, if they serve my King, +Death past, shall find them wings." Then to her cheek +The bloom returned, and splendour to her eye; +And catching to her breast, that larger swelled, +A child, she wept, "Oh, would that he might live +For ever! Prophet, speak! thy words are good! +Their father, too, must hear thee." Patrick said, +"Not so; nor falls this seed on every road;" +Then added thus: "You child, by all the rest +Cherished as though he were some infant God, +Is none of thine." She answered, "None of ours; +A great chief sent him here for fosterage." +Then he: "All men on earth the children are +Of One who keeps them here in fosterage: +They see not yet His face; but He sees them, +Yea, and decrees their seasons and their times: +Like infants, they must learn Him first by touch, +Through nature, and her gifts--by hearing next, +The hearing of the ear, and that is Faith - +By Vision last. Woman, these things are hard; +But thou to Limneach come in three days' time, +Likewise thy husband; there, by Sangul's Well, +Thou shalt know all." + + The Saint had reached ere long +That festal mount. Thousands with bannered line +Scaled it light-hearted. Never favourite lamb +In ribands decked shone brighter than that hour +The fair flank of Knock Cae. Heath-scented airs +Lightened the clambering toil. At times the Saint +Stayed on their course the crowds, and towards the Truth +Drew them by parable, or record old, +Oftener by question sage. Not all believed: +Of such was Derball. Man of wealth and wit, +Nor wise, nor warlike, toward the Saint he strode +With bubble-seething brain, and head high tossed, +And cried, "Great Seer! remove yon mountain blue, +Cenn Abhrat, by thy prayer! That done, to thee +Fealty I pledge." Saint Patrick knelt in prayer: +Soon Derball cried, "The central ridge descends; - +Southward, beyond it, Longa's lake shines out +In sunlight flashing!" At his word drew near +The men of Erin. Derball homeward turned, +Mocking: "Believe who will, believe not I! +Me more imports it o'er my foodful fields +To draw the Maigue's rich waters than to stare +At moving hills." But certain of that throng, +Light men, obsequious unto Derball's laugh, +Questioned of Patrick if the mountain moved. +He answered, "On the ground mine eyes were fixed; +Nought saw I. Haply, through defect of mine, +It moved not. Derball said the mountain moved; +Yet kept he not his pledge, but disbelieved. +'Faith can move mountains.' Never said my King +That mountains moved could move reluctant faith +In unbelieving heart." With sad, calm voice +He spake; and Derball's laughter frustrate died. + + Meantime, high up on that thyme-scented hill +By shadows swept, and lights, and rapturous winds, +Lonan prepared the feast, and, with that chief, +Mantan, a deacon. Tables fair were spread; +And tents with branches gay. Beside those tents +Stood the sweet-breathing, mournful, slow-eyed kine +With hazel-shielded horns, and gave their milk +Gravely to merry maidens. Low the sun +Had fallen, when, Patrick near the summit now, +There burst on him a wandering troop, wild-eyed, +With scant and quaint array. O'er sunburnt brows +They wore sere wreaths; their piebald vests were stained, +And lean their looks, and sad: some piped, some sang, +Some tossed the juggler's ball. "From far we came," +They cried; "we faint with hunger; give as food!" +Upon them Patrick bent a pitying eye, +And said, "Where Lonan and where Mantan toil +Go ye, and pray them, for mine honour's sake, +To gladden you with meat." But Lonan said, +And Mantan, "Nay, but when the feast is o'er, +The fragments shall be yours." With darkening brow +The Saint of that denial heard, and cried, +"He cometh from the North, even now he cometh, +For whom the Blessing is reserved; he cometh +Bearing a little wether at his back:" +And, straightway, through the thicket evening-dazed +A shepherd--by him walked his mother--pushed, +Bearing a little wether. Patrick said, +"Give them to eat. They hunger." Gladly then +That shepherd youth gave them the wether small: +With both his hands outstretched, and liberal smile, +He gave it, though, with angry eye askance +His mother grudged it sore. The wether theirs, +As though earth-swallowed, vanished that wild tribe, +Fearing that mother's eye. + + Then Patrick spake +To Lonan, "Zealous is thy service, friend; +Yet of thy house no king shall sit on throne, +No bishop bless the people." Turning then +To Mantan, thus he spake, "Careful art thou +Of many things; not less that church thou raisest +Shall not be of the honoured in the land; +And in its chancel waste the mountain kine +Shall couch above thy grave." To Nessan last +Thus spake he: "Thou that didst the hungry feed, +The poor of Christ, that know not yet His name, +And, helping them that cried to me for help, +Cherish mine honour, like a palm, one day, +Shall rise thy greatness." Nessan's mother old +For pardon knelt. He blessed her hoary head, +Yet added, mournful, "Not within the Church +That Nessan serves shall lie his mother's grave." +Then Nessan he baptized, and on him bound +Ere long the deacon's grade, and placed him, later, +Priest o'er his church at Mungret. Centuries ten +It stood, a convent round it as a star +Forth sending beams of glory and of grace +O'er woods Teutonic and the Tyrrhene Sea. +Yet Nessan's mother in her son's great church +Slept not; nor where the mass bell tinkled low: +West of the church her grave, to his--her son's - +Neighbouring, yet severed by the chancel wall. + +Thus from the morning star to evening star +Went by that day. In Erin many such +Saint Patrick lived, using well pleased the chance, +Or great or small, since all things come from God: +And well the people loved him, being one +Who sat amid their marriage feasts, and saw, +Where sin was not, in all things beauty and love. +But, ere he passed from Munster, longing fell +On Patrick's heart to view in all its breadth +Her river-flood, and bless its western waves; +Therefore, forth journeying, to that hill he went, +Highest among the wave-girt, heathy hills, +That still sustains his name, and saw the flood +At widest stretched, and that green Isle {111} hard by, +And northern Thomond. From its coasts her sons +Rushed countless forth in skiff and coracle +Smiting blue wave to white, till Sheenan's sound +Ceased, in their clamour lost. That hour from God +Power fell on Patrick; and in spirit he saw, +Invisible to flesh, the western coasts, +And the ocean way, and, far beyond, that land +The Future's heritage, and prophesied +Of Brendan who ere long in wicker boat +Should over-ride the mountains of the deep, +Shielded by God, and tread--no fable then - +Fabled Hesperia. Last of all he saw +More near, thy hermit home, Senanus;--'Hail, +Isle of blue ocean and the river's mouth! +The People's Lamp, their Counsel's Head, is thine!" +That hour shone out through cloud the westering sun +And paved the wave with fire: that hour not less +Strong in his God, westward his face he set, +Westward and north, and spread his arms abroad, +And drew the blessing down, and flung it far: +"A blessing on the warriors, and the clans, +A blessing on high field, and golden vales, +On sea-like plain and on the showery ridge, +On river-ripple, cliff, and murmuring deep, +On seaward peaks, harbours, and towns, and ports; +A blessing on the sand beneath the ships: +On all descend the Blessing!" Thus he prayed, +Great-hearted; and from all the populous hills +And waters came the People's vast "Amen!" + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND KING EOCHAID. + +ARGUMENT. + +King Eochaid submits himself to the Christian Law because + Saint Patrick has delivered his son from bonds, yet + only after making a pact that he is not, like the + meaner sort, to be baptized. In this stubbornness he + persists, though otherwise a kindly king; and after + many years, he dies. Saint Patrick had refused to + see his living face; yet after death he prays by the + death-bed. Life returns to the dead; and sitting up, + like one sore amazed, he demands baptism. The Saint + baptizes him, and offers him a choice either to reign + over all Erin for fifteen years, or to die. Eochaid + chooses to die, and so departs. + +Eochaid, son of Crimther, reigned, a King +Northward in Clochar. Dearer to his heart +Than kingdom or than people or than life +Was he, the boy long wished for. Dear was she, +Keine, his daughter. Babyhood's white star, +Beauteous in childhood, now in maiden dawn +She witched the world with beauty. From her eyes +A light went forth like morning o'er the sea; +Sweeter her voice than wind on harp; her smile +Could stay men's breath. With winged feet she trod +The yearning earth that, if it could, like waves +Had swelled to meet their pressure. Ah, the pang! +Beauty, the immortal promise, like a cheat +If unwed glides into the shadow land, +Childless and twice defeated. Beauty wed +To mate unworthy, suffers worse eclipse - +"Ill choice between two ills!" thus spleenfull cried +Eochaid; but not his the pensive grief: +He would have kept his daughter in his house +For ever; yet, since better might not be, +Himself he chose her out a mate, and frowned, +And said, "The dog must have her." But the maid +Wished not for marriage. Tender was her heart; +Yet though her twentieth year had o'er her flown, +And though her tears had dewed a mother's grave, +In her there lurked, not flower of womanhood, +But flower of angel texture. All around +To her was love. The crown of earthly love +Seemed but its crown of mockery. Love Divine - +For that she yearned, and yet she knew it not; +Knew less that love she feared. + + She walked in woods +While all the green leaves, drenched by sunset's gold, +Upon a shower-bespangled sycamore +Shivered, and birds among them choir on choir +Chanted her praise--or spring's. "Ill sung," she laughed, +"My dainty minstrels! Grant to me your wings, +And I for them will teach you song of mine: +Listen!" A carol from her lip there gushed +That, ere its time, might well have called the spring +From winter's coldest cave. It ceased; she turned. +Beside her Patrick stood. His hand he raised +To bless her. Awed, though glad, upon her knees +The maiden sank. His eye, as if through air, +Saw through that stainless soul, and, crystal-shrined +Therein, its inmate, Truth. That other Truth +Instant to her he preached--the Truth Divine-- +(For whence is caution needful, save from sin?) +And those two Truths, each gazing upon each, +Embraced like sisters, thenceforth one. For her +No arduous thing was Faith, ere yet she heard +In heart believing: and, as when a babe +Marks some bright shape, if near or far, it knows not, +And stretches forth a witless hand to clasp +Phantom or form, even so with wild surmise +And guesses erring first, and questions apt, +She chased the flying light, and round it closed +At last, and found it substance. "This is He." +Then cried she, "This, whom every maid should love, +Conqueror self-sacrificed of sin and death: +How shall we find, how please Him, how be nigh?" +Patrick made answer: "They that do His will +Are nigh Him." And the virgin: "Of the nigh, +Say, who is nighest?" Thus, that winged heart +Rushed to its rest. He answered: "Nighest they +Who offer most to Him in sacrifice, +As when the wedded leaves her father's house +And cleaveth to her husband. Nighest they +Who neither father's house nor husband's house +Desire, but live with Him in endless prayer, +And tend Him in His poor." Aloud she cried, +"The nearest to the Highest, that is love; - +I choose that bridal lot!" He answered, "Child, +The choice is God's. For each, that lot is best +To which He calls us." Lifting then pure hands, +Thus wept the maiden: "Call me, Virgin-born! +Will not the Mother-Maid permit a maid +To sit beside those nail-pierced feet, and wipe, +With hair untouched by wreaths of mortal love, +The dolorous blood-stains from them? Stranger guest, +Come to my father's tower! Against my will, +Against his own, in bridal bonds he binds me: +My suit he might resist: he cannot thine!" + + She spake; and by her Patrick paced with feet +To hers accordant. Soon they reached that fort: +Central within a circling rath earth-built +It stood; the western tower of stone; the rest, +Not high, but spreading wide, of wood compact; +For thither many a forest hill had sent +His wind-swept daughter brood, relinquishing +Converse with cloud and beam and rain forever +To echo back the revels of a Prince. +Mosaic was the work, beam laced with beam +In quaint device: high up, o'er many a door +Shone blazon rich of vermeil, or of green, +Or shield of bronze, glittering with veined boss, +Chalcedony or agate, or whate'er +The wave-lipped marge of Neagh's broad lake might boast, +Or ocean's shore, northward from Brandon's Head +To where the myriad-pillared cliffs hang forth +Their stony organs o'er the lonely main. +And trembles yet the pilgrim, noting at eve +The pride Fomorian, and that Giant Way {116} +Trending toward eastern Alba. From his throne +Above the semicirque of grassy seats +Whereon by Brehons and by Ollambs girt +Daily be judged his people, rose the king +And bade the stranger welcome. + + Day to day +And night to night succeeded. In fit time, +For Patrick, sometimes sudden, oft was slow, +He spoke his Master's message. At the close, +As though in trance, the warriors circling stood +With hands outstretched; the Druids downward frowned, +Silent; and like a strong man awed for once, +Eochaid round him stared. A little while, +And from him passed the amazement. Buoyant once more, +And bright like trees fresher for thunder-shower, +With all his wonted aspect, bold and keen, +He answered: "O my prophet, words, words, words! +We too have Prophets. Better thrice our Bards; +Yet, being no better these than trumpet's blast, +The trumpet more I prize. Had words been work, +Myself in youth had led the loud-voiced clan! +Deeds I preferred. What profit e'er had I +From windy marvels? Once with me in war +A seer there camped that, bending back his head, +Fit rites performed, and upward gazing, blew +With rounded lips into the heaven of heavens +Druidic breath. That heaven was changed to cloud, +Cloud that on borne to Claire's hated bound +Down fell, a rain of blood! To me what gain? +Within three weeks my son was trapped and snared +By Aodh of Hy Brinin, king whose hosts +Number my warriors fourfold. Three long years +Beyond those purple mountains in the west +Hostage he lies." Lightly Eochaid spake, +And turned: but shaken chin betrayed that grief +Which lived beneath his lightness. + + Sudden thronged +High on the neighbouring hills a jubilant troop, +Their banners waving, while the midway vale +With harp and horn resounded. Patrick spake: +"Rejoice! thy son returns! not sole he comes, +But in his hand a princess, fair and good, +A kingdom for her dowry. Aodh's realm, +By me late left, welcomed MY King with joy: +All fire the mountains shone. 'The God I serve,' +Thus spake I, Aodh pointing to those fires, +'In mountains of rejoicing hath no joy +While sad beyond them sits a childless man, +His only son thy captive. Captive groaned +Creation; Bethlehem's Babe set free the slave. +For His sake loose thy thrall!' A sweeter voice +Pleaded with mine, his daughter's 'mid her tears. +'Aodh,' I said, 'these two each other love! +What think'st thou? He who shaped the linnet's nest, +Indifferent unto Him are human loves? +Arise! thy work make perfect! Righteous deeds +Are easier whole than half.' In thought awhile +Old Aodh sat; then to his daughter turned, +And thus, imperious even in kindness, spake: +'Well fought the youth ere captured, like the son +Of kings, and worthy to be sire of kings: +Wed him this hour: and in three days, at eve, +Restore him to his father!' King, this hour +Thou know'st if Christ's strong Faith be empty words, +Or truth, and armed with power." + + That night was passed +In feasting and in revel, high and low +Rich with a common gladness. Many a torch +Flared in the hand of servitors hill-sent, +That standing, each behind a guest, retained +Beneath that roof clouded by banquet steam +Their mountain wildness. Here, the splendour glanced +On goblet jewel-chased and dark with wine, +Swift circling; there, on walls with antlers spread, +And rich with yew-wood carvings, flower or bud, +Or clustered grape pendent in russet gleam +As though from nature's hand. A hall hard by +Echoed the harp that now nor kindled rage, +Nor grief condoled, nor sealed with slumber's balm +Tempestuous spirits, triumphs three of song, +But raised to rapture, mirth. Far shone that hall +Glowing with hangings steeped in every tinct +The boast of Erin's dyeing-vats, now plain, +Now pranked with bird or beast or fish, whate'er +Fast-flying shuttle from the craftsman's thought +Catching, on bore through glimmering warp and woof, +A marvellous work; now traced by broiderer's hand +With legends of Ferdiadh and of Meave, +Even to the golden fringe. The warriors paced +Exulting. Oft they showed their merit's prize, +Poniard or cup, tribute ordained of tribes +From age to age, Eochaid's right, on them +With equal right devolving. Slow they moved +In mantle now of crimson, now of blue, +Clasped with huge torque of silver or of gold +Just where across the snowy shirt there strayed +Tendril of purple thread. With jewelled fronts +Beauteous in pride 'mid light of winsome smiles, +Over the rushes green with slender foot +In silver slipper hid, the ladies passed, +Answering with eyes not lips the whispered praise, +Or loud the bride extolling--"When was seen +Such sweetness and such grace?" + + Meantime the king +Conversed with Patrick. Vexed he heard announced +His daughter's high resolve: but still his looks +Went wandering to his son. "My boy! Behold him! +His valour and his gifts are all from me: +My first-born!" From the dancing throng apart +His daughter stood the while, serene and pale, +Down-gazing on that lily in her hand +With face of one who notes not shapes around, +But dreams some happy dream. The king drew nigh, +And on her golden head the sceptre staff +Leaning, but not to hurt her, thus began: +"Your prophets of the day, I trust them not! +If sent from God, why came they not long since? +Our Druids came before them, and, belike, +Shall after them abide! With these new seers +I count not Patrick. Things that Patrick says +I ofttimes thought. His lineage too is old - +Wide-browed, grey-eyed, with downward lessening face, +Not like your baser breeds, with questing eyes +And jaw of dog. But for thy Heavenly Spouse, +I like not Him! At least, wed Cormac first! +If rude his ways, yet noble is his name, +And being but poor the man will bide with me: +He's brave, and likeliest soon in fight may fall! +When Cormac dies, wed next--" a music clash +Forth bursting drowned his words. + + Three days passed by: +To Patrick, then preparing to depart, +Thus spake Eochaid in the ears of all: +"Herald Heaven-missioned of the Tidings Good! +Those tidings I have pondered. They are true: +I for that truth's sake, and in honour bound +By reason of my son set free, resolve +The same, upon conditions, to believe, +And suffer all my people to believe, +Just terms exacted. Briefly these they are: +First, after death, I claim admittance frank +Into thy Heavenly Kingdom: next, till death +For me exemption from that Baptism Rite, +Imposed on kerne and hind. Experience-taught, +I love not rigid bond and written pledge: +'Tis well to brand your mark on sheep or lamb: +Kings are of lion breed; and of my house +'Tis known there never yet was king baptized. +This pact concluded, preach within my realm +Thy Faith; and wed my daughter to thy God. +Not scholarly am I to know what joy +A maid can find in psalm, and cell, and spouse +Unseen: yet ever thus my sentence stood, +'Choose each his way.' My son restored, her loss +To me is loss the less." Thus spake the king. + +Then Patrick, on whose face the princess bent +The supplication softly strong of eyes +Like planets seen through mist, Eochaid's heart +Knowing, which miracle had hardened more, +Made answer, "King, a man of jests art thou, +Claiming free range in heaven, and yet its gate +Thyself close barring! In thy daughter's prayers +Belike thou trustest, that where others creep +Thou shalt its golden bastions over-fly. +Far otherwise than in that way thou ween'st, +That daughter's prayers shall speed thee. With thy word +I close, that word to frustrate. God be with thee! +Thou living, I return not. Fare thee well." + + Thus speaking, by the hand he took the maid, +And led her through the concourse. At her feet +The poor fell low, kissing her garment's hem, +And many brought their gifts, and all their prayers, +And old men wept. A maiden train snow-garbed, +Her steps attending, whitened plain and field, +As when at times dark glebe, new-turned, is changed +To white by flock of ocean birds alit, +Or inland blown by storm, or hunger-urged +To filch the late-sown grain. Her convent home +Ere long received her. There Ethembria ruled, +Green Erin's earliest nun. Of princely race, +She in past years before the font of Christ +Had knelt at Patrick's feet. Once more she sought him: +Over the lovely, lovelier change had passed, +As when on childish girlhood, 'mid a shower +Of lilies earthward wafted, maidenhood +In peacefuller state assumes her spotless throne; +So, from that maiden, vestal now had risen: - +Lowlier she seemed, more tender, soft, and grave, +Yet loftier; hushed in quiet more divine, +Yet wonder-awed. Again she knelt, and o'er +The bending queenly head, till then unbent, +He flung that veil which woman bars from man +To make her more than woman. Nigh to death +The Saint forgat not her. With her remained +Keine; but Patrick dwelt far off at Saul. + + Years came and went: yet neither chance nor change, +Nor war, nor peace, nor warnings from the priests, +Nor whispers 'mid the omen-mongering crowd, +Might from Eochaid charm his wayward will, +Nor reasonings of the wise that still preferred +Safe port to victory's pride. He reasoned too, +For confident in his reasonings was the king, +Reckoning on pointed fingers every link +That clenched his mail of proof. "On Patrick's word +Ye tell me Baptism is the gate of Heaven: +Attend, Sirs! I have Patrick's word no less +That I shall enter Heaven. What need I more? +If, Death, truth-speaker, shows that Patrick lied, +Plain is my right against him! Heaven not won, +Patrick bare hence my daughter through a fraud: +He must restore her fourfold--daughters four, +As fair and good. If not, the prophet's pledge +For honour's sake his Master must redeem, +And unbaptized receive me. Dupes are ye! +Doomed 'mid the common flock, with branded fleece +Bleating to enter Heaven!" + + The years went by; +And weakness came. No more his small light form +To reverent eyes seemed taller than it was: +No more the shepherd watched him from the hill +Heading his hounds, and hoped to catch his smile, +Yet feared his questions keen. The end drew near. +Some wept, some railed; restless the warriors tramped; +The Druids conned their late discountenanced spells; +The bard his lying harpstrings spurned, so long +Healing, unhelpful now. But far away, +Within that lonely convent tower from her +Who prayed for ever, mightier rose the prayer. + +Within the palace, now by usage old +To all flung open, all were sore amazed, +All save the king. The leech beside the bed +Sobbed where he stood, yet sware, "The fit will pass: +Ten years the King may live." Eochaid frowned: +"Shall I, to patch thy fame, live ten years more, +My death-time come? My seventy years are sped: +My sire and grandsire died at sixty-nine. +Like Aodh, shall I lengthen out my days +Toothless, nor fit to vindicate my clan, +Some losel's song? The kingdom is my son's! +Strike from my little milk-white horse the shoes, +And loose him where the freshets make the mead +Greenest in springtide. He must die ere long; +And not to him did Patrick open Heaven. +Praise be to Patrick's God! May He my sins, +Known and unknown, forgive!" + + Backward he sank +Upon his bed, and lay with eyes half closed, +Murmuring at times one prayer, five words or six; +And twice or thrice he spake of trivial things; +Then like an infant slumbered till the sun, +Sinking beneath a great cloud's fiery skirt, +Smote his old eyelids. Waking, in his ears +The ripening cornfields whispered 'neath the breeze, +For wide were all the casements that the soul +By death delivered hindrance none might find +(Careful of this the king); and thus he spake: +"Nought ever raised my heart to God like fields +Of harvest, waving wide from hill to hill, +All bread-full for my people. Hale me forth: +When I have looked once more upon that sight +My blessing I will give them, and depart." + +Then in the fields they laid him, and he spake. +"May He that to my people sends the bread, +Send grace to all who eat it!" With that word +His hands down-falling, back once more he sank, +And lay as dead; yet, sudden, rising not, +Nor moving, nor his eyes unclosing, said, +"My body in the tomb of ancient kings +Inter not till beside it Patrick stands +And looks upon my brow." He spake, then sighed +A little sigh, and died. + + Three days, as when +Black thunder cloud clings fast to mountain brows, +So to the nation clung the grief: three days +The lamentation sounded on the hills +And rang around the pale blue meres, and rose +Shrill from the bleeding heart of vale and glen, +And rocky isle, and ocean's moaning shore; +While by the bier the yellow tapers stood, +And on the right side knelt Eochaid's son, +Behind him all the chieftains cloaked in black; +And on his left his daughter knelt, the nun, +Behind her all her sisterhood, white-veiled, +Like tombstones after snowstorm. Far away, +At "Saul of Patrick," dwelt the Saint when first +The king had sickened. Message sent he none +Though knowing all; and when the end was nigh, +And heralds now besought him day by day, +He made no answer till o'er eastern seas +Advanced the third fair morning. Then he rose, +And took the Staff of Jesus, and at eve +Beside the dead king standing, on his brow +Fixed a sad eye. Aloud the people wept; +The kneeling warriors eyed their lord askance; +The nuns intoned their hymn. Above that hymn +A cry rang out: it was the daughter's prayer; +And after that was silence. By the dead +Still stood the Saint, nor e'er removed his gaze. +Then--seen of all--behold, the dead king's hands +Rose slowly, as the weed on wave upheaved +Without its will; and all the strengthless shape +In cerements wrapped, as though by mastering voice +From the white void evoked and realm of death, +Without its will, a gradual bulk half rose, +The hoar head gazing forth. Upon the face +Had passed a change, the greatest earth may know; +For what the majesty of death began +The majesties of worlds unseen, and life +Resurgent ere its time, had perfected, +All accidents of flesh and sorrowful years +Cancelled and quelled. Yet horror from his eyes +Looked out as though some vision once endured +Must cling to them for ever. Patrick spake: +"Soul from the dead sent back once more to earth +What seek'st thou from God's Church?" He answer made, +"Baptism." Then Patrick o'er him poured the might +Of healing waters in the Name Triune, +The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit; +And from his eyes the horror passed, and light +Went from them, as the light of eyes that rest +On the everlasting glory, while he spake: +"Tempest of darkness drave me past the gates +Celestial, and, a moment's space, within +I heard the hymning of the hosts of God +That feed for ever on the Bread of Life +As feed the nations on the harvest wheat. +Tempest of darkness drave me to the gates +Of Anguish: then a cry came up from earth, +Cry like my daughter's when her mother died, +That stayed the on-rushing whirlwind; yet mine eyes +Perforce looked in, and, many a thousand years, +Branded upon them lay that woful sight +Now washed from them for ever." Patrick spake: +"This day a twofold choice I give thee, son; +For fifteen years the rule o'er Erin's land, +Rule absolute, Ard-Righ o'er lesser kings; +Or instant else to die, and hear once more +That hymn celestial, and that Vision see +They see who sing that anthem." Light from God +Over that late dead countenance streamed amain, +Like to his daughter's now--more beauteous thrice - +Yet awful, more than beauteous. "Rule o'er earth, +Rule without end, were nought to that great hymn +Heard but a single moment. I would die." + +Then Patrick, on him gazing, answered, "Die!" +And died the king once more, and no man wept; +But on her childless breast the nun sustained +Softly her father's head. + + That night discourse +Through hall and court circled in whispers low. +First one, "Was that indeed our king? But where +The sword-scar and the wrinkles?" "Where," rejoined, +Wide-eyed, the next, "his little cranks and girds +The wisdom, and the whim?" Then Patrick spake: +"Sirs, till this day ye never saw your king; +The man ye doted on was but his mask, +His picture--yea, his phantom. Ye have seen +At last the man himself." That night nigh sped, +While slowly o'er the darkling woods went down, +Warned by the cold breath of the up-creeping morn +Invisible yet nigh, the August moon, +Two vestals, gliding past like moonlight gleams, +Conversed: one said, "His daughter's prayer prevailed!" +The second, "Who may know the ways of God? +For this, may many a heart one day rejoice +In hope! For this, the gift to many a man +Exceed the promise; Faith's invisible germ +Quickened with parting breath; and Baptism given, +It may be, by an angel's hand unseen!" + + + +SAINT PATRICK AND THE FOUNDING OF ARMAGH CATHEDRAL. + +ARGUMENT. + +Saint Patrick repairs to Ardmacha, there to found the + chief church of Erin. For that purpose he demands of + Daire, the king, a certain woody hill. The king + refuses it, and afterwards treats him with alternate + scorn and reverence; while the Saint, in each event + alike, makes the same answer, "Deo Gratias." At last + the king concedes to him the hill; and on the + summit of it Saint Patrick finds a little white fawn + asleep. The men of Erin would have slain that fawn; + but the Saint carries it on his shoulder, and restores + it to its dam. Where the fawn lay, he places the + altar of his cathedral. + +At Cluain Cain, in Ross, unbent yet old, +Dwelt Patrick long. Its sweet and flowery sward +He to the rock had delved, with fixed resolve +To build thereon Christ's chiefest church in Eire. +Then by him stood God's angel, speaking thus: +"Not here, but northward." He replied, "O, would +This spot might favour find with God! Behold! +Fair is it, and as meet to clasp a church +As is a true heart in a virgin breast +To clasp the Faith of Christ. The hinds around +Name it 'the beauteous meadow.'" "Fair it is," +The angel answered, "nor shall lack its crown. +Another's is its beauty. Here, one day +A pilgrim from the Britons sent shall build, +And, later, what he builds shall pass to thine; +But thou to Macha get thee." + + Patrick then, +Obedient as that Patriarch Sire who faced +At God's command the desert, northward went +In holy silence. Soon to him was lost +That green and purple meadow-sea, embayed +'Twixt two descending woody promontories, +Its outlet girt with isles of rock, its shores +Cream-white with meadow-sweet. Not once he turned, +Climbing the uplands rough, or crossing streams +Swoll'n by the melted snows. The Brethren paced +Behind; Benignus first, his psalmist; next +Secknall, his bishop; next his brehon Erc; +Mochta, his priest; and Sinell of the Bells; +Rodan, his shepherd; Essa, Bite, and Tassach, +Workers of might in iron and in stone, +God-taught to build the churches of the Faith +With wisdom and with heart-delighting craft; +Mac Cairthen last, the giant meek that oft +On shoulders broad bare Patrick through the floods: +His rest was nigh. That hour they crossed a stream; +'Twas deep, and, 'neath his load, the giant sighed. +Saint Patrick said, "Thou wert not wont to sigh!" +He answered, "Old I grow. Of them my mates +How many hast thou left in churches housed +Wherein they rule and rest!" The Saint replied, +"Thee also will I leave within a church +For rule and rest; not to mine own too near +For rarely then should we be seen apart, +Nor yet remote, lest we should meet no more." +At Clochar soon he placed him. There, long years +Mac Cairthen sat, its bishop. + + As they went, +Oft through the woodlands rang the battle-shout; +And twice there rose above the distant hill +The smoke of hamlet fired. Yet, none the less, +Spring-touched, the blackbird sang; the cowslip changed +Green lawn to green and golden; and grey rock +And river's marge with primroses were starred; +Here shook the windflower; there the blue-bells gleamed, +As though a patch of sky had fallen on earth. + +Then to Benignus spake the Saint: "My son, +If grief were lawful in a world redeemed +The blood-stains on a land so strong in faith, +So slack in love, might cloud the holiest brow, +Yea, his whose head lay on the breast of Christ. +Clan wars with clan: no injury is forgiven; +Like to the joy in stag-hunts is the war: +Alas! for such what hope!" Benignus answered +"O Father, cease not for this race to hope, +Lest they should hope no longer! Hope they have; +Still say they, 'God will snare us in the end +Though wild.'" And Patrick, "Spirits twain are theirs: +The stranger, and the poor, at every door +They meet, and bid him in. The youngest child +Officious is in service; maids prepare +The bath; men brim the wine-cup. Then, forth borne, +Cities they fire and rich in spoil depart, +Greed mixed with rage--an industry of blood!" +He spake, and thus the younger made reply: +"Father, the stranger is the brother-man +To them; the poor is neighbour. Septs remote +To them are alien worlds. They know not yet +That rival clans are men." + + "That know they shall," +Patrick made answer, "when a race far off +Tramples their race to clay! God sends abroad +His plague of war that men on earth may know +Brother from foe, and anguish work remorse." +He spake, and after musings added thus: +"Base of God's kingdom is Humility - +I have not spared to thunder o'er their pride; +Great kings have I rebuked and signs sent forth, +And banned for their sake fruitful plain, and bay; +Yet still the widow's cry is on the air, +The orphan's wail!" Benignus answered mild, +"O Father, not alone with sign and ban +Hast thou rebuked their madness. Oftener far +Thy sweetness hath reproved them. Once in woods +Northward of Tara as we tracked our way +Round us there gathered slaves who felled the pines +For ship-masts. Scarred their hands, and red with blood, +Because their master, Trian, thus had sworn, +'Let no man sharpen axe!' Upon those hands +Gazing, they wept soon as thy voice they heard, +Because that voice was soft. Thou heard'st their tale; +Straight to that chieftain's castle went'st thou up, +And bound'st him with thy fast, beside his gate +Sitting in silence till his heart should melt; +And since he willed it not to melt, he died. +Then, in her arms two babes, came forth the queen +Black-robed, and freed her slaves, and gave them hire; +And, we returning after many years, +Filled was that wood with homesteads; plots of corn +Rustled around them; here were orchards; there +In trench or tank they steeped the bright blue flax; +The saw-mill turned to use the wanton brook; +Murmured the bee-hive; murmured household wheel; +Soft eyes looked o'er it through the dusk; at work +The labourers carolled; matrons glad and maids +Bare us the pail head-steadied, children flowers: +Last, from her castle paced the queen, and led +In either hand her sons whom thou hadst blest, +Thenceforth to stand thy priests. The land believed; +And not through ban, or word, sharp-edged or soft, +But silence and thy fast the ill custom died." + +He answered, "Christ, in Christ-like life expressed, +This, this, not words, subdues a land to Christ; +And in this best Apostolate all have part. +Ah me! that flower thou hold'st is strong to preach +Creative Love, because itself is lovely; +But we, the heralds of Redeeming Love, +Because we are unlovely in our lives, +Preach to deaf ears! Yet theirs, theirs too, the sin." +Benignus made reply: "The race is old; +Not less their hearts are young. Have patience with them! +For see, in spring the grave old oaks push forth +Impatient sprays, wine-red: their strength matured, +These sober down to verdure." Patrick paused, +Then, brooding, spake, as one who thinks, not speaks: +"A priest there walked with me ten years and more; +Warrior in youth was he. One day we heard +The shock of warring clans--I hear it still: +Within him, as in darkening vase you note +The ascending wine, I watched the passion mount: - +Sudden he dashed him down into the fight, +Nor e'er to Christ returned." Benignus answered; +"I saw above a dusky forest roof +The glad spring run, leaving a track sea-green: +Not straight she ran; and yet she reached her goal: +Later I saw above green copse of thorn +The glad spring run, leaving a track foam-white: +Not straight she ran; yet soon she conquered all! +O Father, is it sinful to be glad +Here amid sin and sorrow? Joy is strong, +Strongest in spring-tide! Mourners I have known +That, homeward wending from the new-dug grave, +Against their will, where sang the happy birds +Have felt the aggressive gladness stir their hearts, +And smiled amid their tears." So babbled he, +Shamed at his spring-tide raptures. + + As they went, +Far on their left there stretched a mighty land +Of forest-girdled hills, mother of streams: +Beyond it sank the day; while round the west +Like giants thronged the great cloud-phantoms towered. +Advancing, din they heard, and found in woods +A hamlet and a field by war unscathed, +And boys on all sides running. Placid sat +The village Elders; neither lacked that hour +The harp that gently tranquillises age, +Yet wakes young hearts with musical unrest, +Forerunner oft of love's unrest. Ere long +The measure changed to livelier: maid with maid +Danced 'mid the dancing shadows of the trees, +And youth with youth; till now, the strangers near, +Those Elders welcomed them with act benign; +And soon was slain the fatted kid, and soon +The lamb; nor any asked till hunger's rage +Was quelled, "Who art thou?" Patrick made reply, +"A Priest of God." Then prayed they, "Offer thou +To Him our sacrifice! Belike 'tis He +Who saves from war this hamlet hid in woods: +Unblest be he who finds it!" Thus they spake, +The matrons, not the youths. In friendly talk +The hours went by with laughter winged and tale; +But when the moon, on rolling through the heavens, +Showered through the leaves a dew of sprinkled light +O'er the dark ground, the maidens garments brought +Woven in their quiet homes when nights were long, +Red cloak and kirtle green, and laid them soft, +Still with the wearers' blameless beauty warm, +For coverlet upon the warm dry grass, +Honouring the stranger guests. For these they deemed +Their low-roofed cots too mean. Glad-hearted rose +The Christian hymn, not timid: far it rang +Above the woods. Ere long, their blissful rites +Fulfilled, the wanderers laid them down and slept. + +At midnight by the side of Patrick stood +Victor, God's Angel, saying, "Lo! thy work +Hath favour found and thou ere long shalt die: +Thus therefore saith the Lord, 'So long as sea +Girdeth this isle, so long thy name shall hang +In splendour o'er it, like the stars of God.'" +Then Patrick said, "A boon! I crave a boon!" +The angel answered, "Speak;" and Patrick said, +"Let them that with me toiled, or in the years +To come shall toil, building o'er all this land +The Fortress-Temple and great House of Christ, +Equalled with me my name in Erin share." +And Victor answered, "Half thy prayer is thine; +With thee shall they partake. Not less, thy name +Higher than theirs shall rise, and wider spread, +Since thus more plainly shall His glory shine +Whose glory is His justice." + + With the morn +Those pilgrims rose, and, prime entoned and lauds, +Poured out their blessing on that woodland clan +Which, round them pressing, kissed them, robe and knee; +Then on they journeyed till at set of sun +Shone out the roofs of Macha, and that tower +Where Daire dwelt, its lord. + + Saint Patrick sent +To Daire embassage, vouchsafing prayer +As sire might pray of son; "Give thou yon hill +To Christ, that we may build His church thereon." +And Daire answered with a brow of storms +Bent forward darkly, and long, sneering lips, +"Your master is a mighty man, we know. +Garban, that lied to God, he slew through prayer, +And banned full many a lake, and many a plain, +For trespass there committed! Let it be! +A Chief of souls he is! No signs we work, +Rulers earth-born: yet somewhat are we here - +Depart! By others answer we will send." + + So Daire sent to Patrick men of might, +Fierce men, the battle's nurslings. Thus they spake: +"High region for high heads! If build ye must, +Build on the plain: the hill is Daire's right: +Church site he grants you, and the field around." +And Patrick, glancing from his Office Book, +Made answer, "Deo Gratias," and no more. + +Upon that plain he built a little church +Ere long, a convent likewise, girt with mound +Banked from the meadow loam, and deftly set +With stone, and fence, and woody palisade, +That neither warring clans, far heard by day, +Might hurt his cloistered charge, nor wolves by night, +Howling in woods; and there he served the Lord. + +But Daire scorned the Saint, and grudged his gift, +Though small; and half in spleen, and half in greed, +Sent down two stately coursers all night long +To graze the deep sweet pasture round the church: +Ill deed: --and so, for guerdon of that sin, +Dead lay the coursers twain at the break of dawn. + +Then fled the servants back, and told their lord, +Fearing for negligence rebuke and scath, +"Thy Christian slew the coursers!" and the king +Gave word to slay or bind him. But from God +A sickness fell on Daire nigh to death +That day and night. When morning brake, the queen, +A woman leal with kind barbaric heart, +Her bosom from the sick man's head withdrew +A moment while he slept; and, round her gazing, +Closed with both hands upon a liegeman's arm, +And sped him to the Saint for pardon and peace. +Then Patrick, dipping in the inviolate fount +A chalice, blessed the water, with command +"Sprinkle the stately coursers and the king; " +And straightway as from death the king arose, +And rose from death the coursers. + + Daire then, +His tall frame boastful with that life renewed, +Took with him men, and down the stone-paved hill +Rode from his tower, and through the woodlands green, +And bare with him an offering of those days, +A brazen cauldron vast. Embossed it shone +With sculptured shapes. On one side hunters rode: +Low stretched their steeds: the dogs pulled down the stag +Unseen, except the branching horns that rose +Like hands in protest. Feasters, on the other, +Raised high the cup pledging the safe return. +This offering Daire brought, and, entering, spake: +"A gift for guerdon and for grace, O Priest!" +And Patrick, upward glancing from his book, +Made answer, "Deo Gratias!" and no more. + +King Daire, homeward riding with knit brow +Muttered, "Churl's welcome for a kingly boon!" +And, drinking late that night the stormy breath +Of others' anger blent with his, commanded, +"Ride forth at morn and bring me back my gift! +Spurn it he shall not, though he prize it not." +They heard him, and obeyed. At noon the king +Demanded thus, "What answer made the Saint?" +They said, "His eyes he raised not from his book, +But answered, 'Deo Gratias!' and no more." + +Then Daire stamped his foot, like war-horse stung +By gadfly: musing next, and mute he sat +A space, and lastly roared great laughter peals +Till roared in mockery back the raftered roof, +And clashed his hands together shouting thus: +"A gift, and 'Deo Gratias!'--gift withdrawn, +And 'Deo Gratias!' Sooth, the word is good! +Madman is this, or man of God? We'll know!" +So from his frowning fortress once again +Adown the resonant road o'er street and bridge +Rode Daire, at his right the queen in fear, +With dumbly pleading countenance; close behind, +With tangled locks and loose-hung battle-axe +Ran the wild kerne; and loud the bull-horn blew. +The convent reached, King Daire from his horse +Flung his great limbs, and at the doorway towered +In gazing stern: the queen beside him stood, +Her lustrous violet eyes all lost in tears: +One hand on Daire's garment lay like light +Wandering on dusky ripple; one, upraised, +Held in the high-necked horse that champed the bit, +His head near hers. Within, the man of God, +Sole-sitting, read his office book unmoved, +And ending fixed his keen eye on the king, +Not rising from his seat. + + Then fell from God +Insight on Daire, and aloud he cried, +"A kingly man, of mind unmovable +Art thou; and as the rock beneath my tower +Shakes not in storm so shakes not heart of thine: +Such men are of the height and not the plain: +Therefore that hill to thee I grant unsought +Which whilome I refused. Possession take +This day, lest hostile demon warp my mood; +And build thereon thy church. The same shall stand +Strong mother-church of all thy great clan Christ!" + +Thus Daire spake; and Patrick, at his word +Rising, gave thanks to God, and to the king +High blessing heard in heaven; and making sign +Went forth, attended by his priestly train, +Benignus first, his dearest, then the rest. +In circuit thrice they girt that hill, and sang +Anthem first heard when unto God was vowed +That House which David offered in his heart +His son in act, and hymn of holy Church +Hailing that city like a bride attired, +From heaven to earth descending. With them sang +An angel choir above them borne. The birds +Forbore their songs, listening that angel strain, +Ethereal music and by men unheard +Except the Elect. The king in reverence paced +Behind, his liegemen next, a mass confused +With saffron standard gay and spears upheld +Flashing through thickets green. These kept not line, +For Alp was still recounting battles old, +Aodh of wizards sang, and Ir of love; +While bald-pate Conan, sharpening from his eye +The sneering light, shot from his plastic mouth +Shrill taunt and biting gibe. The younger sort +Eyed the dense copse and launched full many a shaft +Through it at flying beast. From ledge to ledge +Clomb Angus, keen of sight, with hand o'er brow, +Forth gazing on some far blue ridge of war +With nostril wide outblown, and snorting cried, +"Would I were there!" + + Meantime, the man of God +Had reached the fair crown of that sacred hill, +A circle girt with woodland branching low, +And roofed with heaven. Beyond its tonsure fringe, +Birch trees and oaks, there pushed a thorn milk-white, +And close beside it slept in shade a fawn +Whiter. The startled dam had left its side, +And through the dark stems fled like flying gleam. +Minded they were, the kernes, to kill that fawn, +And all the priests stood silent; but the Saint +Put forth his hand, and o'er her signed the Cross, +And, stooping, on his shoulder placed her firm, +And bade the brethren mark with stones her lair +Dewless and dusk: then, singing as he went +"Like as the hart desires the water brooks," +He walked, that hill descending. Light from God +O'ershone his face. Meantime the awakened fawn +Now rolled her dark eye on the silver head +Close by, now turning licked the wrinkled hand, +Unfearing. Soon, with little whimpering sob, +The doe drew near and paced at Patrick's side. +At last they reached a little field low down +Beneath that hill: there Patrick laid the fawn. + +King Daire questioned Patrick of that deed, +Incensed; and scornful asked, "Shall mitred man +Play thus the shepherd and the forester?" +And Patrick answered, "Aged men, O king, +Forget their reasons oft. Benignus seek, +If haply God has shown him for what cause +I wrought this thing." Then Daire turned him back +And faced Benignus; and with lifted hand, +Pure as a maid's, and dimpled like a child's, +Picturing his thoughts on air, the little monk +Thus glossed that deed. "Great mystery, king, is Love: +Poets its worthiness have sung in lays +Unread by ruder ones like me; and yet +Thus much the simplest and the rudest know, +Dear is the fawn to her that gave it birth, +And to the sceptred monarch dear the child +That mounts his knee. Nor here the marvel ends; +For, like yon star, the great Paternal Heart +Through all the unmeted, unimagined years, +While yet Creation uncreated hung, +A thought, a dawn-streak on the verge extreme +Of lonely Godhead's inner Universe, +Panted and pants with splendour of its love, +The Eternal Sire rejoicing in the Son +And Both in Him Who still from Both proceeds, +Bond of their love. Moreover, king, that Son +Who, Virgin-born, raised from the ruinous gulf +Our world, and made it footstool to God's throne, +The same is Love, and died for Love, and reigns: +Loveless, His Church were but a corse stone-cold; +Loveless, her creed were but a winter leaf +Network of barren thoughts, the cerement wan +Of Faith extinct. Therefore our Saint revered +The love and anguish of that mother doe, +And inly vowed that where her offspring couched +Christ's chiefest church should stand, from age to age +Confession plain 'mid raging of the clans +That God is Love;--His worship void and vain +Disjoined from Love that, rising to the heights +Even to the depths descends." + + Conversing thus, +Macha they reached. Ere long where lay the fawn +Stood God's new altar; and, ere many years, +Far o'er the woodlands rose the church high-towered, +Preaching God's peace to still a troubled world. +The Saint who built it found not there his grave +Though wished for; him God buried otherwhere, +Fulfilling thus the counsels of His Will: +But old, and grey, when many a winter's frost +To spring had yielded, bent by wounds and woes +Upon that church's altar looked once more +King Daire; at its font was joined to Christ; +And, midway 'twixt that altar and that font, +Rejoined his beauteous mate a later day. + + + +THE ARRAIGNMENT OF SAINT PATRICK. + +ARGUMENT. + +Secknall, the poet, brings, in sport, three heavy charges + against Saint Patrick, who, supposing them to be + serious, defends himself against them. Lastly + Secknall sings a hymn written in praise of a Saint. + Saint Patrick commends it, affirming that for once + Fame has dispensed her honours honestly. Upon this, + Secknall recites the first stave, till then craftily + reserved, which offers the whole homage of that hymn + to Patrick, who, though the humblest of men, has thus + arrogated to himself the saintly Crown. There is + laughter among the brethren. + +When Patrick now was old and nigh to death +Undimmed was still his eye; his tread was strong; +And there was ever laughter in his heart, +And music in his laughter. In a wood +Nigh to Ardmacha dwelt he with his monks; +And there, like birds that cannot stay their songs +Love-touched in Spring, or grateful for their nests, +They to the woodsmen preached of Christ, their King, +To swineherds, and to hinds that tended sheep, +Yea, and to pilgrim guests from distant clans; +His shepherd-worshipped birth when breath of kine +Went o'er the Infant; all His wondrous works +Or words from mount, or field, or anchored boat, +And Christendom upreared for weal of men +And Angel-wonder. Daily preached the monks +And daily built their convent. Wildly sweet +The season, prime of unripe spring, when March +Distils from cup half gelid yet some drops +Of finer relish than the hand of May +Pours from her full-brimmed beaker. Frost, though gone, +Had left its glad vibration on the air; +Laughed the blue heavens as though they ne'er had frowned, +Through leafless oak-boughs; limes of kindlier grace +And swifter to believe Spring's "tidings good" +Took the sweet lights upon a breast bud-swoll'n, +And crimson as the redbreast's; while, as when +Clear rings a flute-note through sea-murmurs harsh, +At intervals ran out a streak of green +Across the dim-hued forest. + + From their wood +The strong arms of the monks had hewn them space +For all their convent needed; farmyard stored +With stacks that all the winter long had clutched +Their hoarded harvest sunshine; pasture green +Whitened with sheep; fair garden fenceless still +With household herbs new-sprouting: but, as oft +Some conquered race, forth sallying in its spleen +When serves the occasion, wins a province back, +Or flouts at least the foe, so here once more +Wild flowers, a clan unvanquished, raised their heads +'Mid sprouting wheat; and where from craggy height +Pushed the grey ledge, the woodland host recoiled +As though in Parthian flight; while many a bird, +Barbaric from the inviolate forest launched +Wild warbled scorn on all that life reclaimed, +Mute garth-still orchard. Child of distant hills, +A proud stream, swollen by midnight rains, down leaped +From rock to rock. It spurned the precinct now +With airy dews silvering the bramble green +And redd'ning more the beech-stock. + + 'Twas the hour +Of rest, and every monk was glad at heart, +For each had wrought with might. With hands upheld, +Mochta, the priest, had thundered against sin, +Wrath-roused, as when some prince too late returned +Stares at his sea-side village all in flames, +The slave-thronged ship escaped. The bishop, Erc, +Had reconciled old feuds by Brehon Law +Where Brehon Law was lawful. Boys wild-eyed +Had from Benignus learned the church's song, +Boys brightened now, yet tempered, by that age +Gracious to stripling as to maid, that brings +Valour to one and modesty to both +Where youth is loyal to the Virgin-born. +The giant meek, Mac Cairthen, on bent neck +Had carried beam on beam, while Criemther felled +The oaks, and from the anvil Laeban dashed +The sparks in showers. A little way removed, +Beneath a pine three vestals sat close-veiled: +A song these childless sang of Bethlehem's Child, +Low-toned, and worked their Altar-cloth, a Lamb +All white on golden blazon; near it bled +The bird that with her own blood feeds her young: +Red drops affused her holy breast. These three +Were daughters of three kings. The best and fairest, +King Daire's daughter, Erenait by name, +Had loved Benignus in her Pagan years. +He knew it not: full sweet to her his voice +Chaunting in choir. One day through grief of love +The maiden lay as dead: Benignus shook +Dews from the font above her, and she woke +With heart emancipate that outsoared the lark +Lost in blue heavens. She loved the Spouse of Souls. +It was as though some child that, dreaming, wept +Its childish playthings lost, awaked by bells, +Bride-bells, had found herself a queen new wed +Unto her country's lord. + + While monk with monk +Conversed, the son of Patrick's sister sat, +Secknall by name, beside the window sole +And marked where Patrick from his hill of prayer +Approached, descending slowly. At the sight +He, maker blithe of songs, and wild as hawk +Albeit a Saint, whose wont it was at times +Or shy, or strange, or shunning flattery's taint, +To attempt with mockery those whom most he loved, +Whispered a brother, "Speak to Patrick thus: +'When all men praised thee, Secknall made reply +"A blessed man were Patrick save for this, +Alms deeds he preaches not."'" The brother went: +Ere long among them entered Patrick, wroth, +Or, likelier, feigning wrath: --"What man is he +Who saith I preach not alms deeds?" Secknall rose: +"I said it, Father, and the charge is true." +Then Patrick answered, "Out of Charity +I preach not Charity. This people, won +To Christ, ere long will prove a race of Saints; +To give will be its passion, not to gain: +Its heart is generous; but its hand is slack +In all save war: herein there lurks a snare: +The priest will fatten, and the beggar feast: +But the lean land will yield nor chief nor prince +Hire of two horses yoked to chariot beam." +Then Secknall spake, "O Father, dead it lies +Mine earlier charge against thee. Hear my next, +Since in our Order's equal Brotherhood +Censure uncensured is the right of all. +You press to the earth your converts! gold you spurn; +Yet bind upon them heavier load than when +Conqueror his captive tasks. Have shepherds three +Bowed them to Christ? 'Build up a church,' you cry; +So one must draw the sand, and one the stone +And one the lime. Honouring the seven great Gifts, +You raise in one small valley churches seven. +Who serveth you fares hard!" The Saint replied, +"Second as first! I came not to this land +To crave scant service, nor with shallow plough +Cleave I this glebe. The priest that soweth much +For here the land is fruitful, much shall reap: +Who soweth little nought but weeds shall bind +And poppies of oblivion." Secknall next: +"Yet man to man will whisper, and the face +Of all this people darken like a sea +When pipes the coming storm." He answered, "Son, +I know this people better. Fierce they are +In anger; neither flies their thought direct; +For some, though true to Nature, lie to men, +And others, true to men, are false to God: +Yet as the prince's is the poor man's heart; +Burthen for God sustained no burden is +To him; and those who most have given to Christ +Largeliest His fulness share." + + Secknall replied, +"Low lies my second charge; a third remains, +Which, as a shaft from seasoned bow, not green, +Shall pierce the marl. With convents still you sow +The land: in other countries sparse and small +They swell to cities here. A hundred monks +On one late barren mountain dig and pray: +A hundred nuns gladden one woodland lawn, +Or sing in one small island. Well--'tis well! +Yet, balance lost and measure, nought is well. +The Angelic Life more common will become +Than life of mortal men." The Saint replied, +"No shaft from homicidal yew-tree bow +Is thine, but winged of thistle-down! Now hear! +Measure is good; but measure's law with scale +Changeth; nor doth the part reflect the whole. +Each nation hath its gift, and each to all +Not equal ministers. If all were eye, +Where then were ear? If all were ear or hand, +Where then were eye? The nation is the part; +The Church the whole"--But Criemther where he stood, +Old warrior, shouted like a chief war-waked, +"This land is Eire! No nation lives like her! +A part! Who portions Eire?" The Saint, with smile +Resumed: "The whole that from the part receives, +Repaying still that part, till man's whole race +Grow to the fulness of Mankind redeemed. +What gift hath God in eminence given to Eire? +Singly, her race is feeble; strong when knit: +Nought knits them truly save a heavenly aim. +I knit them as an army unto God, +Give them God's War! Yon star is militant! +Its splendour 'gainst the dark must fight or die: +So wars that Faith I preach against the world; +And nations fitted least for this world's gain +Can speed Faith's triumph best. Three hundred years, +Well used, should make of Eire a northern Rome. +Criemther! her destiny is this, or nought; +Secknall! the highest only can she reach; +Alone the Apostle's crown is hers: for this, +A Rule I give her, strong, yet strong in Love; +Monastic households build I far and wide; +Monastic clans I plant among her clans, +With abbots for their chiefs. The same shall live, +Long as God's love o'errules them." + + Secknall then +Knelt, reverent; yet his eye had in it mirth, +And round the full bloom of the red rich mouth, +No whit ascetic, ran a dim half smile. +"Father, my charges three have futile fallen, +And thrice, like some great warrior of the bards, +Your conquering wheels above me you have driven. +Brought low, I make confession. Once, in woods +Wandering, we heard a sound, now loud, now low, +As he that treads the sand-hills hears the sea +High murmuring while he climbs the seaward slope, +Low, as he drops to landward. 'Twas a throng +Awed, yet tumultuous, wild-eyed, wondering, fierce, +That, standing round a harper, stave on stave +Acclaimed as each had ending. 'War, still war!' +Thou saidst; 'the bards but sing of War and Death! +Ah! if they sang that Death which conquered Death, +Then, like a tide, this people, music-drawn, +Would mount the shores of Christ! Bards love not us, +Prescient that power, that power wielded elsewhere +By priest, but here by them, shall pass to us: +Yet we love them for good one day their gift.' +Then didst thou turn on me an eye of might +Such as on Malach, when thou had'st him raise +By miracle of prayer that babe boar-slain, +And said'st, 'Go, fell thy pine, and frame thy harp, +And in the hearing of this people sing +Some Saint, the friend of Christ.' Too long the attempt +Shame-faced, I shunned; at last, like him of old, +That better brother who refused, yet went, +I made my hymn. 'Tis called 'A Child of Life.'" +Then Patrick, "Welcome is the praise of Saints: +Sing thou thy hymn." + + From kneeling Secknall rose +And stood, and singing, raised his hand as when +Her cymbal by the Red Sea Miriam raised +While silent stood God's hosts, and silent lay +Those host-entombing waters. Shook, like hers, +His slight form wavering 'mid the gusts of song. +He sang the Saint of God, create from nought +To work God's Will. As others gaze on earth, +Her vales, her plains, her green meads ocean-girt, +So gazed the Saint for ever upon God +Who girds all worlds--saw intermediate nought - +And on Him watched the sunshine and the storm, +And learned His Countenance, and from It alone, +Drew in upon his heart its day and night. +That contemplation was for him no dream: +It hurled him on his mission. As a sword +He lodged his soul within the Hand Divine +And wrought, keen-edged, God's counsel. Next to God +Next, and how near, he loved the souls of men: +Yea, men to him were Souls; the unspiritual herd +He saw as magic-bound, or chained to beast, +And groaned to free them. For their sakes, unfearing, +He faced the ravening waves, and iron rocks, +Hunger, and poniard's edge, and poisoned cup, +And faced the face of kings, and faced the host +Of demons raging for their realm o'erthrown. +This was the Man of Love. Self-love cast out, +The love made spiritual of a thousand hearts +Met in his single heart, and kindled there +A sun-like image of Love Divine. Within +That Spirit-shadowed heart was Christ conceived +Hourly through faith, hourly through Love was born; +Sole secret this of fruitfulness to Christ. +Who heard him heard with his a lordlier Voice, +Strong as that Voice which said, "Let there be light," +And light o'erflowed their beings. He from each +His secret won; to each God's secret told: +He touched them, and they lived. In each, the flesh +Subdued to soul, the affections, vassals proud +By conscience ruled, and conscience lit by Christ, +The whole man stood, planet full-orbed of powers +In equipoise, Image restored of God. +A nation of such men his portion was; +That nation's Patriarch he. No wrangler loud; +No sophist; lesser victories knew he none: +No triumph his of sect, or camp, or court; +The Saint his great soul flung upon the world, +And took the people with him like a wind +Missioned from God that with it wafts in spring +Some winged race, a multitudinous night, +Into new sun-bright climes. + + As Secknall sang, +Nearer the Brethren drew. On Patrick's right +Benignus stood; old Mochta on his left, +Slow-eyed, with solemn smile and sweet; next Erc, +Whose ever-listening countenance that hour +Beyond its wont was listening; Criemther near +The workman Saint, his many-wounded hands +Together clasped: forward each mighty arm +On shoulders propped of Essa and of Bite, +Leaned the meek giant Cairthen: twelve in all +Clustering they stood and in them was one soul. +When Secknall ceased, in silence still they hung +Each upon each, glad-hearted since the meed +Of all their toils shone out before them plain, +Gold gates of heaven--a nation entering in. +A light was on their faces, and without +Spread a great light, for sunset now had fallen +A Pentecostal fire upon the woods, +Or else a rain of angels streamed o'er earth. +In marvel gazed the twelve: yea, clans far off +Stared from their hills, deeming the site aflame. +That glory passed away, discourse arose +On Secknall's hymn. Its radiance from his face +Had, like the sunset's, vanished as he spake. +"Father, what sayst thou?" Patrick made reply, +"My son, the hymn is good; for Truth is gold; +And Fame, obsequious often to base heads, +For once is loyal, and its crown hath laid +Where honour's debt was due." Then Secknall raised +In triumph both his hands, and chaunted loud +That hymn's first stave, earlier through craft withheld, +Stave that to Patrick's name, and his alone, +Offered that hymn's whole incense! Ceasing, he stood +Low-bowed, with hands upon his bosom crossed. +Great laughter from the brethren came, their Chief +Thus trapped, though late--he meekest man of men - +To claim the saintly crown. First young, then old, +Later the old, and sore against their will, +That laughter raised. Last from the giant chest +Of Cairthen forth it rolled its solemn bass, +Like sea-sound swallowing lighter sounds hard by. +But Patrick laughed not: o'er his face there passed +Shade lost in light; and thus he spake, "O friends +That which I have to do I know in part: +God grant I work my work. That which I am +He knows Who made me. Saints He hath, good store: +Their names are written in His Book of Life; +Kneel down, my sons, and pray that if thus long +I seem to stand, I fall not at the end." + +Then in a circle kneeling prayed the twelve. +But when they rose, Secknall with serious brow +Advanced, and knelt, and kissed Saint Patrick's foot, +And said, "O Father, at thy hest that hymn +I made, long labouring, and thy crown it stands: +Thou, therefore, grant me gifts, for strong thy prayer." + +And Patrick said, "The house wherein thy hymn +Is sung at morn or eve shall lack not bread: +And if men sing it in a house new-built, +Where none hath dwelt, nor bridegroom yet, nor bride, +Nor hath the cry of babe been heard therein, +Upon that house the watching of the Saints +Of Eire, and Patrick's watching, shall be fixed +Even as the stars." And Secknall said, "What more?" + +Then Patrick added, "They that night and morn +Down-lying and up-rising, sing that hymn, +They too that softly whisper it, nigh death, +If pure of heart, and liegeful unto Christ, +Shall see God's face; and, since the hymn is long, +Its grace shall rest for children and the poor +Full measure on the last three lines; and thou +Of this dear company shalt die the first, +And first of Eire's Apostles." Then his cheek +Secknall laid down once more on Patrick's foot, +And answered, "Deo Gratias." + + Thus in mirth, +And solemn talk, and prayer, that brother band +In the golden age of Faith with great free heart +Gave thanks to God that blissful eventide, +A thousand and four hundred years and more +Gone by. But now clear rang the compline bell, +And two by two they wended towards their church +Across a space for cloister set apart, +Yet still with wood-flowers sweet, and scent beside +Of sod that evening turned. The night came on; +A dim ethereal twilight o'er the hills +Deepened to dewy gloom. Against the sky +Stood ridge and rock unmarked amid the day: +A few stars o'er them shone. As bower on bower +Let go the waning light, so bird on bird +Let go its song. Two songsters still remained, +Each feebler than a fountain soon to cease, +And claimed somewhile across the dusking dell +Rivals unseen in sleepy argument, +Each, the last word: --a pause; and then, once more, +An unexpected note: --a longer pause; +And then, past hope, one other note, the last. +A moment more the brethren stood in prayer: +The rising moon upon the church-roof new +Glimmered; and o'er it sang an angel choir, +"Venite Sancti." Entering, soon were said +The psalm, "He giveth sleep," and hymn, "Laetare;" +And in his solitary cell each monk +Lay down, rejoicing in the love of God. + +The happy years went by. When Patrick now +And all his company were housed with God +That hymn, at morning sung, and noon, and eve, +Even as it lulled the waves of warring clans +So lulled with music lives of toil-worn men +And charmed their ebbing breath. One time it chanced +When in his convent Kevin with his monks +Had sung it thrice, the board prepared, a guest, +Foot-sore and hungered, murmured, "Wherefore thrice?" +And Kevin answered, "Speak not thus, my son, +For while we sang it, visible to all, +Saint Patrick was among us. At his right +Benignus stood, and, all around, the Twelve, +God's light upon their brows; while Secknall knelt +Demanding meed of song. Moreover, son, +This self-same day and hour, twelve months gone by, +Patrick, our Patriarch, died; and happy Feast +Is that he holds, by two short days alone +Severed from his of Hebrew Patriarchs last, +And Chief. The Holy House at Nazareth +He ruled benign, God's Warder with white hairs; +And still his feast, that silver star of March, +When snows afflict the hill and frost the moor, +With temperate beam gladdens the vernal Church - +All praise to God who draws that Twain so near." + + + +THE STRIVING OF SAINT PATRICK ON MOUNT CRUACHAN. + +ARGUMENT. + +Saint Patrick, seeing that now Erin believes, desires + that the whole land should stand fast in belief till + Christ returns to judge the world. For this end he + resolves to offer prayer on Mount Cruachan; but + Victor, the Angel who has attended him in all his + labours, restrains him from that prayer as being too + great. Notwithstanding, the Saint prays three times + on the mountain, and three times all the demons of + Erin contend against him, and twice Victor, the Angel, + rebukes his prayers. In the end Saint Patrick + scatters the demons with ignominy, and God's Angel + bids him know that his prayer hath conquered through + constancy. + +From realm to realm had Patrick trod the Isle; +And evermore God's work beneath his hand, +Since God had blessed that hand, ran out full-sphered, +And brighter than a new-created star. +The Island race, in feud of clan with clan +Barbaric, gracious else and high of heart, +Nor worshippers of self, nor dulled through sense, +Beholding, not alone his wondrous works; +But, wondrous more, the sweetness of his strength +And how he neither shrank from flood nor fire, +And how he couched him on the wintry rocks, +And how he sang great hymns to One who heard, +And how he cared for poor men and the sick, +And for the souls invisible of men, +To him made way--not simple hinds alone, +But chiefly wisest heads, for wisdom then +Prime wisdom saw in Faith; and, mixt with these, +Chieftains and sceptred kings. Nigh Tara, first, +Scorning the king's command, had Patrick lit +His Paschal fire, and heavenward as it soared, +The royal fire and all the Beltaine fires +Shamed by its beam had withered round the Isle +Like fires on little hearths whereon the sun +Looks in his greatness. Later, to that plain +Central 'mid Eire, "of Adoration" named, +Down-trampled for two thousand years and more +By erring feet of men, the Saint had sped +In Apostolic might, and kenned far off +Ill-pleased, the nation's idol lifting high +His head, and those twelve vassal gods around +All mailed in gold and shining as the sun, +A pomp impure. Ill-pleased the Saint had seen them, +And raised the Staff of Jesus with a ban: +Then he, that demon named of men Crom-dubh, +With all his vassal gods, into the earth +That knew her Maker, to their necks had sunk +While round the island rang three times the cry +Of fiends tormented. + + Not for this as yet +Had Patrick perfected his strength: as yet +The depths he had not trodden; nor had God +Drawn forth His total forces in the man +Hidden long since and sealed. For this cause he, +Who still his own heart in triumphant hour +Suspected most, remembering Milchoe's fate, +With fear lest aught of human mar God's work, +And likewise from his handling of the Gael +Knowing not less their weakness than their strength, +Paused on his conquering way, and lonely sat +In cloud of thought. The great Lent Fast had come: +Its first three days went by; the fourth, he rose, +And meeting his disciples that drew nigh +Vouchsafed this greeting only: "Bide ye here +Till I return," and straightway set his face +Alone to that great hill "of eagles" named +Huge Cruachan, that o'er the western deep +Hung through sea-mist, with shadowing crag on crag, +High-ridged, and dateless forest long since dead. + +That forest reached, the angel of the Lord +Beside him, as he entered, stood and spake: +"The gifts thy soul demands, demand them not; +For they are mighty and immeasurable, +And over great for granting." And the Saint: +"This mountain Cruachan I will not leave +Alive till all be granted, to the last." + +Then knelt he on the shrouded mountain's base, +And was in prayer; and, wrestling with the Lord, +Demanded wondrous things immeasurable, +Not easy to be granted, for the land; +Nor brooked repulse; and when repulse there came, +Repulse that quells the weak and crowns the strong, +Forth from its gloom like lightning on him flashed +Intelligential gleam and insight winged +That plainlier showed him all his people's heart, +And all the wound thereof: and as in depth +Knowledge descended, so in height his prayer +Rose, and far spread; nor roused alone those Powers +Regioned with God; for as the strength of fire +When flames some palace pile, or city vast, +Wakens a tempest round it dragging in +Wild blast, and from the aggression mightier grows, +So wakened Patrick's prayer the demon race, +And drew their legions in upon his soul +From near and far. First came the Accursed encamped +On Connact's cloudy hills and watery moors; +Old Umbhall's Heads, Iorras, and Arran Isle, +And where Tyrawley clasps that sea-girt wood +Fochlut, whence earliest rang the Children's Cry, +To demons trump of doom. In stormy rack +They came, and hung above the invested Mount +Expectant. But, their mutterings heeding not, +When Patrick still in puissance rose of prayer, +O'er all their armies round the realm dispersed +There ran prescience of fate; and, north and south, +From all the mountain-girdled coasts--for still +Best site attracts worst Spirit--on they came, +From Aileach's shore and Uladh's hoary cliffs, +Which held the aeries of that eagle race +More late in Alba throned, "Lords of the Isles" - +High chiefs whose bards, in strong transmitted line, +Filled with the name of Fionn, and thine, Oiseen, +The blue glens of that never-vanquished land - +From those purpureal mountains that o'ergaze +Rock-bowered Loch Lene broidered with sanguine bead, +They came, and many a ridge o'er sea-lake stretched +That, autumn-robed in purple and in gold, +Pontific vestment, guard the memories still +Of monks who reared thereon their mystic cells, +Finian and Kieran, Fiacre, and Enda's self +Of hermits sire, and that sea-facing Saint +Brendan, who, in his wicker boat of skins +Before that Genoese a thousand years +Found a new world; and many more that now +Under wind-wasted Cross of Clonmacnoise +Await the day of Christ. + + So rushed they on +From all sides, and, close met, in circling storm +Besieged the enclouded steep of Cruachan, +That scarce the difference knew 'twixt night and day +More than the sunless pole. Him sought they, him +Whom infinitely near they might approach, +Not touch, while firm his faith--their Foe that dragged, +Sole-kneeling on that wood-girt mountain's base, +With both hands forth their realm's foundation stone. +Thus ruin filled the mountain: day by day +The forest torment deepened; louder roared +The great aisles of the devastated woods; +Black cave replied to cave; and oaks, whole ranks, +Colossal growth of immemorial years, +Sown ere Milesius landed, or that race +He vanquished, or that earliest Scythian tribe, +Fell in long line, like deep-mined castle wall, +At either side God's warrior. Slowly died +At last, far echoed in remote ravines, +The thunder: then crept forth a little voice +That shrilly whispered to him thus in scorn: +"Two thousand years yon race hath walked in blood +Neck-deep; and shall it serve thy Lord of Peace?" +That whisper ceased. Again from all sides burst +Tenfold the storm; and as it waxed, the Saint +Waxed in strong heart; and, kneeling with stretched hands, +Made for himself a panoply of prayer, +And wound it round his bosom twice and thrice, +And made a sword of comminating psalm, +And smote at them that mocked him. Day by day, +Till now the second Sunday's vesper bell +Gladdened the little churches round the isle, +That conflict raged: then, maddening in their ire, +Sudden the Princedoms of the Dark, that rode +This way and that way through the tempest, brake +Their sceptres, and with one great cry it fell: +At once o'er all was silence: sunset lit +The world, that shone as though with face upturned +It gazed on heavens by angel faces thronged +And answered light with light. A single bird +Carolled; and from the forest skirt down fell, +Gem-like, the last drops of the exhausted storm. + +Then bowed the Saint his forehead to the ground +Thanking his God; and there in sacred trance, +Which was not sleep, abode not hours alone +But silent nights and days; and, 'mid that trance, +God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments, +Immortal food. Awaking, Patrick felt +Yearnings for nearer commune with his God, +Though great its cost; and gat him on his feet, +And, mile by mile, ascended through the woods +Till stunted were its growths; and still he clomb +Printing with sandalled foot the dewy steep: +But when above the mountain rose the moon +Brightening each mist, while sank the prone morass +In double night, he came upon a stone +Tomb-shaped, that flecked that steep: a little stream +Dropped by it from the summits to the woods: +Thereon he knelt; and was once more in prayer. + +Nor prayed unnoticed by that race abhorred. +No sooner had his knees the mountain touched +Than through their realm vibration went; and straight +His prayer detecting back they trooped in clouds +And o'er him closed, blotting with bat-like wing +And inky pall, the moon. Then thunder pealed +Once more, nor ceased from pealing. Over all +Night ruled, except when blue and forked flash +Revealed the on-circling waterspout or plunge +Of rain beneath the blown cloud's ravelled hem, +Or, huge on high, that lion-coloured steep +Which, like a lion, roared into the night +Answering the roaring from sea-caves far down. +Dire was the strife. That hour the Mountain old, +An anarch throned 'mid ruins flung himself +In madness forth on all his winds and floods, +An omnipresent wrath! For God reserved, +Too long the prey of demons he had been; +Possession foul and fell. Now nigh expelled +Those demons rent their victim freed. Aloft, +They burst the rocky barrier of the tarn +That downward dashed its countless cataracts, +Drowning far vales. On either side the Saint +A torrent rushed--mightiest of all these twain - +Peeling the softer substance from the hills +Their flesh, till glared, deep-trenched, the mountain's bones; +And as those torrents widened, rocks down rolled +Showering upon that unsubverted head +Sharp spray ice-cold. Before him closed the flood, +And closed behind, till all was raging flood, +All but that tomb-like stone whereon he knelt. + +Unshaken there he knelt with hands outstretched, +God's Athlete! For a mighty prize he strove, +Nor slacked, nor any whit his forehead bowed: +Fixed was his eye and keen; the whole white face +Keen as that eye itself, though--shapeless yet - +The infernal horde to ear not eye addressed +Their battle. Back he drave them, rank on rank, +Routed, with psalm, and malison, and ban, +As from a sling flung forth. Revolt's blind spawn +He named them; one time Spirits, now linked with brute, +Yea, bestial more and baser: and as a ship +Mounts with the mounting of the wave, so he +O'er all the insurgent tempest of their wrath +Rising rode on triumphant. Days went by, +Then came a lull; and lo! a whisper shrill, +Once heard before, again its poison cold +Distilled: "Albeit to Christ this land should bow, +Some conqueror's foot one day would quell her Faith." +It ceased. Tenfold once more the storm burst forth: +Once more the ecstatic passion of his prayer +Met it, and, breasting, overbore, until +Sudden the Princedoms of the dark that rode +This way and that way through the whirlwind, dashed +Their vanquished crowns of darkness to the ground +With one long cry. Then silence came; and lo! +The white dawn of the fourth fair Day of God +O'erflowed the world. Slowly the Saint upraised +His wearied eyes. Upon the mountain lawns +Lay happy lights; and birds sang; and a stream +That any five-years' child might overleap, +Beside him lapsed crystalline between banks +With violets all empurpled, and smooth marge +Green as that spray which earliest sucks the spring. + +Then Patrick raised to God his orison +On that fair mount, and planted in the grass +His crozier staff, and slept; and in his sleep +God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments, +Manna of might divine. Three days he slept; +The fourth he woke. Upon his heart there rushed +Yearning for closer converse with his God +Though great its cost; and on his feet he gat, +And high, and higher yet, that mountain scaled, +And reached at noon the summit. Far below +Basking the island lay, through rainbow shower +Gleaming in part, with shadowy moor, and ridge +Blue in the distance looming. Westward stretched +A galaxy of isles, and, these beyond, +Infinite sea with sacred light ablaze, +And high o'erhead there hung a cloudless heaven. + +Upon that summit kneeling, face to sea +The Saint, with hands held forth and thanks returned, +Claimed as his stately heritage that realm +From north to south: but instant as his lip +Printed with earliest pulse of Christian prayer +That clear aerial clime Pagan till then; +The Host Accursed, sagacious of his act, +Rushed back from all the isle and round him met +With anger seven times heated, since their hour, +And this they knew, was come. Nor thunder din +And challenge through the ear alone, sufficed +That hour their rage malign that, craving sore +Material bulk to rend his bulk--their foe's - +Through fleshly strength of that their murder-lust +Flamed forth in fleshly form phantoms night-black +Though bodiless yet to bodied mass as nigh +As Spirits can reach. More thick than vultures winged +To fields with carnage piled, the Accursed thronged +Making thick night which neither earth nor sky +Could pierce, from sense expunged. In phalanx now, +Anon in breaking legion, or in globe, +With clang of iron pinion on they rushed +And spectral dart high-held. Nor quailed the Saint, +Contending for his people on that Mount, +Nor spared God's foes; for as old minster towers +Besieged by midnight storm send forth reply +In storm outrolled of bells, so sent he forth +Defiance from fierce lip, vindictive chaunt, +And blight and ban, and maledictive rite +Potent on face of Spirits impure to raise +These plague-spots three, Defeat, Madness, Despair; +Nor stinted flail of taunt--"When first my bark +Threatened your coasts, as now upon the hills +Hung ye in cloud; as now, I raised this Cross; +Ye fled before it and again shall fly!" +So hurled he back their squadrons. Day by day +The hurricanes of war shook earth and heaven: +Till now, on Holy Saturday, that hour +Returned which maketh glad the Church of God +When over Christendom in widowed fanes +Two days by penance stripped, and dumb as though +Some Antichrist had trodd'n them down, once more +Swells forth amid the new-lit paschal lights +The "Gloria in Excelsis:" sudden then +That mighty conflict ceased, save one low voice +Twice heard before, now edged with bitterer scoff, +"That race thou lov'st, though fierce in wrath, is soft: +Plenty and peace will melt their Faith one day:" +Then with that whisper dying, died the night: +Then forth from darkness issued earth and sky: +Then fled the phantoms far o'er ocean's wave, +Thence to return not till the day of doom. + +But he, their conqueror wept, upon that height +Standing; nor of his victory had he joy, +Nor of that jubilant isle restored to light, +Nor of that heaven relit; so worked that scoff +Winged from the abyss; and ever thus the man +With darkness communed and that poison cold: +"If Faith indeed should flood the land with peace, +And peace with gold, and gold eat out her heart +Once true, till Faith one day through Faith's reward +Or die, or live diseased, the shame of Faith, +Then blacker were this land and more accursed +Than lands that knew no Christ." And musing thus +The whole heart of the man was turned to tears, +A fount of bale and chalice brimmed with death - +For oft a thought chance-born more racks than truth +Proven and sure--and, weeping, still he wept +Till drenched was all his sad monastic cowl +As sea-weed on the dripping shelf storm-cast +Latest, and tremulous still. + + As thus he wept +Sudden beside him on that summit broad, +Ran out a golden beam like sunset path +Gilding the sea: and, turning, by his side +Victor, God's angel, stood with lustrous brow +Fresh from that Face no man can see and live. +He, putting forth his hand, with living coal +Snatched from God's altar, made that dripping cowl +Dry as an Autumn sheaf. The angel spake: +"Rejoice, for they are fled that hate thy land, +And those are nigh that love it." Then the Saint +Upraised his head; and lo! in snowy sheen +Cresting high rock, and ridge, and airy peak, +Innumerable the Sons of God all round +Vested the invisible mountain with white light, +As when the foam-white birds of ocean throng +Sea-rock so close that none that rock may see. +In trance the Living Creatures stood, with wings +That pointing crossed upon their breasts; nor seemed +As new arrived but native to that site +Though veiled till now from mortal vision. Song +They sang to soothe the vexed heart of the Saint - +Love-song of Heaven: and slowly as it died +Their splendours waned; and through that vanishing light +Earth, sea, and heaven returned. + + To Patrick then, +Thus Victor spake: "Depart from Cruachan, +Since God hath given thee wondrous gifts, immense, +And through thy prayer routed that rebel host." +And Patrick, "Till the last of all my prayers +Be granted, I depart not though I die: - +One said, 'Too fierce that race to bend to faith.'" +Then spake God's angel, mild of voice, and kind: +"Not all are fierce that fiercest seem, for oft +Fierceness is blindfold love, or love ajar. +Souls thou wouldst have: for every hair late wet +In this thy tearful cowl and habit drenched +God gives thee myriads seven of Souls redeemed +From sin and doom; and Souls, beside, as many +As o'er yon sea in legioned flight might hang +Far as thine eye can range. But get thee down +From Cruachan, for mighty is thy prayer." +And Patrick made reply: "Not great thy boon! +Watch have I kept, and wearied are mine eyes +And dim; nor see they far o'er yonder deep." +And Victor: "Have thou Souls from coast to coast +In cloud full-stretched; but, get thee down: this Mount +God's Altar is, and puissance adds to prayer." +And Patrick: "On this Mountain wept have I; +And therefore giftless will I not depart: +One said, 'Although that People should believe +Yet conqueror's heel one day would quell their Faith.'" +To whom the angel, mild of voice, and kind: +"Conquerors are they that subjugate the soul: +This also God concedes thee; conquering foe +Trampling this land, shall tread not out her Faith +Nor sap by fraud, so long as thou in heaven +Look'st on God's Face; nay, by that Faith subdued, +That foe shall serve and live. But get thee down +And worship in the vale." Then Patrick said, +"Live they that list! Full sorely wept have I, +Nor will I hence depart unsatisfied: +One said; 'Grown soft, that race their Faith will shame;' +Say therefore what the Lord thy God will grant, +Nor stint His hand; since never scanter grace +Fell yet on head of nation-taming man +Than thou to me hast portioned till this hour." + +Then answer made the angel, soft of voice: +"Not all men stumble when a Nation falls; +There are that stand upright. God gives thee this: +They that are faithful to thy Faith, that walk +Thy way, and keep thy covenant with God, +And daily sing thy hymn, when comes the Judge +With Sign blood-red facing Jehosaphat, +And fear lays prone the many-mountained world, +The same shall 'scape the doom." And Patrick said, +"That hymn is long, and hard for simple folk, +And hard for children." And the angel thus: +"At least from 'Christum Illum' let them sing, +And keep thy Faith: when comes the Judge, the pains +Shall take not hold of such. Is that enough?" +And Patrick answered, "That is not enough." +Then Victor: "Likewise this thy God accords: +The Dreadful Coming and the Day of Doom +Thy land shall see not; for before that day +Seven years, a great wave arched from out the deep, +Ablution pure, shall sweep the isle and take +Her children to its peace. Is that enough?" +And Patrick answered, "That is not enough." + +Then spake once more that courteous angel kind: +"What boon demand'st then?" And the Saint, "No less +Than this. Though every nation, ere that day +Recreant from creed and Christ, old troth forsworn, +Should flee the sacred scandal of the Cross +Through pride, as once the Apostles fled through fear, +This Nation of my love, a priestly house, +Beside that Cross shall stand, fate-firm, like him +That stood beside Christ's Mother." Straightway, as one +Who ends debate, the angel answered stern: +"That boon thou claimest is too great to grant: +Depart thou from this mountain, Cruachan, +In peace; and find that Nation which thou lov'st, +That like thy body is, and thou her head, +For foes are round her set in valley and plain, +And instant is the battle." Then the Saint: +"The battle for my People is not there, +With them, low down, but here upon this height +From them apart, with God. This Mount of God +Dowerless and bare I quit not till I die; +And dying, I will leave a Man Elect +To keep its keys, and pray my prayer, and name +Dying in turn, his heir, successive line, +Even till the Day of Doom." + + Then heavenward sped +Victor, God's angel, and the Man of God +Turned to his offering; and all day he stood +Offering in heart that Offering Undefiled +Which Abel offered, and Melchisedek, +And Abraham, Patriarch of the faithful race, +In type, and which in fulness of the times +The Victim-Priest offered on Calvary, +And, bloodless, offers still in Heaven and Earth, +Whose impetration makes the whole Church one. +Thus offering stood the man till eve, and still +Offered; and as he offered, far in front +Along the aerial summit once again +Ran out that beam like fiery pillar prone +Or sea-path sunset-paved; and by his side +That angel stood. Then Patrick, turning not +His eyes in prayer upon the West close held +Demanded, "From the Maker of all worlds +What answer bring'st thou?" Victor made reply: +"Down knelt in Heaven the Angelic Orders Nine, +And all the Prophets and the Apostles knelt, +And all the Creatures of the hand of God +Visible, and invisible, down knelt, +While thou thy mighty Mass, though altarless, +Offeredst in spirit, and thine Offering joined; +And all God's Saints on earth, or roused from sleep +Or on the wayside pausing, knelt, the cause +Not knowing; likewise yearned the Souls to God +In that fire-clime benign that clears from sin; +And lo! the Lord thy God hath heard thy prayer, +Since fortitude in prayer--and this thou know'st," - +Smiling the Bright One spake, "is that which lays +Man's hand upon God's sceptre. That thou sought'st +Shall lack not consummation. Many a race +Shrivelling in sunshine of its prosperous years, +Shall cease from faith, and, shamed though shameless, sink +Back to its native clay; but over thine +God shall extend the shadow of His Hand, +And through the night of centuries teach to her +In woe that song which, when the nations wake, +Shall sound their glad deliverance: nor alone +This nation, from the blind dividual dust +Of instincts brute, thoughts driftless, warring wills +By thee evoked and shapen by thy hands +To God's fair image which confers alone +Manhood on nations, shall to God stand true; +But nations far in undiscovered seas, +Her stately progeny, while ages fleet +Shall wear the kingly ermine of her Faith, +Fleece uncorrupted of the Immaculate Lamb, +For ever: lands remote shall raise to God +HER fanes; and eagle-nurturing isles hold fast +HER hermit cells: thy nation shall not walk +Accordant with the Gentiles of this world, +But as a race elect sustain the Crown +Or bear the Cross: and when the end is come, +When in God's Mount the Twelve great Thrones are set, +And round it roll the Rivers Four of fire, +And in their circuit meet the Peoples Three +Of Heaven, and Earth, and Hell, fulfilled that day +Shall be the Saviour's word, what time He stretched +Thy crozier-staff forth from His glory-cloud +And sware to thee, 'When they that with Me walked +Sit with Me on their everlasting thrones +Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine Israel, +Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness.' + +Thou therefore kneel, and bless thy Land of Eire." + +Then Patrick knelt, and blessed the land, and said, +"Praise be to God who hears the sinner's prayer." + + + +EPILOGUE. + +THE CONFESSION OF SAINT PATRICK. + +ARGUMENT. + +Before his death, Saint Patrick makes confession to his + brethren concerning his life; of his love for that + land which had been his House of Bondage; of his + ceaseless prayer in youth: of his sojourn at Tours, + where St. Martin had made abode, at Auxerres with + St. Germanus, and at Lerins with the Contemplatives: + of that mystic mountain where the Redeemer Himself + lodged the Crozier Staff in his hand; of Pope + Celestine who gave him his Mission; of his Visions; of + his Labours. His last charge to the sons of Erin is + that they should walk in Truth; that they should put + from them the spirit of Revenge; and that they should + hold fast to the Faith of Christ. + +At Saul then, by the inland-spreading sea, +There where began my labour, comes the end: +I, blind and witless, willed it otherwise: +God willed it thus. When prescience came of death +I said, "My Resurrection place I choose" - +O fool, for ne'er since boyhood choice was mine +Save choice to subject will of mine to God - +"At great Ardmacha." Thitherward I turned; +But in my pathway, with forbidding hand, +Victor, God's angel stood. "Not so," he said, +"For in Ardmacha stands thy princedom fixed, +Age after age, thy teaching, and thy law, +But not thy grave. Return thou to that shore +Thy place of small beginnings, and thereon +Lessen in body and mind, and grow in spirit: +Then sing to God thy little hymn and die." + +Yea, Lord, my mouth would praise Thee ere I die, +The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit +Who knittest in His Church the just to Christ: +Help me, my sons--mine orphans soon to be - +Help me to praise Him; ye that round me sit +On those grey rocks; ye that have faithful been, +Honouring, despite dishonour of my sins, +His servant: I would praise Him yet once more, +Though mine the stammerer's voice, or as a child's; +For it is written, "Stammerers shall speak plain +Sounding Thy Gospel." "They whom Christ hath sent +Are Christ's Epistle, borne to ends of earth, +Writ by His Spirit, and plain to souls elect:" +Lord, am not I of Thine Apostolate? + +Yea, by abjection Thine, by suffering Thine! +Till I was humbled I was as a stone +In deep mire sunk. Then, stretched from heaven, Thy hand +Slid under me in might, and lifted me, +And fixed me in Thy Temple where Thou wouldst. +Wonder, ye great ones, wonder, ye the wise! +On me, the last and least, this charge was laid +This crown, that I in humbleness and truth +Should walk this nation's Servant till I die. + +Therefore, a youth of sixteen years, or less, +With others of my land by pirates seized +I stood on Erin's shore. Our bonds were just; +Our God we had forsaken, and His Law, +And mocked His priests. Tending a stern man's swine +I trod those Dalaraida hills that face +Eastward to Alba. Six long years went by; +But--sent from God--Memory, and Faith, and Fear +Moved on my spirit as winds upon the sea, +And the Spirit of Prayer came down. Full many a day +Climbing the mountain tops, one hundred times +I flung upon the storm my cry to God. +Nor frost, nor rain might harm me, for His love +Burned in my heart. Through love I made my fast; +And in my fasts one night I heard this voice, +"Thou fastest well: soon shalt thou see thy Land." +Later, once more thus spake it: "Southward fly, +Thy ship awaits thee." Many a day I fled, +And found the black ship dropping down the tide, +And entered with those Gentiles by Thy grace +Vanquished, though first they spurned me, and was free. +It was Thy leading, Lord; the Hand was Thine! +For now when, perils past, I walked secure, +Kind greetings round me, and the Christian Rite, +There rose a clamorous yearning in my heart, +And memories of that land so far, so fair, +And lost in such a gloom. And through that gloom +The eyes of little children shone on me, +So ready to believe! Such children oft +Ran by me naked in and out the waves, +Or danced in circles upon Erin's shores, +Like creatures never fallen! Thought of such +Passed into thought of others. From my youth +Both men and women, maidens most, to me +As children seemed; and O the pity then +To mark how oft they wept, how seldom knew +Whence came the wound that galled them! As I walked, +Each wind that passed me whispered, "Lo, that race +Which trod thee down! Requite with good their ill! +Thou know'st their tongue; old man to thee, and youth, +For counsel came, and lambs would lick thy foot; +And now the whole land is a sheep astray +That bleats to God." + + Alone one night I mused, +Burthened with thought of that vocation vast. +O'er-spent I sank asleep. In visions then, +Satan my soul plagued with temptation dire. +Methought, beneath a cliff I lay, and lo! +Thick-legioned demons o'er me dragged a rock, +That falling, seemed a mountain. Near, more near, +O'er me it blackened. Sudden from my heart +This thought leaped forth: "Elias! Him invoke!" +That name invoked, vanished the rock; and I, +On mountains stood watching the rising sun, +As stood Elias once on Carmel's crest, +Gazing on heaven unbarred, and that white cloud, +A thirsting land's salvation. + + Might Divine! +Thou taught'st me thus my weakness; and I vowed +To seek Thy strength. I turned my face to Tours, +There where in years gone by Thy soldier-priest +Martin had ruled, my kinsman in the flesh. +Dead was the lion; but his lair was warm: +In it I laid me, and a conquering glow +Rushed up into my heart. I heard discourse +Of Martin still, his valour in the Lord, +His rugged warrior zeal, his passionate love +For Hilary, his vigils, and his fasts, +And all his pitiless warfare on the Powers +Of darkness; and one day, in secrecy, +With Ninian, missioned then to Alba's shore, +I peered into his branch-enwoven cell, +Half-way between the river and the rocks, +From Tours a mile and more. + + So passed eight years +Till strengthened was my heart by discipline: +Then spake a priest, "Brother, thy will is good, +Yet rude thou art of learning as a beast; +Fare thee to great Germanus of Auxerres, +Who lightens half the West!" I heard, and went, +And to that Saint was subject fourteen years. +He from my mind removed the veil; "Lift up," +He said, "thine eyes!" and like a mountain land +The Queenly Science stood before me plain, +From rocky buttress up to peak of snow: +The great Commandments first, Edicts, and Laws +That bastion up man's life: --then high o'er these +The forest huge of Doctrine, one, yet many, +Forth stretching in innumerable aisles, +At the end of each, the self-same glittering star: - +Lastly, the Life God-hidden. Day by day, +With him for guide, that first and second realm +I tracked, and learned to shun the abyss flower-veiled, +And scale heaven-threatening heights. This, too, he taught, +Himself long time a ruler and a prince, +The regimen of States from chaos won +To order, and to Christ. Prudence I learned, +And sageness in the government of men, +By me sore needed soon. O stately man, +In all things great, in action and in thought, +And plain as great! To Britain called, the Saint +Trod down that great Pelagian Blasphemy, +Chief portent of the age. But better far +He loved his cell. There sat he vigil-worn, +In cowl and dusky tunic hued like earth +Whence issued man and unto which returns; +I marvelled at his wrinkled brows, and hands +Still tracing, enter or depart who would, +From morn to night his parchments. + + There, once more, +O God, Thine eye was on me, or my hand +Once more had missed the prize. Temptation now +Whispered in softness, "Wisdom's home is here: +Here bide untroubled." Almost I had fallen; +But, by my side, in visions of the night, +God's angel, Victor, stood as one that hastes, +On travel sped. Unnumbered missives lay +Clasped in his hands. One stretched he forth, inscribed +"The wail of Erin's Children." As I read +The cry of babes, from Erin's western coast +And Fochlut's forest, and the wintry sea, +Shrilled o'er me, clamouring, "Holy youth, return! +Walk then among us!" I could read no more. + + Thenceforth rose up renewed mine old desire: +My kinsfolk mocked me. "What! past woes too scant! +Slave of four masters, and the best a churl! +Thy Gospel they will trample under foot, +And rend thee! Late to them Palladius preached: +They drave him as a leper from their shores." +I stood in agony of staggering mind +And warring wills. Then, lo! at dead of night +I heard a mystic voice, till then unheard, +I knew not if within me or close by +That swelled in passionate pleading; nor the words +Grasped I, so great they seemed and wonderful, +Till sank that tempest to a whisper: --"He +Who died for thee is He that in thee groans." +Then fell, methought, scales from mine inner eyes: +Then saw I--terrible that sight, yet sweet - +Within me saw a Man that in me prayed +With groans unutterable. That Man was girt +For mission far. My heart recalled that word, +"The Spirit helpeth our infirmities; +That which we lack we know not, but the Spirit +Himself for us doth intercession make +With groanings which may never be revealed." +That hour my vow was vowed; and he approved, +My master and my guide. "But go," he said, +"First to that island in the Tyrrhene Sea, +Where live the high Contemplatives to God: +There learn perfection; there that Inner Life +Win thou, God's strength amid the world's loud storm: +Nor fear lest God should frown on such delay, +For Heavenly Wisdom is compassionate: +Slowly before man's weakness moves it on; +Softly: so moved of old the Wise Men's Star, +Which curbed its lightning ardours and forbore +Honouring the pensive tread of hoary Eld, +Honouring the burthened slave, the camel line +Long-linked, with level head and foot that fell +As though in sleep, printing the silent sands." +Thus, smiling, spake Germanus, large in lore. + +So in that island-Eden I sojourned, +Lerins, and saw where Vincent lived, and his, +Life fountained from on high. That life was Love; +For all their mighty knowledge food became +Of Love Divine, and took, by Love absorbed, +Shape from his flame-like body. Hard their beds; +Ceaseless their prayers. They tilled a sterile soil; +Beneath their hands it blossomed like the rose: +O'er thymy hollows blew the nectared airs; +Blue ocean flashed through olives. They had fled +From praise of men; yet cities far away +Rapt those meek saints to fill the bishop's throne. +I saw the light of God on faces calm +That blended with man's meditative might +Simplicity of childhood, and, with both +The sweetness of that flower-like sex which wears +Through love's Obedience twofold crowns of Love. +O blissful time! In that bright island bloomed +The third high region on the Hills of God, +Above the rock, above the wood, the cloud: - +There laughs the luminous air, there bursts anew +Spring bud in summer on suspended lawns; +There the bell tinkles while once more the lamb +Trips by the sun-fed runnel: there green vales +Lie lost in purple heavens. + + Transfigured Life! +This was thy glory, that, without a sigh, +Who loved thee yet could leave thee! Thus it fell: +One morning I was on the sea, and lo! +An isle to Lerins near, but fairer yet, +Till then unseen! A grassy vale sea-lulled +Wound inward, breathing balm, with fruited trees, +And stream through lilies gliding. By a door +There stood a man in prime, and others sat +Not far, some grey; and one, a weed of years, +Lay like a withered wreath. An old man spake: +"See what thou seest, and scan the mystery well! +The man who stands so stately in his prime +Is of this company the eldest born. +The Saviour in His earthly sojourn, Risen, +Perchance, or ere His Passion, who can tell, +Stood up at this man's door; and this man rose, +And let Him in, and made for Him a feast; +And Jesus said, 'Tarry, till I return.' +Moreover, others are there on this isle, +Both men and maids, who saw the Son of Man, +And took Him in, and shine in endless youth; +But we, the rest, in course of nature fade, +For we believe, yet saw not God, nor touched." +Then spake I, "Here till death my home I make, +Where Jesus trod." And answered he in prime, +"Not so; the Master hath for thee thy task. +Parting, thus spake He: 'Here for Mine Elect +Abide thou. Bid him bear this crozier staff; +My blessing rests thereon: the same shall drive +The foes of God before him.'" Answer thus +I made, "That crozier staff I will not touch +Until I take it from that nail-pierced Hand." +From these I turned, and clomb a mountain high, +Hermon by name; and there--was this, my God, +In visions of the Lord, or in the flesh? - +I spake with Him, the Lord of Life, Who died; +He from the glory stretched the Hand nail-pierced, +And placed in mine that crozier staff, and said: +"Upon that day when they that with Me walked +Sit with Me on their everlasting Thrones, +Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine Israel, +Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness." + +Forthwith to Rome I fled; there knelt I down +Above the bones of Peter and of Paul, +And saw the mitred embassies from far, +And saw Celestine with his head high held +As though it bore the Blessed Sacrament; +Chief Shepherd of the Saviour's flock on earth. +Tall was the man, and swift; white-haired; with eye +Starlike and voice a trumpet clear that pealed +God's Benediction o'er the city and globe; +Yea, and whene'er his palm he lifted, still +Blessing before it ran. Upon my head +He laid both hands, and "Win," he said, "to Christ +One realm the more!" Moreover, to my charge +Relics he gave, unnumbered, without price; +And when those relics lost had been, and found, +And at his feet I wept, he chided not; +But, smiling, said, "Thy glorious task fulfilled, +House them in thy new country's stateliest church +By cresset girt of ever-burning lamps, +And never-ceasing anthems." + + Northward then +Returned I, missioned. Yet once more, but once, +That old temptation proved me. When they sat, +The Elders, making inquest of my life, +Sudden a certain brother rose, and spake, +"Shall this man be a Bishop, who hath sinned?" +My dearest friend was he. To him alone +One time had I divulged a sin by me +Through ignorance wrought when fifteen years of age; +And after thirty years, behold, once more, +That sin had found me out! He knew my mission: +When in mine absence slander sought my name, +Mine honour he had cleared. Yet now--yet now - +That hour the iron passed into my soul: +Yea, well nigh all was lost. I wept, "Not one, +No heart of man there is that knows my heart, +Or in its anguish shares." + + Yet, O my God! +I blame him not: from Thee that penance came: +Not for man's love should Thine Apostle strive, +Thyself alone his great and sole reward. +Thou laid'st that hour a fiery hand of love +Upon a faithless heart; and it survived. + +At dead of night a Vision gave me peace. +Slowly from out the breast of darkness shone +Strange characters, a writing unrevealed: +And slowly thence and infinitely sad, +A Voice: "Ill-pleased, this day have we beheld +The face of the Elect without a name." +It said not, "Thou hast grieved," but "We have grieved;" +With import plain, "O thou of little faith! +Am I not nearer to thee than thy friends? +Am I not inlier with thee than thyself?" +Then I remembered, "He that touches you +Doth touch the very apple of mine eye." +Serene I slept. At morn I rose and ran +Down to the shore, and found a boat, and sailed. + +That hour true life's beginning was, O Lord, +Because the work Thou gav'st into my hands +Prospered between them. Yea, and from the work +The Power forth issued. Strength in me was none, +Nor insight, till the occasion: then Thy sword +Flamed in my grasp, and beams were in mine eyes +That showed the way before me, and nought else. +Thou mad'st me know Thy Will. As taper's light +Veers with a wind man feels not, o'er my heart +Hovered thenceforth some Pentecostal flame +That bent before that Will. Thy Truth, not mine, +Lightened this People's mind; Thy Love inflamed +Their hearts; Thy Hope upbore them as on wings. +Valiant that race, and simple, and to them +Not hard the godlike venture of belief: +Conscience was theirs: tortuous too oft in life +Their thoughts, when passionate most, then most were true, +Heart-true. With naked hand firmly they clasped +The naked Truth: in them Belief was Act. +A tribe from Thy far East they called themselves: +Their clans were Patriarch households, rude through war: +Old Pagan Rome had known them not; their Isle +Virgin to Christ had come. Oh how unlike +Her sons to those old Roman Senators, +Scorn of Germanus oft, who breathed the air +Fouled by dead Faiths successively blown out, +Or Grecian sophist with his world of words, +That, knowing all, knew nothing! Praise to Thee, +Lord of the night-time as the day, Who keep'st +Reserved in blind barbaric innocence, +Pure breed, when boastful lights corrupt the wise, +With healthier fruit to bless a later age. + + I to that people all things made myself +For Christ's sake, building still that good they lacked +On good already theirs. In courts of kings +I stood: before mine eye their eye went down, +For Thou wert with me. Gentle with the meek, +I suffered not the proud to mock my face: +Thus by the anchors twain of Love and Fear, +Since Love, not perfected, gains strength from Fear, +I bound to thee This nation. Parables +I spake in; parables in act I wrought +Because the people's mind was in the sense. +At Imbher Dea they scoffed Thy word: I raised +Thy staff, and smote with barrenness that flood: +Then learned they that the world was Thine, not ruled +By Sun or Moon, their famed "God-Elements:" +Yea, like Thy Fig-tree cursed, that river banned +Witnessed Thy Love's stern pureness. From the grass +The little three-leaved herb, I stooped and plucked, +And preached the Trinity. Thy Staff I raised, +And bade--not ravening beast--but reptiles foul +Flee to the abyss like that blind herd of old; +Then spake I: "Be not babes, but understand: +Thus in your spirit lift the Cross of Christ: +Banish base lusts; so God shall with you walk +As once with man in Eden." With like aim +Convents I reared for holy maids, then sought +The marriage feast, and cried, "If God thus draws +Close to Himself those virgin hearts, and yet +Blesses the bridal troth, and infant's font, +How white a thing should be the Christian home!" +Marvelling, they learned what heritage their God +Possessed in them! how wide a realm, how fair. + +Lord, save in one thing only, I was weak - +I loved this people with a mother's love, +For their sake sanctified my spirit to thee +In vigil, fast, and meditation long, +On mountain and on moor. Thus, Lord, I wrought, +Trusting that so Thy lineaments divine, +Deeplier upon my spirit graved, might pass +Thence on that hidden burthen which my heart +Still from its substance feeding, with great pangs +Strove to bring forth to Thee. O loyal race! +Me too they loved. They waited me all night +On lonely roads; and, as I preached, the day +To those high listeners seemed a little hour. +Have I not seen ten thousand brows at once +Flash in the broad light of some Truth new risen, +And felt like him, that Saint who cried, flame-girt, +"At last do I begin to be a Christian?" +Have I not seen old foes embrace? Seen him, +That white-haired man who dashed him on the ground, +Crying aloud, "My buried son, forgive! +Thy sire hath touched the hand that shed thy blood?" +Fierce chiefs knelt down in penance! Lord! how oft +Shook I their tear-drop sparkles from my gown! +'Twas the forgiveness taught them all the debt, +Great-hearted penitents! How many a youth +Contemned the praise of men! How many a maid - +O not in narrowness, but Love's sweet pride +And love-born shyness--jealous for a mate +Himself not jealous--spurned terrestrial love, +Glorying in heavenly Love's fair oneness! Race +High-dowered! God's Truth seemed some remembered thing +To them; God's Kingdom smiled, their native haunt +Prophesied then their daughters and their sons: +Each man before the face of each upraised +His hand on high, and said, "The Lord hath risen!" +Then, like a stream from ice released, forth fled +And wafted far the tidings, flung them wide, +Shouted them loud from rocky ridge o'er bands +Marching far down to war! The sower sowed +With happier hope; the reaper bending sang, +"Thus shall God's Angels reap the field of God +When we are ripe for heaven." Lovers new-wed +Drank of that water changed to wine, thenceforth +Breathing on earth heaven's sweetness. Unto such +More late, whate'er of brightness time or will +Infirm had dimmed, shone back from infant brows +By baptism lit. Each age its garland found: +Fair shone on trustful childhood faith divine: +Eld, once a weight of wrinkles now upsoared +In venerable lordship of white hairs, +Seer-like and sage. Healed was a nation's wound: +All men believed who willed not disbelief; +And sat in that oppugnancy steel-mailed: +They cried, "Before thy priests our bards shall bow, +And all our clans put on thy great Clan Christ!" + + For your sake, O my brethren, and my sons +These things have I recorded. Something I wrought: +Strive ye in loftier labours; strive, and win: +Your victory shall be mine: my crown are ye. +My part is ended now. I lived for Truth: +I to this people gave that truth I knew; +My witnesses ye are I grudged it not: +Freely did I receive, freely I gave; +Baptising, or confirming, or ordaining, +I sold not things divine. Of mine own store +Ofttimes the hire of fifteen men I paid +For guard where bandits lurked. When prince or chief +Laid on God's altar ring, or torque, or gold, +I sent them back. Too fortunate, too beloved, +I said, "Can he Apostle be who bears +Such scanty marks of Christ's Apostolate, +Hunger, and thirst, and scorn of men?" For this, +Those pains they spared I spared not to myself, +The body's daily death. I make not boast: +What boast have I? If God His servant raised, +He knoweth--not ye--how oft I fell; how low; +How oft in faithless longings yearned my heart +For faces of His Saints in mine own land, +Remembered fields far off. This, too, He knoweth, +How perilous is the path of great attempts, +How oft pride meets us on the storm-vexed height, +Pride, or some sting its scourge. My hope is He: +His hand, my help so long, will loose me never: +And, thanks to God, the sheltering grave is near. + + How still this eve! The morn was racked with storm: +'Tis past; the skylark sings; the tide at flood +Sighs a soft joy: alone those lines of weed +Report the wrath foregone. Yon watery plain +Far shines, a mingled sea of glass and fire, +Even as that Beatific Sea outspread +Before the Throne of God. 'Tis Paschal Tide; - +O sorrowful, O blissful Paschal Tide! +Fain would I die on Holy Saturday; +For then, as now, the storm is past--the woe; +And, somewhere 'mid the shades of Olivet +Lies sealed the sacred cave of that Repose +Watched by the Holy Women. Earth, that sing'st, +Since first He made thee, thy Creator's praise, +Sing, sing, thy Saviour's! Myriad-minded sea, +How that bright secret thrills thy rippling lips +Which shake, yet speak not! Thou that mad'st the worlds, +Man, too, Thou mad'st; within Thy Hands the life +Of each was shapen, and new-wov'n ran out, +New-willed each moment. What makes up that life? +Love infinite, and nothing else save love! +Help ere need came, deliverance ere defeat; +At every step an angel to sustain us, +An angel to retrieve! My years are gone: +Sweet were they with a sweetness felt but half +Till now;--not half discerned. Those blessed years +I would re-live, deferring thus so long +The Vision of Thy Face, if thus with gaze +Cast backward I might SEE that guiding hand +Step after step, and kiss it. + + Happy isle! +Be true; for God hath graved on thee His Name: +God, with a wondrous ring, hath wedded thee; +God on a throne divine hath 'stablished thee: - +Light of a darkling world! Lamp of the North! +My race, my realm, my great inheritance, +To lesser nations leave inferior crowns; +Speak ye the thing that is; be just, be kind; +Live ye God's Truth, and in its strength be free! + +This day to Him, the Faithful and the True, +For Whom I toiled, my spirit I commend. +That which I am, He knoweth: I know not now: +But I shall know ere long. If I have loved Him +I seek but this for guerdon of my love +With holier love to love Him to the end: +If I have vanquished others to His love +Would God that this might be their meed and mine +In witness for His love to pour our blood +A glad stream forth, though vultures or wild beasts +Rent our unburied bones! Thou setting sun, +That sink'st to rise, that time shall come at last +When in thy splendours thou shalt rise no more; +And, darkening with the darkening of thy face, +Who worshipped thee with thee shall cease; but those +Who worshipped Christ shall shine with Christ abroad, +Eternal beam, and Sun of Righteousness, +In endless glory. For His sake alone +I, bondsman in this land, re-sought this land. +All ye who name my name in later times, +Say to this People, since vindictive rage +Tempts them too often, that their Patriarch gave +Pattern of pardon ere in words he preached +That God who pardons. Wrongs if they endure +In after years, with fire of pardoning love +Sin-slaying, bid them crown the head that erred: +For bread denied let them give Sacraments, +For darkness light, and for the House of Bondage +The glorious freedom of the sons of God: +This is my last Confession ere I die. + + + +NOTES. + + + +{10a} Cotton MSS., Nero, E.'; Codex Salisburiensis; and a MS. in the +Monastery of St. Vaast. + +{10b} The Book of Armagh, preserved at Trinity College, Dublin, +contains a Life of St. Patrick, with his writings, and consists in +chief part of a description of all the books of the New Testament, +including the Epistle of Paul to the Laodiceans. Traces found here +and there of the name of the copyist and of the archbishop for whom +the copy was made, fix its date almost to a year as 807 or 811-812. + +{77} The Isle of Man. + +{101} Now Limerick. + +{111} Foynes. + +{116} The Giant's Causeway. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK *** + +This file should be named lgsp10.txt or lgsp10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, lgsp11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, lgsp10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/lgsp10.zip b/old/lgsp10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d678f95 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/lgsp10.zip diff --git a/old/lgsp10h.htm b/old/lgsp10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0ded784 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/lgsp10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4709 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Legends of Saint Patrick</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Legends of Saint Patrick, by Aubrey de Vere</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Legends of Saint Patrick, by Aubrey de Vere + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. 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The name of Aubrey de Vere is +the more pleasantly familiar because its association with our highest +literature has descended from father to son. In 1822, sixty-seven +years ago, Sir Aubrey de Vere, of Curragh Chase, by Adare, in the county +of Limerick - then thirty-four years old - first made his mark with +a dramatic poem upon “Julian the Apostate.” In 1842 +Sir Aubrey published Sonnets, which his friend Wordsworth described +as “the most perfect of our age;” and in the year of his +death he completed a dramatic poem upon “Mary Tudor,” published +in the next year, 1847, with the “Lamentation of Ireland, and +other Poems.” Sir Aubrey de Vere’s “Mary Tudor” +should be read by all who have read Tennyson’s play on the same +subject.</p> +<p>The gift of genius passed from Sir Aubrey to his third son, Aubrey +Thomas de Vere, who was born in 1814, and through a long life has put +into music only noble thoughts associated with the love of God and man, +and of his native land. His first work, published forty-seven +years ago, was a lyrical piece, in which he gave his sympathy to devout +and persecuted men whose ways of thought were not his own. Aubrey +de Vere’s poems have been from time to time revised by himself, +and they were in 1884 finally collected into three volumes, published +by Messrs. Kegan Paul. Left free to choose from among their various +contents, I have taken this little book of “Legends of St. Patrick,” +first published in 1872, but in so doing I have unwillingly left many +a piece that would please many a reader.</p> +<p>They are not, however, inaccessible. Of the three volumes of +collected works, each may be had separately, and is complete in itself. +The first contains “The Search after Proserpine, and other Poems +- Classical and Meditative.” The second contains the “Legends +of St. Patrick, and Legends of Ireland’s Heroic Age,” including +a version of the “Tain Bo.” The third contains two +plays, “Alexander the Great,” “St. Thomas of Canterbury,” +and other Poems.</p> +<p>For the convenience of some readers, the following extract from the +second volume of my “English Writers,” may serve as a prosaic +summary of what is actually known about St. Patrick.<br /> H. +M.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>ST. PATRICK.</p> +<p>FROM “ENGLISH WRITERS.”</p> +<p>The birth of St. Patrick, Apostle and Saint of Ireland, has been +generally placed in the latter half of the fourth century; and he is +said to have died at the age of a hundred and twenty. As he died +in the year 493 - and we may admit that he was then a very old man - +if we may say that he reached the age of eighty-eight, we place his +birth in the year 405. We may reasonably believe, therefore, that +he was born in the early part of the fifth century. His birthplace, +now known as Kilpatrick, was at the junction of the Levin with the Clyde, +in what is now the county of Dumbarton. His baptismal name was +Succath. His father was Calphurnius, a deacon, son of Potitus, +who was a priest. His mother’s name was Conchessa, whose +family may have belonged to Gaul, and who may thus have been, as it +is said she was, of the kindred of St. Martin of Tours; for there is +a tradition that she was with Calphurnius as a slave before he married +her. Since Eusebius spoke of three bishops from Britain at the +Council of Arles, Succath, known afterwards in missionary life by his +name in religion, Patricius (<i>pater civium</i>), might very reasonably +be a deacon’s son.</p> +<p>In his early years Succath was at home by the Clyde, and he speaks +of himself as not having been obedient to the teaching of the clergy. +When he was sixteen years old he, with two of his sisters and other +of his countrymen, was seized by a band of Irish pirates that made descent +on the shore of the Clyde and carried him off to slavery. His +sisters were taken to another part of the island, and he was sold to +Milcho MacCuboin in the north, whom he served for six or seven years, +so learning to speak the language of the country, while keeping his +master’s sheep by the Mountain of Slieve Miss. Thoughts +of home and of its Christian life made the youth feel the heathenism +that was about him; his exile seemed to him a punishment for boyish +indifference; and during the years when young enthusiasm looks out upon +life with new sense of a man’s power - growing for man’s +work that is to do - Succath became filled with religious zeal.</p> +<p>Three Latin pieces are ascribed to St. Patrick: a “Confession,” +which is in the Book of Armagh, and in three other manuscripts; <a name="citation10a"></a><a href="#footnote10a">{10a}</a> +a letter to Coroticus, and a few “Dieta Patricii,” which +are also in the Book of Armagh. <a name="citation10b"></a><a href="#footnote10b">{10b}</a> +There is no strong reason for questioning the authenticity of the “Confession,” +which is in unpolished Latin, the writer calling himself “indoctus, +rusticissimus, imperitus,” and it is full of a deep religious +feeling. It is concerned rather with the inner than the outer +life, but includes references to the early days of trial by which Succath’s +whole heart was turned to God. He says, “After I came into +Ireland I pastured sheep daily, and prayed many times a day. The +love and fear of God, and faith and spirit, wrought in me more and more, +so that in one day I reached to a hundred prayers, and in the night +almost as many, and stayed in the woods and on the mountains, and was +urged to prayer before the dawn, in snow, in frost, in rain, and took +no harm, nor, I think, was there any sloth in me. And there one +night I heard a voice in a dream saying to me, ‘Thou hast well +fasted; thou shalt go back soon to thine own land;’ and again +after a little while, ‘Behold! thy ship is ready.’” +In all this there is the passionate longing of an ardent mind for home +and Heaven.</p> +<p>At the age of twenty-two Succath fled from his slavery to a vessel +of which the master first refused and finally consented to take him +on board. He and the sailors were then cast by a storm upon a +desert shore of Britain, possibly upon some region laid waste by ravages +from over sea. Having at last made his way back, by a sea passage, +to his home on the Clyde, Succath was after a time captured again, but +remained captive only for two months, and went back home. Then +the zeal for his Master’s service made him feel like the Seafarer +in the Anglo-Saxon poem; and all the traditions of his home would have +accorded with the rise of the resolve to cross the sea, and to spread +Christ’s teaching in what had been the land of his captivity.</p> +<p>There were already centres of Christian work in Ireland, where devoted +men were labouring and drew a few into their fellowship. Succath +aimed at the gathering of all these scattered forces, by a movement +that should carry with it the whole people. He first prepared +himself by giving about four years to study of the Scriptures at Auxerre, +under Germanus, and then went to Rome, under the conduct of a priest, +Segetius, and probably with letters from Germanus to Pope Celestine. +Whether he received his orders from the Pope seems doubtful; but the +evidence is strong that Celestine sent him on his Irish mission. +Succath left Rome, passed through North Italy and Gaul, till he met +on his way two followers of Palladius, Augustinus and Benedictus, who +told him of their master’s failure, and of his death at Fordun. +Succath then obtained consecration from Amathus, a neighbouring bishop, +and as Patricius, went straight to Ireland. He landed near the +town of Wicklow, by the estuary of the River Varty, which had been the +landing-place of Palladius. In that region he was, like Palladius, +opposed; but he made some conversions, and advanced with his work northward +that he might reach the home of his old master, Milcho, and pay him +the purchase-money of his stolen freedom. But Milcho, it is said, +burnt himself and his goods rather than bear the shame of submission +to the growing power of his former slave.</p> +<p>St. Patrick addressed the ruling classes, who could bring with them +their followers, and he joined tact with his zeal; respecting ancient +prejudices, opposing nothing that was not directly hostile to the spirit +of Christianity, and handling skilfully the chiefs with whom he had +to deal. An early convert - Dichu MacTrighim - was a chief with +influential connections, who gave the ground for the religious house +now known as Saul. This chief satisfied so well the inquiries +of Laeghaire, son of Niall, King of Erin, concerning the stranger’s +movements, that St. Patrick took ship for the mouth of the Boyne, and +made his way straight to the king himself. The result of his energy +was that he met successfully all the opposition of those who were concerned +in the maintenance of old heathen worship, and brought King Laeghaire +to his side.</p> +<p>Then Laeghaire resolved that the old laws of the country as established +by the judges, whose order was named Brehon, should be revised, and +brought into accord with the new teaching. So the Brehon laws +of Ireland were revised, with St. Patrick’s assistance, and there +were no ancient customs broken or altered, except those that could not +be harmonised with Christian teaching. The good sense of St. Patrick +enabled this great work to be done without offence to the people. +The collection of laws thus made by the chief lawyers of the time, with +the assistance of St. Patrick, is known as the “Senchus Mor,” +and, says an old poem -</p> +<p> “Laeghaire, Corc Dairi, the brave;<br /> Patrick, +Beuen, Cairnech, the just;<br /> Rossa, +Dubtach, Fergus, the wise;<br /> These +are the nine pillars of the Senchus Mor.”</p> +<p>This body of laws, traditions, and treatises on law is found in no +manuscript of a date earlier than the fourteenth century. It includes, +therefore, much that is of later date than the fifth century.</p> +<p>St. Patrick’s greatest energies are said to have been put forth +in Ulster and Leinster. Among the churches or religious communities +founded by him in Ulster was that of Armagh. If he was born about +the year 405, when he was carried to Ireland as a prisoner at the age +of sixteen the date would have been 421. His age would have been +twenty-two when he escaped, after six or seven years of captivity, and +the date 427. A year at home, and four years with Germanus at +Auxerre, would bring him to the age of twenty-seven, and the year 432, +when he began his great endeavour to put Christianity into the main +body of the Irish people. That work filled all the rest of his +life, which was long. If we accept the statement, in which all +the old records agree, that the time of Patrick’s labour in Ireland +was not less than sixty years; sixty years bring him to the age of eighty-eight +in the year 493. And in that year he died.</p> +<p>The “Letter to Coroticus,” ascribed to St. Patrick, is +addressed to a petty king of Brittany who persecuted Christians, and +was meant for the encouragement of Christian soldiers who served under +him. It may, probably, be regarded as authentic. The mass +of legend woven into the life of the great missionary lies outside this +piece and the “Confession.” The “Confession” +only expresses heights and depths of religious feeling haunted by impressions +and dreams, through which, to the fervid nature out of which they sprang +heaven seemed to speak. St. Patrick did not attack heresies among +the Christians; he preached to those who were not Christians the Christian +faith and practice. His great influence was not that of a writer, +but of a speaker. He must have been an orator, profoundly earnest, +who could put his soul into his voice; and, when his words bred deeds, +conquered all difficulties in the way of action with right feeling and +good sense.<br /> HENRY +MORLEY.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p> TO +THE MEMORY<br /> OF<br /> WORDSWORTH.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO “THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK.”</p> +<p>The ancient records of Ireland abound in legends respecting the greatest +man and the greatest benefactor that ever trod her soil; and of these +the earlier are at once the more authentic and the nobler. Not +a few have a character of the sublime; many are pathetic; some have +a profound meaning under a strange disguise; but their predominant character +is their brightness and gladsomeness. A large tract of Irish history +is dark: but the time of Saint Patrick, and the three centuries which +succeeded it, were her time of joy. That chronicle is a song of +gratitude and hope, as befits the story of a nation’s conversion +to Christianity, and in it the bird and the brook blend their carols +with those of angels and of men. It was otherwise with the later +legends connecting Ossian with Saint Patrick. A poet once remarked, +while studying the frescoes of Michael Angelo in the Sistine Chapel, +that the Sibyls are always sad, while the Prophets alternated with them +are joyous. In the legends of the Patrician Cycle the chief-loving +old Bard is ever mournful, for his face is turned to the past glories +of his country; while the Saint is always bright, because his eyes are +set on to the glory that has no end.</p> +<p>These legends are to be found chiefly in several very ancient lives +of Saint Patrick, the most valuable of which is the “Tripartite +Life,” ascribed by Colgan to the century after the Saint’s +death, though it has not escaped later interpolations. The work +was long lost, but two copies of it were re-discovered, one of which +has been recently translated by that eminent Irish scholar, Mr. Hennessy. +Whether regarded from the religious or the philosophic point of view, +few things can be more instructive than the picture which it delineates +of human nature at a period of critical transition, and the dawning +of the Religion of Peace upon a race barbaric, but far indeed from savage. +That wild race regarded it doubtless as a notable cruelty when the new +Faith discouraged an amusement so popular as battle; but in many respects +they were in sympathy with that Faith. It was one in which the +nobler affections, as well as the passions, retained an unblunted ardour; +and where Nature is strongest and least corrupted it most feels the +need of something higher than itself, its interpreter and its supplement. +It prized the family ties, like the Germans recorded by Tacitus; and +it could not but have been drawn to Christianity, which consecrated +them. Its morals were pure, and it had not lost that simplicity +to which so much of spiritual insight belongs. Admiration and +wonder were among its chief habits; and it would not have been repelled +by Mysteries in what professed to belong to the Infinite. Lawless +as it was, it abounded also in loyalty, generosity, and self-sacrifice; +it was not, therefore, untouched by the records of martyrs, examples +of self-sacrifice, or the doctrine of a great Sacrifice. It loved +children and the poor; and Christianity made the former the exemplars +of faith, and the latter the eminent inheritors of the Kingdom. +On the other hand, all the vices of the race ranged themselves against +the new religion.</p> +<p>In the main the institutions and traditions of Ireland were favourable +to Christianity. She had preserved in a large measure the patriarchal +system of the East. Her clans were families, and her chiefs were +patriarchs who led their households to battle, and seized or recovered +the spoil. To such a people the Christian Church announced herself +as a great family - the family of man. Her genealogies went up +to the first parent, and her rule was parental rule. The kingdom +of Christ was the household of Christ; and its children in all lands +formed the tribes of a larger Israel. Its laws were living traditions; +and for traditions the Irish had ever retained the Eastern reverence.</p> +<p>In the Druids no formidable enemy was found; it was the Bards who +wielded the predominant social influence. As in Greece, where +the sacerdotal power was small, the Bards were the priests of the national +Imagination, and round them all moral influences had gathered themselves. +They were jealous of their rivals; but those rivals won them by degrees. +Secknall and Fiacc were Christian Bards, trained by St. Patrick, who +is said to have also brought a bard with him from Italy. The beautiful +legend in which the Saint loosened the tongue of the dumb child was +an apt emblem of Christianity imparting to the Irish race the highest +use of its natural faculties. The Christian clergy turned to account +the Irish traditions, as they had made use of the Pagan temples, purifying +them first. The Christian religion looked with a genuine kindness +on whatever was human, except so far as the stain was on it; and while +it resisted to the face what was unchristian in spirit, it also, in +the Apostolic sense, “made itself all things to all men.” +As legislator, Saint Patrick waged no needless war against the ancient +laws of Ireland. He purified them, and he amplified them, discarding +only what was unfit for a nation made Christian. Thus was produced +the great “Book of the Law,” or “Senchus Mohr,” +compiled A.D. 439.</p> +<p>The Irish received the Gospel gladly. The great and the learned, +in other nations the last to believe, among them commonly set the example. +With the natural disposition of the race an appropriate culture had +concurred. It was one which at least did not fail to develop the +imagination, the affections, and a great part of the moral being, and +which thus indirectly prepared ardent natures, and not less the heroic +than the tender, to seek their rest in spiritual things, rather than +in material or conventional. That culture, without removing the +barbaric, had blended it with the refined. It had created among +the people an appreciation of the beautiful, the pathetic, and the pure. +The early Irish chronicles, as well as songs, show how strong among +them that sentiment had ever been. The Borromean Tribute, for +so many ages the source of relentless wars, had been imposed in vengeance +for an insult offered to a woman; and a discourtesy shown to a poet +had overthrown an ancient dynasty. The education of an Ollambh +occupied twelve years; and in the third century, the time of Oiseen +and Fionn, the military rules of the Feinè included provisions +which the chivalry of later ages might have been proud of. It +was a wild, but not wholly an ungentle time. An unprovoked affront +was regarded as a grave moral offence; and severe punishments were ordained, +not only for detraction, but for a word, though uttered in jest, which +brought a blush on the cheek of a listener. Yet an injury a hundred +years old could meet no forgiveness, and the life of man was war! +It was not that laws were wanting; a code, minute in its justice, had +proportioned a penalty to every offence, and specified the <i>Eric</i> +which was to wipe out the bloodstain in case the injured party renounced +his claim to right his own wrong. It was not that hearts were +hard - there was at least as much pity for others as for self. +It was that anger was implacable, and that where fear was unknown, the +war field was what among us the hunting field is.</p> +<p>The rapid growth of learning as well as piety in the three centuries +succeeding the conversion of Ireland, prove that the country had not +been till then without a preparation for the gift. It had been +the special skill of Saint Patrick to build the good which was lacked +upon that which existed. Even the material arts of Ireland he +had pressed into the service of the Faith; and Irish craftsmen had assisted +him, not only in the building of his churches, but in casting his church +bells, and in the adornment of his chalices, crosiers, and ecclesiastical +vestments. Once elevated by Christianity, Ireland’s early +civilisation was a memorable thing. It sheltered a high virtue +at home, and evangelised a great part of Northern Europe; and amidst +many confusions it held its own till the true time of barbarism had +set in - those two disastrous centuries when the Danish invasions trod +down the sanctuaries, dispersed the libraries, and laid waste the colleges +to which distant kings had sent their sons.</p> +<p>Perhaps nothing human had so large an influence in the conversion +of the Irish as the personal character of her Apostle. Where others, +as Palladius, had failed, he succeeded. By nature, by grace, and +by providential training, he had been specially fitted for his task. +We can still see plainly even the finer traits of that character, while +the land of his birth is a matter of dispute, and of his early history +we know little, except that he was of noble birth, that he was carried +to Ireland by pirates at the age of sixteen, and that after five years +of bondage he escaped thence, to return A.D. 432, when about forty-five +years old; belonging thus to that great age of the Church which was +made illustrious by the most eminent of its Fathers, and tasked by the +most critical of its trials. In him a great character had been +built on the foundations of a devout childhood, and of a youth ennobled +by adversity. Everywhere we trace the might and the sweetness +which belonged to it, the versatile mind yet the simple heart, the varying +tact yet the fixed resolve, the large design taking counsel for all, +yet the minute solicitude for each, the fiery zeal yet the genial temper, +the skill in using means yet the reliance on God alone, the readiness +in action with the willingness to wait, the habitual self-possession +yet the outbursts of an inspiration which raised him above himself, +the abiding consciousness of authority - an authority in him, but not +of him - and yet the ever-present humility. Above all, there burned +in him that boundless love, which seems the main constituent of the +Apostolic character. It was love for God; but it was love for +man also, an impassioned love, and a parental compassion. It was +not for the spiritual weal alone of man that he thirsted. Wrong +and injustice to the poor he resented as an injury to God. His +vehement love for the poor is illustrated by his “Epistle to Coroticus,” +reproaching him with his cruelty, as well as by his denunciations of +slavery, which piracy had introduced into parts of Ireland. No +wonder that such a character should have exercised a talismanic power +over the ardent and sensitive race among whom he laboured, a race “easy +to be drawn, but impossible to be driven,” and drawn more by sympathy +than even by benefits. That character can only be understood by +one who studies, and in a right spirit, that account of his life which +he bequeathed to us shortly before its close - the “Confession +of Saint Patrick.” The last poem in this series embodies +its most characteristic portions, including the visions which it records.</p> +<p>The “Tripartite Life” thus ends: - “After these +great miracles, therefore, after resuscitating the dead, after healing +lepers, and the blind, and the deaf, and the lame, and all diseases; +after ordaining bishops, and priests, and deacons, and people of all +orders in the Church; after teaching the men of Erin, and after baptising +them; after founding churches and monasteries; after destroying idols +and images and Druidical arts, the hour of death of Saint Patrick approached. +He received the body of Christ from the Bishop Tassach, according to +the counsel of the Angel Victor. He resigned his spirit afterwards +to Heaven, in the one hundred and twentieth year of his age. His +body is still here in the earth, with honour and reverence. Though +great his honour here, greater honour will be to him in the Day of Judgment, +when judgment will be given on the fruit of his teaching, as of every +great Apostle, in the union of the Apostles and Disciples of Jesus; +in the union of the Nine Orders of Angels, which cannot be surpassed; +in the union of the Divinity and Humanity of the Son of God; in the +union, which is higher than all unions, of the Holy Trinity, Father, +Son, and Holy Ghost.”<br /> A. +DE VERE.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>THE BAPTISM OF ST. PATRICK.</p> +<p>“How can the babe baptiséd be<br /> Where +font is none and water none?”<br />Thus wept the nurse on bended +knee,<br /> And swayed the Infant in the sun.</p> +<p>“The blind priest took that Infant’s hand:<br /> With +that small hand, above the ground<br />He signed the Cross. At +God’s command<br /> A fountain rose with brimming bound.</p> +<p>“In that pure wave from Adam’s sin<br /> The +blind priest cleansed the Babe with awe;<br />Then, reverently, he washed +therein<br /> His old, unseeing face, and saw!</p> +<p>“He saw the earth; he saw the skies,<br /> And that +all-wondrous Child decreed<br />A pagan nation to baptise,<br /> To +give the Gentiles light indeed.”</p> +<p>Thus Secknall sang. Far off and nigh<br /> The clansmen +shouted loud and long;<br />While every mother tossed more high<br /> Her +babe, and glorying joined the song.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>THE DISBELIEF OF MILCHO,<br />OR, SAINT PATRICK’S ONE FAILURE.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Fame of St. Patrick goes ever before him, and men of<br /> goodwill +believe gladly; but Milcho, a mighty merchant,<br /> and +one given wholly to pride and greed, wills to<br /> disbelieve. +St. Patrick sends him greeting and gifts;<br /> but he, discovering +that the prophet welcomed by all<br /> had once been his +slave, hates him the more.<br /> Notwithstanding, he fears +that when that prophet<br /> arrives, he, too, may be forced +to believe, though<br /> against his will. He resolves +to set fire to his<br /> castle and all his wealth, and make +new fortunes in far<br /> lands. The doom of Milcho, +who willed to disbelieve.</i></p> +<p>When now at Imber Dea that precious bark<br />Freighted with Erin’s +future, touched the sands<br />Just where a river, through a woody vale<br />Curving, +with duskier current clave the sea,<br />Patrick, the Island’s +great inheritor,<br />His perilous voyage past, stept forth and knelt<br />And +blessed his God. The peace of those green meads<br />Cradled ’twixt +purple hills and purple deep,<br />Seemed as the peace of heaven. +The sun had set;<br />But still those summits twinned, the “Golden +Spears,”<br />Laughed with his latest beam. The hours went +by:<br />The brethren paced the shore or musing sat,<br />But still +their Patriarch knelt and still gave thanks<br />For all the marvellous +chances of his life<br />Since those his earlier years when, slave new-trapped,<br />He +comforted on hills of Dalaraide<br />His hungry heart with God, and, +cleansed by pain,<br />In exile found the spirit’s native land.<br />Eve +deepened into night, and still he prayed:<br />The clear cold stars +had crowned the azure vault;<br />And, risen at midnight from dark seas, +the moon<br />Had quenched those stars, yet Patrick still prayed on:<br />Till +from the river murmuring in the vale,<br />Far off, and from the morning +airs close by<br />That shook the alders by the river’s mouth,<br />And +from his own deep heart a voice there came,<br />“Ere yet thou +fling’st God’s bounty on this land<br />There is a debt +to cancel. Where is he,<br />Thy five years’ lord that scourged +thee for his swine?<br />Alas that wintry face! Alas that heart<br />Joyless +since earliest youth! To him reveal it!<br />To him declare that +God who Man became<br />To raise man’s fall’n estate, as +though a man,<br />All faculties of man unmerged, undimmed,<br />Had +changed to worm and died the prey of worms,<br />That so the mole might +see!”</p> +<p> Thus +Patrick mused<br />Not ignorant that from low beginnings rise<br />Oftenest +the works of greatness; yet of this<br />Unweeting, that his failure, +one and sole<br />Through all his more than mortal course, even now<br />Before +that low beginning’s threshold lay,<br />Betwixt it and that Promised +Land beyond<br />A bar of scandal stretched. Not otherwise<br />Might +whatsoe’er was mortal in his strength<br />Dying, put on the immortal.</p> +<p> With +the morn<br />Deep sleep descended on him. Waking soon,<br />He +rose a man of might, and in that might<br />Laboured; and God His servant’s +toil revered;<br />And gladly on that coast Erin to Christ<br />Paid +her firstfruits. Three days he preached his Lord:<br />The fourth +embarking, cape succeeding cape<br />They passed, and heard the lowing +herds remote<br />In hollow glens, and smelt the balmy breath<br />Of +gorse on golden hillsides; till at eve,<br />The Imber Domnand reached, +on silver sands<br />Grated their keel. Around them flocked at +dawn<br />Warriors with hunters mixed, and shepherd youths<br />And +maids with lips as red as mountain berries<br />And eyes like sloes, +or keener eyes, dark-fringed<br />And gleaming like the blue-black spear. +They came<br />With milk-pail, and with kid, and kindled fire<br />And +spread the genial board. Upon that shore<br />Full many knelt +and gave themselves to Christ,<br />Strong men, and men at midmost of +their hopes<br />By sickness felled; old chiefs, at life’s dim +close<br />That oft had asked, “Beyond the grave what hope?”<br />Worn +sailors weary of the toilsome seas,<br />And craving rest; they, too, +that sex which wears<br />The blended crowns of Chastity and Love;<br />Wondering, +they hailed the Maiden-Motherhood;<br />And listening children praised +the Babe Divine,<br />And passed Him, each to each.</p> +<p> Ere +long, once more<br />Their sails were spread. Again by grassy +marge<br />They rowed, and sylvan glades. The branching deer<br />Like +flying gleams went by them. Oft the cry<br />Of fighting clans +rang out: but oftener yet<br />Clamour of rural dance, or mart confused<br />With +many-coloured garb and movements swift,<br />Pageant sun-bright: or +on the sands a throng<br />Girdled with circle glad some bard whose +song<br />Shook the wild clan as tempest shakes the woods.<br />Still +north the wanderers sailed: at evening, mists<br />Cumbered the shore +and on them leaned the blast,<br />And fierce rain flashed mingling +with dim-lit sea.<br />All night they toiled; next day at noon they +kenned<br />A seaward stream that shone like golden tress<br />Severed +and random-thrown. That river’s mouth<br />Ere long attained +was all with lilies white<br />As April field with daisies. Entering +there<br />They reached a wood, and disembarked with joy:<br />There, +after thanks to God, silent they sat<br />In thought, and watched the +ripples, dusk yet bright,<br />That lived and died like things that +laughed at time,<br />On gliding ’neath those many-centuried boughs.<br />But, +midmost, Patrick slept. Then through the trees,<br />Shy as a +fawn half-tamed now stole, now fled<br />A boy of such bright aspect +faëry child<br />He seemed, or babe exposed of royal race:<br />At +last assured beside the Saint he stood,<br />And dropped on him a flower, +and disappeared:<br />Thus flower on flower from the great wood he brought<br />And +hid them in the bosom of the Saint.<br />The monks forbade him, saying, +“Lest thou wake<br />The master from his sleep.” But +Patrick woke,<br />And saw the boy, and said, “Forbid him not;<br />The +heir of all my kingdom is this child.”<br />Then spake the brethren, +“Wilt thou walk with us?”<br />And he, “I will:” +and so for his sweet face<br />They called his name Benignus: and the +boy<br />Thenceforth was Christ’s. Beneath his parent’s +roof<br />At night they housed. Nowhere that child would sleep<br />Except +at Patrick’s feet. Till Patrick’s death<br />Unchanged +to him he clave, and after reigned<br />The second at Ardmacha.</p> +<p> Day +by day<br />They held their course; ere long the hills of Mourne<br />Loomed +through sea-mist: Ulidian summits next<br />Before them rose: but nearer +at their left<br />Inland with westward channel wound the wave<br />Changed +to sea-lake. Nine miles with chant and hymn<br />They tracked +the gold path of the sinking sun;<br />Then southward ran ’twixt +headland and green isle<br />And landed. Dewy pastures sunset-dazed,<br />At +leisure paced by mild-eyed milk-white kine<br />Smiled them a welcome. +Onward moved in sight<br />Swiftly, with shadow far before him cast,<br />Dichu, +that region’s lord, a martial man<br />And merry, and a speaker +of the truth.<br />Pirates he deemed them first and toward them faced<br />With +wolf-hounds twain that watched their master’s eye<br />To spring, +or not to spring. The imperious face<br />Forbidding not, they +sprang; but Patrick raised<br />His hand, and stone-like crouched they +chained and still:<br />Then, Dichu onward striding fierce, the Saint<br />Between +them signed the Cross; and lo, the sword<br />Froze in his hand, and +Dichu stood like stone.<br />The amazement past, he prayed the man of +God<br />To grace his house; and, side by side, a mile<br />They clomb +the hills. Ascending, Patrick turned,<br />His heart with prescience +filled. Beneath, there lay<br />A gleaming strait; beyond, a dim +vast plain<br />With many an inlet pierced: a golden marge<br />Girdled +the water-tongues with flag and reed;<br />But, farther off, a gentle +sea-mist changed<br />The fair green flats to purple. “Night +comes on;”<br />Thus Dichu spake, and waited. Patrick then<br />Advanced +once more, and Sabhall soon was reached,<br />A castle half, half barn. +There garnered lay<br />Much grain, and sun-imbrowned: and Patrick said,<br />“Here +where the earthly grain was stored for man<br />The bread of angels +man shall eat one day.”<br />And Patrick loved that place, and +Patrick said,<br />“King Dichu, give thou to the poor that grain,<br />To +Christ, our Lord, thy barn.” The strong man stood<br />In +doubt; but prayers of little orphaned babes<br />Reared by his hand, +went up for him that hour:<br />Therefore that barn he ceded, and to +Christ<br />By Patrick was baptised. Where lay the corn<br />A +convent later rose. There dwelt he oft;<br />And ’neath +its roof more late the stranger sat,<br />Exile, or kingdom-wearied +king, or bard,<br />That haply blind in age, yet tempest-rocked<br />By +memories of departed glories, drew<br />With gradual influx into his +old heart<br />Solace of Christian hope.</p> +<p> With +Dichu bode<br />Patrick somewhile, intent from him to learn<br />The +inmost of that people. Oft they spake<br />Of Milcho. “Once +his thrall, against my will<br />In earthly things I served him: for +his soul<br />Needs therefore must I labour. Hard was he;<br />Unlike +those hearts to which God’s Truth makes way<br />Like message +from a mother in her grave:<br />Yet what I can I must. Not heaven +itself<br />Can force belief; for Faith is still good will.”<br />Dichu +laughed aloud: “Good will! Milcho’s good will<br />Neither +to others, nor himself, good will<br />Hath Milcho! Fireless sits +he, winter through,<br />The logs beside his hearth: and as on them<br />Glimmers +the rime, so glimmers on his face<br />The smile. Convert him! +Better thrice to hang him!<br />Baptise him! He will film your +font with ice!<br />The cold of Milcho’s heart has winter-nipt<br />That +glen he dwells in! From the sea it slopes<br />Unfinished, savage, +like some nightmare dream,<br />Raked by an endless east wind of its +own.<br />On wolf’s milk was he suckled not on woman’s!<br />To +Milcho speed! Of Milcho claim belief!<br />Milcho will shrivel +his small eye and say<br />He scorns to trust himself his father’s +son,<br />Nor deems his lands his own by right of race<br />But clutched +by stress of brain! Old Milcho’s God<br />Is gold. +Forbear him, sir, or ere you seek him<br />Make smooth your way with +gold.”</p> +<p> Thus +Dichu spake;<br />And Patrick, after musings long, replied:<br />“Faith +is no gift that gold begets or feeds,<br />Oftener by gold extinguished. +Unto God,<br />Unbribed, unpurchased, yearns the soul of man;<br />Yet +finds perforce in God its great reward.<br />Not less this Milcho deems +I did him wrong,<br />His slave, yet fleeing. To requite that +loss<br />Gifts will I send him first by messengers<br />Ere yet I see +his face.”</p> +<p> Then +Patrick sent<br />His messengers to Milcho, speaking thus:<br />“If +ill befell thy herds through flight of mine<br />Fourfold that loss +requite I, lest, for hate<br />Of me, thou disesteem my Master’s +Word.<br />Likewise I sue thy friendship; and I come<br />In few days’ +space, with gift of other gold<br />Than earth concedes, the Tidings +of that God<br />Who made all worlds, and late His Face hath shown,<br />Sun-like +to man. But thou, rejoice in hope!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Thus Patrick, once by man advised in part,<br />Though wont to counsel +with his God alone.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Meantime full many a rumour vague had vexed<br />Milcho much musing. +He had dealings large<br />And distant. Died a chief? He +sent and bought<br />The widow’s all; or sold on foodless shores<br />For +usury the leanest of his kine.<br />Meantime, his dark ships and the +populous quays<br />With news still murmured. First from Imber +Dea<br />Came whispers how a sage had landed late,<br />And how when +Nathi fain had barred his way,<br />Nathi that spurned Palladius from +the land,<br />That sage with levelled eyes, and kingly front<br />Had +from his presence driven him with a ban<br />Cur-like and craven; how +on bended knee<br />Sinell believed, the royal man well-loved<br />Descending +from the judgment-seat with joy:<br />And how when fishers spurned his +brethren’s quest<br />For needful food, that sage had raised his +rod,<br />And all the silver harvest of blue streams<br />Lay black +in nets and sand. His wrinkled brow<br />Wrinkling yet more, thus +Milcho answer made:<br />“Deceived are those that will to be deceived:<br />This +knave has heard of gold in river-beds,<br />And comes a deft sand-groper; +let him come!<br />He’ll toil ten years ere gold enough he finds<br />To +make a crooked torque.”</p> +<p> From +Tara next<br />The news: “Laeghaire, the King, sits close in cloud<br />Of +sullen thought, or storms from court to court,<br />Because the chiefest +of the Druid race<br />Locru, and Luchat prophesied long since<br />That +one day from the sea a Priest would come<br />With Doctrine and a Rite, +and dash to earth<br />Idols, and hurl great monarchs from their thrones;<br />And +lo! At Imber Boindi late there stept<br />A priest from roaring +waves with Creed and Rite,<br />And men before him bow.” +Then Milcho spake:<br />“Not flesh enough from thy strong bones, +Laeghaire,<br />These Druids, ravens of the woods, have plucked,<br />But +they must pluck thine eyes! Ah priestly race,<br />I loathe ye! +’Twixt the people and their King<br />Ever ye rub a sore!” +Last came a voice:<br />“This day in Eire thy saying is fulfilled,<br />Conn +of the ‘Hundred Battles,’ from thy throne<br />Leaping long +since, and crying, ‘O’er the sea<br />The Prophet cometh, +princes in his train,<br />Bearing for regal sceptres bended staffs,<br />Which +from the land’s high places, cliff and peak,<br />Shall drag the +fair flowers down!’” Scoffing he heard:<br />“Conn +of the ‘Hundred Battles!’ Had he sent<br />His hundred +thousand kernes to yonder steep<br />And rolled its boulders down, and +built a mole<br />To fence my laden ships from spring-tide surge,<br />Far +kinglier pattern had he shown, and given<br />More solace to the land.”</p> +<p> He +rose and turned<br />With sideway leer; and printing with vague step<br />Irregular +the shining sands, on strode<br />Toward his cold home, alone; and saw +by chance<br />A little bird light-perched, that, being sick,<br />Plucked +from the fissured sea-cliff grains of sand;<br />And, noting, said, +“O bird, when beak of thine<br />From base to crown hath gorged +this huge sea-wall,<br />Then shall that man of Creed and Rite make +null<br />The strong rock of my will!” Thus Milcho spake,<br />Feigning +the peace not his.</p> +<p> Next +day it chanced<br />Women he heard in converse. Thus the first:<br />“If +true the news, good speed for him, my boy!<br />Poor slaves by Milcho +scourged on earth shall wear<br />In heaven a monarch’s crown! +Good speed for her<br />His little sister, not reserved like us<br />To +bend beneath these loads.” To whom her mate:<br />“Doubt +not the Prophet’s tidings! Not in vain<br />The Power Unknown +hath shaped us! Come He must,<br />Or send, and help His people +on their way.<br />Good is He, or He ne’er had made these babes!”<br />They +passed, and Milcho said, “Through hate of me<br />All men believe!” +And straightway Milcho’s face<br />Grew bleaker than that crab-tree +stem forlorn<br />That hid him, wanner than that sea-sand wet<br />That +whitened round his foot down-pressed.</p> +<p> Time +passed.<br />One morn in bitter mockery Milcho mused:<br />“What +better laughter than when thief from thief<br />Pilfers the pilfered +goods? Our Druid thief<br />Two thousand years hath milked and +shorn this land;<br />Now comes the thief outlandish that with him<br />Would +share milk-pail and fleece! O Bacrach old,<br />To hear thee shout +‘Impostor!’” Straight he went<br />To Bacrach’s +cell hid in a skirt wind-shav’n<br />Of low-grown wood, and met, +departing thence,<br />Three sailors sea-tanned from a ship late-beached.<br />Within +a corner huddled, on the floor,<br />The Druid sat, cowering, and cold, +and mazed:<br />Sudden he rose, and cried, by conquering joy<br />Clothed +as with youth restored: “The God Unknown,<br />That God who made +the earth, hath walked the earth!<br />This hour His Prophet treads +the isle! Three men<br />Have seen him; and their speech is true. +To them<br />That Prophet spake: ‘Four hundred years ago,<br />Sinless +God’s Son on earth for sinners died:<br />Black grew the world, +and graves gave up their dead.’<br />Thus spake the Seer. +Four hundred years ago!<br />Mark well the time! Of Ulster’s +Druid race<br />What man but yearly, those four hundred years,<br />Trembled +that tale recounting which with this<br />Tallies as footprint with +the foot of man?<br />Four hundred years ago - that self-same day -<br />Connor, +the son of Nessa, Ulster’s King,<br />Sat throned, and judged +his people. As he sat,<br />Under clear skies, behold, o’er +all the earth<br />Swept a great shadow from the windless east;<br />And +darkness hung upon the air three hours;<br />Dead fell the birds, and +beasts astonied fled.<br />Then to his Chief of Druids, Connor spake<br />Whispering; +and he, his oracles explored,<br />Shivering made answer, ‘From +a land accursed,<br />O King, that shadow sweeps; therein, this hour,<br />By +sinful men sinless God’s Son is slain.’<br />Then Ulster’s +king, down-dashing sceptre and crown,<br />Rose, clamouring, ‘Sinless! +shall the sinless die?’<br />And madness fell on him; and down +that steep<br />He rushed whereon the Emanian Palace stood,<br />And +reached the grove, Lambraidhè, with two swords,<br />The sword +of battle, and the sword of state,<br />And hewed and hewed, crying, +‘Were I but there<br />Thus they should fall who slay that Sinless +One;’<br />And in that madness died. Old Erin’s sons<br />Beheld +this thing; nor ever in the land<br />Hath ceased the rumour, nor the +tear for him<br />Who, wroth at justice trampled, martyr died.<br />And +now we know that not for any dream<br />He died, but for the truth: +and whensoe’er<br />The Prophet of that Son of God who died<br />Sinless +for sinners, standeth in this place,<br />I, Bacrach, oldest Druid in +this Isle,<br />Will rise the first, and kiss his vesture’s hem.”</p> +<p>He spake; and Milcho heard, and without speech<br />Departed from +that house.</p> +<p> A +later day<br />When the wild March sunset, gone almost ere come,<br />By +glacial shower was hustled out of life,<br />Under a blighted ash tree, +near his house,<br />Thus mused the man: “Believe, or Disbelieve!<br />The +will does both; Then idiot who would be<br />For profitless belief to +sell himself?<br />Yet disbelief not less might work our bane!<br />For, +I remember, once a sickly slave<br />Ill shepherded my flock: I spake +him plain;<br />‘When next, through fault of thine, the midnight +wolf<br />Worries my sheep, on yonder tree you hang:’<br />The +blear-eyed idiot looked into my face,<br />And smiled his disbelief. +On that day week<br />Two lambs lay dead. I hanged him on a tree.<br />What +tree? this tree! Why, this is passing strange!<br />For, three +nights since, I saw him in a dream:<br />Weakling as wont he stood beside +my bed,<br />And, clutching at his wrenched and livid throat,<br />Spake +thus, ‘Belief is safest.’”</p> +<p> Ceased +the hail<br />To rattle on the ever barren boughs,<br />And friendlier +sound was heard. Beside his door<br />Wayworn the messengers of +Patrick stood,<br />And showed the gifts, and held his missive forth.<br />Then +learned that lost one all the truth. That sage<br />Confessed +by miracles, that prophet vouched<br />By warnings old, that seer by +words of might<br />Subduing all things to himself - that priest,<br />None +other was than the uncomplaining boy<br />Five years his slave and swineherd! +In him rage<br />Burst forth, with fear commixed, as when a beast<br />Strains +in the toils. “Can I alone stand firm?”<br />He mused; +and next, “Shall I, in mine old age,<br />Byword become - the +vassal of my slave?<br />Shall I not rather drive him from my door<br />With +wolf hounds and a curse?” As thus he stood<br />He marked +the gifts, and bade men bare them in,<br />And homeward signed the messengers +unfed.</p> +<p>But Milcho slept not all that night for thought,<br />And, forth +ere sunrise issuing, paced a moor<br />Stone-roughened like the graveyard +of dead hosts,<br />Till noontide. Sudden then he stopt, and thus<br />Discoursed +within: “A plot from first to last,<br />The fraudulent bondage, +flight, and late return;<br />For now I mind me of a foolish dream<br />Chance-sent, +yet drawn by him awry. One night<br />Methought that boy from +far hills drenched in rain<br />Dashed through my halls, all fire. +From hands and head,<br />From hair and mouth, forth rushed a flaming +fire<br />White, like white light, and still that mighty flame<br />Into +itself took all. With hands outstretched<br />I spurned it. +On my cradled daughters twain<br />It turned, and they were ashes. +Then in burst<br />The south wind through the portals of the house,<br />Tempest +rose-sweet, and blew those ashes forth<br />Wide as the realm. +At dawn I sought the knave;<br />He glossed my vision thus: ‘That +fire is Faith -<br />Faith in the God Triune, the God made Man,<br />Sole +light wherein I walk, and walking burn;<br />And they that walk with +me shall burn like me<br />By Faith. But thou that radiance wilt +repel,<br />Housed through ill-will, in Error’s endless night.<br />Not +less thy little daughters shall believe<br />With glory and great joy; +and, when they die,<br />Report of them, like ashes blown abroad,<br />Shall +light far lands, and health to men of Faith<br />Stream from their dust.’ +I drave the impostor forth:<br />Perjured ere long he fled, and now +returns<br />To reap a harvest from his master’s dream” +-<br />Thus mused he, while black shadow swept the moor.<br /> So +day by day darker was Milcho’s heart,<br />Till, with the endless +brooding on one thought,<br />Began a little flaw within that brain<br />Whose +strength was still his boast. Was no friend nigh?<br />Alas! what +friend had he? All men he scorned;<br />Knew truly none. +In each, the best and sweetest<br />Near him had ever pined, like stunted +growth<br />Dwarfed by some glacier nigh. The fifth day dawned:<br />And +inly thus he muttered, darkly pale:<br />“Five days; in three +the messengers returned:<br />In three - in two - the Accursèd +will be here,<br />Or blacken yonder Sleemish with his crew<br />Descending. +Then those idiots, kerne and slave -<br />The mighty flame into itself +takes all -<br />Full swarm will fly to meet him! Fool! fool! +fool!<br />The man hath snared me with those gifts he sent;<br />Else +had I barred the mountains: now ’twere late,<br />My people in +revolt. Whole weeks his horde<br />Will throng my courts, demanding +board and bed,<br />With hosts by Dichu sent to flout my pang,<br />And +sorer make my charge. My granaries sacked,<br />My larder lean +as ship six months ice-bound,<br />The man I hate will rise, and open +shake<br />The invincible banner of his mad new Faith,<br />Till all +that hear him shout, like winds or waves,<br />Belief; and I be left +sole recusant;<br />Or else perhaps that Fury who prevails<br />At times +o’er knee-joints of reluctant men,<br />By magic imped, may crumble +into dust<br />By force my disbelief.”</p> +<p> He +raised his head,<br />And lo, before him lay the sea far ebbed<br />Sad +with a sunset all but gone: the reeds<br />Sighed in the wind, and sighed +a sweeter voice<br />Oft heard in childhood - now the last time heard:<br />“Believe!” +it whispered. Vain the voice! That hour,<br />Stirred from +the abyss, the sins of all his life<br />Around him rose like night +- not one, but all -<br />That earliest sin which, like a dagger, pierced<br />His +mother’s heart; that worst, when summer drouth<br />Parched the +brown vales, and infants thirsting died,<br />While from full pail he +gorged his swine with milk<br />And flung the rest away. Sin-walled +he stood:<br />God’s Angels could not pierce that cincture dread,<br />Nor +he look through it. Yet he dreamed he saw:<br />His life he saw; +its labours, and its gains<br />Hard won, long-waited, wonder of his +foes;<br />The manifold conquests of a Will oft tried;<br />Victory, +Defeat, Retrieval; last, that scene<br />Around him spread: the wan +sea and grey rocks;<br />And he was ’ware that on that self-same +ledge<br />He, Milcho, thirty years gone by, had stood,<br />While pirates +pushed to sea, leaving forlorn<br />On that wild shore a scared and +weeping boy,<br />(His price two yearling kids and half a sheep)<br />Thenceforth +his slave.</p> +<p> Not +sole he mused that hour.<br />The Demon of his House beside him stood<br />Upon +that iron coast, and whispered thus:<br />“Masterful man art thou +for wit and strength;<br />Yet girl-like standst thou brooding! +Weave a snare!<br />He comes for gold, this prophet. All thou +hast<br />Heap in thy house; then fire it! In far lands<br />Build +thee new fortunes. Frustrate thus shall he<br />Stare but on stones, +his destined vassal scaped.”</p> +<p>So fell the whisper; and as one who hears<br />And does, the stiff-necked +man obsequious bent<br />His strong will to a stronger, and returned,<br />And +gave command to heap within his house<br />His stored up wealth - yea, +all things that were his -<br />Borne from his ships and granaries. +It was done.<br />Then filled he his huge hall with resinous beams<br />Seasoned +for far sea-voyage, and the ribs<br />Of ocean-sundering vessels deep +in sea;<br />Which ended, to his topmost tower he clomb,<br />And therein +sat two days, with face to south,<br />Clutching a brand; and oft through +clenched teeth hissed,<br />Hissed long, “Because I will to disbelieve.”<br /> But +ere the second sunset two brief hours,<br />Where comfortless leaned +forth that western ridge<br />Long patched with whiteness by half melted +snows,<br />There crept a gradual shadow. Soon the man<br />Discerned +its import. There they hung - he saw them -<br />That company +detested; hung as when<br />Storm-boding cloud on mountain hangs half +way<br />Scarce moving, and in fear the shepherd cries,<br />“Would +that the worse were come!” So dread to him<br />Those Heralds +of fair Peace! He gazed upon them<br />With blood-shot eyes; a +moment passed: he stood<br />Sole in his never festal hall, and flung<br />His +lighted brand into that pile far forth,<br />And smiled that smile men +feared to see, and turned,<br />And issuing faced the circle of his +serfs<br />That wondering gathered round in thickening mass,<br />Eyeing +that unloved House.</p> +<p> His +place he chose<br />Beside that blighted ash, fronting those towers<br />Palled +with red smoke, and muttered low, “So be it!<br />Worse to be +vassal to the man I hate,”<br />With hueless lips. His whole +white face that hour<br />Was scorched; and blistered was the dead tree’s +bark;<br />Yet there he stood; and in that fiery light<br />His life, +no more triumphant, passed once more<br />In underthought before him, +while on spread<br />The swift, contagious madness of that fire,<br />And +muttered thus, not knowing it, the man,<br />“The mighty flame +into itself takes all,”<br />Mechanic iteration. Not alone<br />Stood +he that hour. The Demon of his House<br />By him once more and +closer than of old,<br />Stood, whispering thus, “Thy game is +now played out;<br />Henceforth a byword art thou - rich in youth -<br />Self-beggared +in old age.” And as the wind<br />Of that shrill whisper +cut his listening soul,<br />The blazing roof fell in on all his wealth,<br />Hard-won, +long-waited, wonder of his foes;<br />And, loud as laughter from ten +thousand fiends,<br />Up rushed the fire. With arms outstretched +he stood;<br />Stood firm; then forward with a wild beast’s cry<br />He +dashed himself into that terrible flame,<br />And vanished as a leaf.</p> +<p> Upon +a spur<br />Of Sleemish, eastward on its northern slope,<br />Stood +Patrick and his brethren, travel-worn,<br />When distant o’er +the brown and billowy moor<br />Rose the white smoke, that changed ere +long to flame,<br />From site unknown; for by the seaward crest<br />That +keep lay hidden. Hands to forehead raised,<br />Wondering they +watched it. One to other spake:<br />“The huge Dalriad forest +is afire<br />Ere melted are the winter’s snows!” +Another,<br />“In vengeance o’er the ocean Creithe or Pict,<br />Favoured +by magic, or by mist, have crossed,<br />And fired old Milcho’s +ships.” But Patrick leaned<br />Upon his crosier, pale as +the ashes wan<br />Left by a burned out city. Long he stood<br />Silent, +till, sudden, fiercelier soared the flame<br />Reddening the edges of +a cloud low hung;<br />And, after pause, vibration slow and stern<br />Troubling +the burthened bosom of the air,<br />Upon a long surge of the northern +wind<br />Came up - a murmur as of wintry seas<br />Far borne at night. +All heard that sound; all felt it;<br />One only know its import. +Patrick turned;<br />“The deed is done: the man I would have saved<br />Is +dead, because he willed to disbelieve.”</p> +<p>Yet Patrick grieved for Milcho, nor that hour<br />Passed further +north. Three days on Sleemish hill<br />He dwelt in prayer. +To Tara’s royal halls<br />Then turned he, and subdued the royal +house<br />And host to Christ, save Erin’s king, Laeghaire.<br />But +Milcho’s daughters twain to Christ were born<br />In baptism, +and each Emeria named:<br />Like rose-trees in the garden of the Lord<br />Grew +they and flourished. Dying young, one grave<br />Received them +at Cluanbrain. Healing thence<br />To many from their relics passed; +to more<br />The spirit’s happier healing, Love and Faith.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AT TARA.</p> +<p>The King is wroth with a greater wrath<br /> Than the +wrath of Nial or the wrath of Conn!<br />From his heart to his brow +the blood makes path,<br /> And hangs there, a red cloud, +beneath his crown.</p> +<p>Is there any who knows not, from south to north,<br /> That +Laeghaire to-morrow his birthday keeps?<br />No fire may be lit upon +hill or hearth<br />Till the King’s strong fire in its kingly +mirth<br /> Up rushes from Tara’s palace steeps!</p> +<p>Yet Patrick has lighted his Paschal fire<br /> At Slane +- it is holy Saturday -<br />And blessed his font ’mid the chaunting +choir!<br /> From hill to hill the flame makes way;<br />While +the king looks on it his eyes with ire<br /> Flash red, like +Mars, under tresses grey.</p> +<p>The chiefs and the captains with drawn swords rose:<br /> To +avenge their Lord and the Realm they swore;<br /> The Druids +rose and their garments tore;<br />“The strangers to us and our +Gods are foes!”<br />Then the king to Patrick a herald sent,<br /> Who +spake, ‘Come up at noon and show<br />Who lit thy fire and with +what intent:<br /> These things the great king Laeghaire +would know.”</p> +<p>But Laeghaire had hid twelve men by the way,<br />Who swore by the +sun the Saint to slay.</p> +<p>When the waters of Boyne began to bask<br /> And fields +to flash in the rising sun<br />The Apostle Evangelist kept his Pasch,<br /> And +Erin her grace baptismal won:<br />Her birthday it was: his font the +rock,<br />He blessed the land, and he blessed his flock.</p> +<p>Then forth to Tara he fared full lowly:<br /> The Staff +of Jesus was in his hand:<br />Twelve priests paced after him chaunting +slowly,<br /> Printing their steps on the dewy land.<br />It +was the Resurrection morn;<br />The lark sang loud o’er the springing +corn;<br />The dove was heard, and the hunter’s horn.</p> +<p>The murderers twelve stood by on the way;<br />Yet they saw nought +save the lambs at play.</p> +<p>A trouble lurked in the monarch’s eye<br />When the guest he +counted for dead drew nigh:<br />He sat in state at his palace gate;<br /> His +chiefs and nobles were ranged around;<br />The Druids like ravens smelt +some far fate;<br /> Their eyes were gloomily bent on the +ground.<br />Then spake Laeghaire: “He comes - beware!<br />Let +none salute him, or rise from his chair!”</p> +<p>Like some still vision men see by night,<br /> Mitred, +with eyes of serene command,<br />Saint Patrick moved onward in ghostly +white:<br /> The Staff of Jesus was in his hand;<br />Twelve +priests paced after him unafraid,<br />And the boy, Benignus, more like +a maid;<br />Like a maid just wedded he walked and smiled,<br />To Christ +new plighted, that priestly child.</p> +<p>They entered the circle; their anthem ceased;<br /> The +Druids their eyes bent earthward still:<br />On Patrick’s brow +the glory increased<br /> As a sunrise brightening some sea-beat +hill.<br />The warriors sat silent: strange awe they felt:<br />The +chief bard, Dubtach, rose and knelt:</p> +<p>Then Patrick discoursed of the things to be<br />When time gives +way to eternity,<br />Of kingdoms that fall, which are dreams not things,<br />And +the Kingdom built by the King of kings.<br />Of Him he spake who reigns +from the Cross;<br />Of the death which is life, and the life which +is loss;<br />How all things were made by the Infant Lord,<br />And +the small hand the Magian kings adored.<br />His voice sounded on like +a throbbing flood<br />That swells all night from some far-off wood,<br />And +when it ended - that wondrous strain -<br />Invisible myriads breathed +“Amen!”</p> +<p>While he spake, men say that the refluent tide<br /> On +the shore by Colpa ceased to sink:<br />They say that the white stag +by Mulla’s side<br /> O’er the green marge bending +forbore to drink:<br />That the Brandon eagle forgat to soar;<br /> That +no leaf stirred in the wood by Lee:<br />Such stupor hung the island +o’er,<br /> For none might guess what the end would +be.</p> +<p>Then whispered the king to a chief close by,<br />“It were +better for me to believe than die!”</p> +<p>Yet the king believed not; but ordinance gave<br /> That +whoso would might believe that word:<br />So the meek believed, and +the wise, and brave,<br /> And Mary’s Son as their +God adored.<br />And the Druids, because they could answer nought,<br />Bowed +down to the Faith the stranger brought.<br />That day on Erin God poured +His Spirit:<br />Yet none like the chief of the bards had merit,<br />Dubtach! +He rose and believed the first,<br />Ere the great light yet on the +rest had burst.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND THE TWO PRINCESSES.</p> +<p><i>FEDELM “THE RED ROSE,” AND ETHNA “THE FAIR.”</i></p> +<p>Like two sister fawns that leap,<br /> Borne, as though +on viewless wings,<br />Down bosky glade and ferny steep<br /> To +quench their thirst at silver springs,<br />From Cruachan palace through +gorse and heather,<br />Raced the Royal Maids together.<br />Since childhood +thus the twain had rushed<br /> Each morn to Clebach’s +fountain-cell<br />Ere earliest dawn the East had flushed<br /> To +bathe them in its well:<br />Each morn with joy their young hearts tingled;<br /> Each +morn as, conquering cloud or mist,<br />The first beam with the wavelet +mingled,<br /> Mouth to mouth they kissed!</p> +<p>They stand by the fount with their unlooped hair -<br />A hand each +raises - what see they there?<br />A white Form seated on Clebach stone;<br /> A +kinglike presence: the monks stood nigh:<br />Fronting the dawn he sat +alone;<br /> On the star of morning he fixed his eye:<br />That +crozier he grasped shone bright; but brighter<br />The sunrise flashed +from Saint Patrick’s mitre!<br />They gazed without fear. +To a kingdom dear<br /> From the day of their birth those +Maids had been;<br />Of wrong they had heard; but it came not near;<br /> They +hoped they were dear to the Power unseen.<br />They knelt when that +Vision of Peace they saw;<br />Knelt, not in fear, but in loving awe:<br />The +“Red Rose” bloomed like that East afar;<br />The “Fair +One” shone like that morning star.</p> +<p>Then Patrick rose: no word he said,<br /> But thrice he +made the sacred Sign:<br />At the first, men say that the demons fled;<br /> At +the third flocked round them the Powers divine<br />Unseen. Like +children devout and good,<br />Hands crossed on their bosoms, the maidens +stood.</p> +<p>“Blessed and holy! This land is Eire:<br />Whence come +ye to her, and the king our sire?”</p> +<p>“We come from a Kingdom far off yet near<br />Which the wise +love well, and the wicked fear:<br />We come with blessing and come +with ban,<br />We come from the Kingdom of God with man.”</p> +<p>“Whose is that Kingdom? And say, therein<br /> Are +the chiefs all brave, and the maids all fair?<br />Is it clean from +reptiles, and that thing, sin?<br /> Is it like this kingdom +of King Laeghaire?”</p> +<p>“The chiefs of that kingdom wage war on wrong,<br />And the +clash of their swords is sweet as song;<br />Fair are the maids, and +so pure from taint<br />The flash of their eyes turns sinner to saint;<br />There +reptile is none, nor the ravening beast;<br />There light has no shadow, +no end the feast.”</p> +<p>“But say, at that feast hath the poor man place?<br /> Is +reverence there for the old head hoar?<br />For the cripple that never +might join the race?<br /> For the maimed that fought, and +can fight no more?”</p> +<p>“Reverence is there for the poor and meek;<br />And the great +King kisses the worn, pale cheek;<br />And the King’s Son waits +on the pilgrim guest;<br />And the Queen takes the little blind child +to her breast:<br />There with a crown is the just man crowned;<br />But +the false and the vengeful are branded and bound<br />In knots of serpents, +and flung without pity<br />From the bastions and walls of the saintly +City.”</p> +<p>Then the eyes of the Maidens grew dark, as though<br /> That +judgment of God had before them passed:<br />And the two sweet faces +grew dim with woe;<br /> But the rose and the radiance returned +at last.</p> +<p>“Are gardens there? Are there streams like ours?<br /> Is +God white-headed, or youthful and strong?<br />Hang there the rainbows +o’er happy bowers?<br /> Are there sun and moon and +the thrush’s song?”</p> +<p>“They have gardens there without noise or strife,<br />And +there is the Tree of immortal Life:<br />Four rivers circle that blissful +bound;<br />And Spirits float o’er it, and Spirits go round:<br />There, +set in the midst, is the golden throne;<br />And the Maker of all things +sits thereon:<br />A rainbow o’er-hangs him; and lo! therein<br />The +beams are His Holy Ones washed from sin.”</p> +<p>As he spake, the hearts of the Maids beat time<br /> To +music in heaven of peace and love;<br />And the deeper sense of that +lore sublime<br /> Came out from within them, and down from +above;<br />By degrees came down; by degrees came out:<br />Who loveth, +and hopeth, not long shall doubt.</p> +<p>“Who is your God? Is love on His brow?<br />Oh how shall +we love Him and find Him? How?”<br />The pure cheek flamed +like the dawn-touched dew:<br />There was silence: then Patrick began +anew.<br />The princes who ride in your father’s train<br />Have +courted your love, but sued in vain; -<br />Look up, O Maidens; make +answer free:<br />What boon desire you, and what would you be?”</p> +<p>“Pure we would be as yon wreath of foam,<br /> Or +the ripple which now yon sunbeams smite:<br />And joy we would have, +and a songful home;<br /> And one to rule us, and Love’s +delight.”</p> +<p>“In love God fashioned whatever is,<br /> The hills, +and the seas, and the skiey fires;<br />For love He made them, and endless +blis<br /> Sustains, enkindles, uplifts, inspires:<br />That +God is Father, and Son, and Spirit;<br />And the true and spotless His +peace inherit:<br />And God made man, with his great sad heart,<br />That +hungers when held from God apart.<br />Your sire is a King on earth: +but I<br />Would mate you to One who is Lord on high:<br />There bride +is maid: and her joy shall stand,<br />For the King’s Son hath +laid on her head His hand.”<br />As he spake, the eyes of that +lovely twain<br /> Grew large with a tearful but glorious +light,<br />Like skies of summer late cleared by rain,<br /> When +the full-orbed moon will be soon in sight.</p> +<p>“That Son of the King - is He fairest of men?<br /> That +mate whom He crowns - is she bright and blest?<br />Does she chase the +red deer at His side through the glen?<br /> Does she charm +Him with song to His noontide rest?”</p> +<p>“That King’s Son strove in a long, long war:<br />His +people He freed; yet they wounded Him sore;<br />And still in His hands, +and His feet, and His side,<br />The scars of His sorrow are ’graved, +deep-dyed.”</p> +<p>Then the breasts of the Maidens began to heave<br /> Like +harbour waves when beyond the bar<br />The great waves gather, and wet +winds grieve,<br /> And the roll of the tempest is heard +afar.</p> +<p>“We will kiss, we will kiss those bleeding feet;<br /> On +the bleeding hands our tears shall fall;<br />And whatever on earth +is dear or sweet,<br /> For that wounded heart we renounce +them all.</p> +<p>“Show us the way to His palace-gate:” -<br />“That +way is thorny, and steep, and straight;<br />By none can His palace-gate +be seen,<br />Save those who have washed in the waters clean.”</p> +<p>They knelt; on their heads the wave he poured<br />Thrice in the +name of the Triune Lord:<br />And he signed their brows with the Sign +adored.<br />On Fedelm the “Red Rose,” on Ethna “The +Fair,”<br />God’s dew shone bright in that morning air:<br />Some +say that Saint Agnes, ’twixt sister and sister,<br />As the Cross +touched each, bent over and kissed her.</p> +<p>Then sang God’s new-born Creatures, “Behold!<br /> We +see God’s City from heaven draw nigh:<br />But we thirst for the +fountains divine and cold:<br /> We must see the great King’s +Son, or die!<br />Come, Thou that com’st! Our wish is this,<br /> That +the body might die, and the soul, set free,<br />Swell out, like an +infant’s lips, to the kiss<br /> Of the Lover who filleth +infinity!”</p> +<p>“The City of God, by the water’s grace,<br />Ye see: +alone, they behold His Face,<br />Who have washed in the baths of Death +their eyes,<br />And tasted His Eucharist Sacrifice.”</p> +<p>“Give us the Sacrifice!” Each bright head<br /> Bent +toward it as sunflowers bend to the sun:<br />They ate; and the blood +from the warm cheek fled:<br /> The exile was over: the home +was won:<br />A starry darkness o’erflowed their brain:<br /> Far +waters beat on some heavenly shore:<br />Like the dying away of a low, +sweet strain,<br /> The young life ebbed, and they breathed +no more:<br />In death they smiled, as though on the breast<br />Of +the Mother Maid they had found their rest.</p> +<p>The rumour spread: beside the bier<br /> The King stood +mute, and his chiefs and court:<br />The Druids dark-robed drew surlily +near,<br /> And the Bards storm-hearted, and humbler sort:<br />The +“Staff of Jesus” Saint Patrick raised:<br /> Angelic +anthems above them swept:<br />There were that muttered; there were +that praised:<br /> But none who looked on that marvel wept.</p> +<p>For they lay on one bed, like Brides new-wed,<br /> By +Clebach well; and, the dirge days over,<br />On their smiling faces +a veil was spread,<br /> And a green mound raised that bed +to cover.<br />Such were the ways of those ancient days -<br /> To +Patrick for aye that grave was given;<br />And above it he built a church +in their praise;<br /> For in them had Eire been spoused +to heaven.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDREN OF FOCHLUT WOOD.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Saint Patrick makes way into Fochlut wood by the sea, the<br /> oldest +of Erin’s forests, whence there had been borne<br /> unto +him, then in a distant land, the Children’s Wail<br /> from +Erin. He meets there two young Virgins, who sing<br /> a +dirge of man’s sorrowful condition. Afterwards they<br /> lead +him to the fortress of the king, their father.<br /> There +are sung two songs, a song of Vengeance and a<br /> song +of Lament; which ended, Saint Patrick makes<br /> proclamation +of the Advent and of the Resurrection.<br /> The king and +all his chiefs believe with full<br /> contentment.</i></p> +<p>One day as Patrick sat upon a stone<br />Judging his people, Pagan +babes flocked round,<br />All light and laughter, angel-like of mien,<br />Sueing +for bread. He gave it, and they ate:<br />Then said he, “Kneel;” +and taught them prayer: but lo!<br />Sudden the stag hounds’ music +dinned the wind;<br />They heard; they sprang; they chased it. +Patrick spake;<br />“It was the cry of children that I heard<br />Borne +from the black wood o’er the midnight seas:<br />Where are those +children? What avails though Kings<br />Have bowed before my Gospel, +and in awe<br />Nations knelt low, unless I set mine eyes<br />On Fochlut +Wood?” Thus speaking, he arose,<br />And, journeying with +the brethren toward the West,<br />Fronted the confine of that forest +old.</p> +<p>Then entered they that darkness; and the wood<br />Closed as a cavern +round them. O’er its roof<br />Leaned roof of cloud, and +hissing ran the wind,<br />And moaned the trunks for centuries hollowed +out<br />Yet stalwart still. There, rooted in the rock,<br />Stood +the huge growths, by us unnamed, that frowned<br />Perhaps on Partholan, +the parricide,<br />When that first Pagan settler fugitive<br />Landed, +a man foredoomed. Between the stems<br />The ravening beast now +glared, now fled. Red leaves,<br />The last year’s phantoms, +rattled here and there.<br />The oldest wood that ever grew in Eire<br />Was +Fochlut Wood, and gloomiest. Spirits of Ill<br />Made it their +palace, and its labyrinths sowed<br />With poisons. Many a cave, +with horrors thronged<br />Within it yawned, and many a chasm unseen<br />Waited +the unwary treader. Cry of wolf<br />Pierced the cold air, and +gibbering ghosts were heard;<br />And o’er the black marsh passed +those wandering lights<br />That lure lost feet. A thousand pathways +wound<br />From gloom to gloom. One only led to light:<br />That +path was sharp with flints.</p> +<p> Then +Patrick mused,<br />“O life of man, how dark a wood art thou!<br />Erring +how many track thee till Despair,<br />Sad host, receives them in his +crypt-like porch<br />At nightfall.” Mute he paced. +The brethren feared;<br />And fearing, knelt to God. Made strong +by prayer<br />Westward once more they trod that dark, sharp way<br />Till +deeper gloom announced the night, then slept<br />Guarded by angels. +But the Saint all night<br />Watched, strong in prayer. The second +day still on<br />They fared, like mariners o’er strange seas +borne,<br />That keep in mist their soundings when the rocks<br />Vex +the dark strait, and breakers roar unseen.<br />At last Benignus cried, +“To God be praise!<br />He sends us better omens. See! the +moss<br />Brightens the crag!” Ere long another spake:<br />“The +worst is past! This freshness in the air<br />Wafts us a welcome +from the great salt sea;<br />Fair spreads the fern: green buds are +on the spray,<br />And violets throng the grass.”</p> +<p> A +few steps more<br />Brought them to where, with peaceful gleam, there +spread<br />A forest pool that mirrored yew trees twain<br />With beads +like blood-drops hung. A sunset flash<br />Kindled a glory in +the osiers brown<br />Encircling that still water. From the reeds<br />A +sable bird, gold-circled, slowly rose;<br />But when the towering tree-tops +he outsoared,<br />Eastward a great wind swept him as a leaf.<br />Serenely +as he rose a music soft<br />Swelled from afar; but, as that storm o’ertook +him,<br />The music changed to one on-rushing note<br />O’ertaken +by a second; both, ere long,<br />Blended in wail unending. Patrick’s +brow,<br />Listening that wail, was altered, and he spake:<br />“These +were the Voices that I heard when stood<br />By night beside me in that +southern land<br />God’s angel, girt for speed. Letters +he bare<br />Unnumbered, full of woes. He gave me one,<br />Inscribed, +‘The Wailing of the Irish Race;’<br />And as I read that +legend on mine ear<br />Forth from a mighty wood on Erin’s coast<br />There +rang the cry of children, ‘Walk once more<br />Among us; bring +us help!’” Thus Patrick spake:<br />Then towards that +wailing paced with forward head.</p> +<p>Ere long they came to where a river broad,<br />Swiftly amid the +dense trees winding, brimmed<br />The flower-enamelled marge, and onward +bore<br />Green branches ’mid its eddies. On the bank<br />Two +virgins stood. Whiter than earliest streak<br />Of matin pearl +dividing dusky clouds<br />Their raiment; and, as oft in silent woods<br />White +beds of wind-flower lean along the earth-breeze,<br />So on the river-breeze +that raiment wan<br />Shivered, back blown. Slender they stood +and tall,<br />Their brows with violets bound; while shone, beneath,<br />The +dark blue of their never-tearless eyes.<br />Then Patrick, “For +the sake of Him who lays<br />His blessing on the mourners, O ye maids,<br />Reveal +to me your grief - if yours late sent,<br />Or sped in careless childhood.” +And the maids:<br />“Happy whose careless childhood ’scaped +the wound:”<br />Then she that seemed the saddest added thus:<br />“Stranger! +this forest is no roof of joy,<br />Nor we the only mourners; neither +fall<br />Bitterer the widow’s nor the orphan’s tears<br />Now +than of old; nor sharper than long since<br />That loss which maketh +maiden widowhood.<br />In childhood first our sorrow came. One +eve<br />Within our foster-parents’ low-roofed house<br />The +winter sunset from our bed had waned:<br />I slept, and sleeping dreamed. +Beside the bed<br />There stood a lovely Lady crowned with stars;<br />A +sword went through her heart. Down from that sword<br />Blood +trickled on the bed, and on the ground.<br />Sorely I wept. The +Lady spake: ‘My child,<br />Weep not for me, but for thy country +weep;<br />Her wound is deeper far than mine. Cry loud!<br />The +cry of grief is Prayer.’ I woke, all tears;<br />And lo! +my little sister, stiff and cold,<br />Sat with wide eyes upon the bed +upright:<br />That starry Lady with the bleeding heart<br />She, too, +had seen, and heard her. Clamour vast<br />Rang out; and all the +wall was fiery red;<br />And flame was on the sea. A hostile clan<br />Landing +in mist, had fired our ships and town,<br />Our clansmen absent on a +foray far,<br />And stricken many an old man, many a boy<br />To bondage +dragged. Oh night with blood redeemed!<br />Upon the third day +o’er the green waves rushed<br />The vengeance winged, with axe +and torch, to quit<br />Wrong with new wrong, and many a time since +then.<br />That night sad women on the sea sands toiled,<br />Drawing +from wreck and ruin, beam or plank<br />To shield their babes. +Our foster-parents slain,<br />Unheeded we, the children of the chief,<br />Roamed +the great forest. There we told our dream<br />To children likewise +orphaned. Sudden fear<br />Smote them as though themselves had +dreamed that dream,<br />And back from them redoubled upon us;<br />Until +at last from us and them rang out -<br />The dark wood heard it, and +the midnight sea -<br />A great and bitter cry.”</p> +<p> “That +cry went up,<br />O children, to the heart of God; and He<br />Down +sent it, pitying, to a far-off land,<br />And on into my heart. +By that first pang<br />Which left the eternal pallor in your cheeks,<br />O +maids, I pray you, sing once more that song<br />Ye sang but late. +I heard its long last note:<br />Fain would I hear the song that such +death died.”</p> +<p>They sang: not scathless those that sing such song!<br />Grief, their +instructress, of the Muses chief<br />To hearts by grief unvanquished, +to their hearts<br />Had taught a melody that neither spared<br />Singer +nor listener. Pale when they began,<br />Paler it left them. +He not less was pale<br />Who, out of trance awaking, thanked them thus:<br />“Now +know I of that sorrow in you fixed;<br />What, and how great it is, +and bless that Power<br />Who called me forth from nothing for your +sakes,<br />And sent me to this wood. Maidens, lead on!<br />A +chieftain’s daughters ye; and he, your sire,<br />And with him +she who gave you your sweet looks<br />(Sadder perchance than you in +songless age)<br />They, too, must hear my tidings. Once a Prince<br />Went +solitary from His golden throne,<br />Tracking the illimitable wastes, +to find<br />One wildered sheep, the meanest of the flock,<br />And +on His shoulders bore it to that House<br />Where dwelt His Sire. +‘Good Shepherd’ was His Name.<br />My tidings these: heralds +are we, footsore,<br />That bring the heart-sore comfort.”</p> +<p> On +they paced,<br />On by the rushing river without words.<br />Beside +the elder sister Patrick walked,<br />Benignus by the younger. +Fair her face;<br />Majestic his, though young. Her looks were +sad<br />And awe-struck; his, fulfilled with secret joy,<br />Sent forth +a gleam as when a morn-touched bay<br />Through ambush shines of woodlands. +Soon they stood<br />Where sea and river met, and trod a path<br />Wet +with salt spray, and drank the clement breeze,<br />And saw the quivering +of the green gold wave,<br />And, far beyond, that fierce aggressor’s +bourn,<br />Fair haunt for savage race, a purple ridge<br />By rainy +sunbeam gemmed from glen to glen,<br />Dim waste of wandering lights. +The sun, half risen,<br />Lay half sea-couched. A neighbouring +height sent forth<br />Welcome of baying hounds; and, close at hand,<br />They +reached the chieftain’s keep.</p> +<p> A +white-haired man<br />And long since blind, there sat he in his hall,<br />Untamed +by age. At times a fiery gleam<br />Flashed from his sightless +eyes; and oft the red<br />Burned on his forehead, while with splenetic +speech<br />Stirred by ill news or memory stung, he banned<br />Foes +and false friend. Pleased by his daughters’ tale,<br />At +once he stretched his huge yet aimless hands<br />In welcome towards +his guests. Beside him stood<br />His mate of forty years by that +strong arm<br />From countless suitors won. Pensive her face:<br />With +parted youth the confidence of youth<br />Had left her. Beauty, +too, though with remorse,<br />Its seat had half relinquished on a cheek<br />Long +time its boast, and on that willowy form,<br />So yielding now, where +once in strength upsoared<br />The queenly presence. Tenderest +grace not less<br />Haunted her life’s dim twilight - meekness, +love -<br />That humble love, all-giving, that seeks nought,<br />Self-reverent +calm, and modesty in age.<br />She turned an anxious eye on him she +loved;<br />And, bending, kissed at times that wrinkled hand,<br />By +years and sorrows made his wife far more<br />Than in her nuptial bloom. +These two had lost<br />Five sons, their hope, in war.</p> +<p> That +eve it chanced<br />High feast was holden in the chieftain’s tower<br />To +solemnise his birthday. In they flocked,<br />Each after each, +the warriors of the clan,<br />Not without pomp heraldic and fair state<br />Barbaric, +yet beseeming. Unto each<br />Seat was assigned for deeds or lineage +old,<br />And to the chiefs allied. Where each had place<br />Above +him waved his banner. Not for this<br />Unhonoured were the pilgrim +guests. They sat<br />Where, fed by pinewood and the seeded cone,<br />The +loud hearth blazed. Bathed were the wearied feet<br />By maidens +of the place and nurses grey,<br />And dried in linen fragrant still +with flowers<br />Of years when those old nurses too were fair.<br />And +now the board was spread, and carved the meat,<br />And jests ran round, +and many a tale was told,<br />Some rude, but none opprobrious. +Banquet done,<br />Page-led the harper entered, old, and blind:<br />The +noblest ranged his chair, and spread the mat;<br />The loveliest raised +his wine cup, one light hand<br />Laid on his shoulder, while the golden +hair<br />Commingled with the silver. “Sing,” they +cried,<br />“The death of Deirdrè; or that desolate sire<br />That +slew his son, unweeting; or that Queen<br />Who from her palace pacing +with fixed eyes<br />Stared at those heads in dreadful circle ranged,<br />The +heads of traitor-friends that slew her lord<br />Then mocked the friend +they murdered. Leal and true,<br />The Bard who wrought that vengeance!” +Thus he sang:</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p> THE +LAY OF THE HEADS.</p> +<p> The Bard returns to a stricken house:<br /> What +shape is that he rears on high?<br /> A +withe of the Willow, set round with Heads:<br /> They +blot that evening sky.</p> +<p> A Widow meets him at the gates:<br /> What +fixes thus that Widow’s eye?<br /> She +names the name; but she sees not the man,<br /> Nor +beyond him that reddening sky.</p> +<p> “Bard of the Brand, thou Foster-Sire<br /> Of +him they slew - their friend - my lord -<br /> What +Head is that - the first - that frowns<br /> Like +a traitor self-abhorred?”</p> +<p> “Daughter of Orgill wounded sore,<br /> Thou +of the fateful eye serene,<br /> Fergus +is he. The feast he made<br /> That +snared thy Cuchullene.”</p> +<p> “What Head is that - the next +- half-hid<br /> In curls full +lustrous to behold?<br /> They mind me +of a hand that once<br /> I +saw amid their gold.”</p> +<p> “’Tis Manadh. He +that by the shore<br /> Held +rule, and named the waves his steeds:<br /> ’Twas +he that struck the stroke accursed -<br /> Headless +this day he bleeds.”</p> +<p> “What Head is that close by - +so still,<br /> With half-closed +lids, and lips that smile?<br /> Methinks +I know their voice: methinks<br /> <i>His</i> +wine they quaffed erewhile!”</p> +<p> “’Twas he raised high that +severed head:<br /> Thy head +he raised, my Foster-Child!<br /> That +was the latest stroke I struck:<br /> I +struck that stroke, and smiled.”</p> +<p> “What Heads are those - that +twain, so like,<br /> Flushed +as with blood by yon red sky?”<br /> “Each +unto each, <i>his</i> Head they rolled;<br /> Red +on that grass they lie.”</p> +<p> “That paler twain, which face +the East?”<br /> “Laegar +is one; the other Hilt;<br /> Silent they +watched the sport! they share<br /> The +doom, that shared the guilt.”</p> +<p> “Bard of the Vengeance! well +thou knew’st<br /> Blood +cries for blood! O kind, and true,<br /> How +many, kith and kin, have died<br /> That +mocked the man they slew?”</p> +<p> “O Woman of the fateful eye,<br /> The +untrembling voice, the marble mould,<br /> Seven +hundred men, in house or field,<br /> For +the man they mocked, lie cold.”</p> +<p> “Their wives, thou Bard? their +wives? their wives?<br /> Far +off, or nigh, through Inisfail,<br /> This +hour what are they? Stand they mute<br /> Like +me; or make their wail?”</p> +<p> “O Eimer! women weep and smile;<br /> The +young have hope, the young that mourn;<br /> But +I am old; my hope was he:<br /> He +that can ne’er return!</p> +<p> “O Conal! lay me in his grave:<br /> Oh! +lay me by my husband’s side:<br /> Oh! +lay my lips to his in death;”<br /> She +spake, and, standing, died.</p> +<p> She fell at last - in death she fell +-<br /> She lay, a black shade, +on the ground;<br /> And all her women +o’er her wailed<br /> Like +sea-birds o’er the drowned.</p> +<p> Thus to the blind chief sang that harper blind,<br />Hymning +the vengeance; and the great hall roared<br />With wrath of those wild +listeners. Many a heel<br />Smote the rough stone in scorn of +them that died<br />Not three days past, so seemed it! Direful +hands,<br />Together dashed, thundered the Avenger’s praise.<br />At +last the tide of that fierce tumult ebbed<br />O’er shores of +silence. From her lowly seat<br />Beside her husband’s spake +the gentle Queen:<br />“My daughters, from your childhood ye were +still<br />A voice of music in your father’s house -<br />Not +wrathful music. Sing that song ye made<br />Or found long since, +and yet in forest sing,<br />If haply Power Unknown may hear and help.”<br />She +spake, and at her word her daughters sang.</p> +<p>“Lost, lost, all lost! O tell us what is lost?<br />Behold, +this too is hidden! Let him speak,<br />If any knows. The +wounded deer can turn<br />And see the shaft that quivers in its flank;<br />The +bird looks back upon its broken wing;<br />But we, the forest children, +only know<br />Our grief is infinite, and hath no name.<br />What woman-prophet, +shrouded in dark veil,<br />Whispered a Hope sadder than Fear? +Long since,<br />What Father lost His children in the wood?<br />Some +God? And can a God forsake? Perchance<br />His face is turned +to nobler worlds new-made;<br />Perchance his palace owns some later +bride<br />That hates the dead Queen’s children, and with charm<br />Prevails +that they are exiled from his eyes,<br />The exile’s winter theirs +- the exile’s song.</p> +<p>“Blood, ever blood! The sword goes raging on<br />O’er +hill and moor; and with it, iron-willed,<br />Drags on the hand that +holds it and the man<br />To slake its ceaseless thirst for blood of +men;<br />Fire takes the little cot beside the mere,<br />And leaps +upon the upland village: fire<br />Up clambers to the castle on the +crag;<br />And whom the fire has spared the hunger kills;<br />And earth +draws all into her thousand graves.</p> +<p>“Ah me! the little linnet knows the branch<br />Whereon to +build; the honey-pasturing bee<br />Knows the wild heath, and how to +shape its cell;<br />Upon the poisonous berry no bird feeds;<br />So +well their mother, Nature, helps her own.<br />Mothers forsake not; +- can a Father hate?<br />Who knows but that He yearns - that Sire Unseen +-<br />To clasp His children? All is sweet and sane,<br />All, +all save man! Sweet is the summer flower,<br />The day-long sunset +of the autumnal woods;<br />Fair is the winter frost; in spring the +heart<br />Shakes to the bleating lamb. O then what thing<br />Might +be the life secure of man with man,<br />The infant’s smile, the +mother’s kiss, the love<br />Of lovers, and the untroubled wedded +home?<br />This might have been man’s lot. Who sent the +woe?<br />Who formed man first? Who taught him first the ill way?<br />One +creature, only, sins; and he the highest!</p> +<p>“O Higher than the highest! Thou Whose hand<br />Made +us - Who shaped’st that hand Thou wilt not clasp,<br />The eye +Thou open’st not, the sealed-up ear!<br />Be mightier than man’s +sin: for lo, how man<br />Seeks Thee, and ceases not: through noontide +cave<br />And dark air of the dawn-unlighted peak<br />To Thee how long +he strains the weak, worn eye<br />If haply he might see Thy vesture’s +hem<br />On farthest winds receding! Yea, how oft<br />Against +the blind and tremulous wall of cliff<br />Tormented by sea surge, he +leans his ear<br />If haply o’er it name of Thine might creep;<br />Or +bends above the torrent-cloven abyss,<br />If falling flood might lisp +it! Power unknown!<br />He hears it not: Thou hear’st his +beating heart<br />That cries to Thee for ever! From the veil<br />That +shrouds Thee, from the wood, the cloud, the void,<br />O, by the anguish +of all lands evoked,<br />Look forth! Though, seeing Thee, man’s +race should die,<br />One moment let him see Thee! Let him lay<br />At +least his forehead on Thy foot in death!”</p> +<p> So sang the maidens: but the warriors frowned;<br />And +thus the blind king muttered, “Bootless weed<br />Is plaint where +help is none!” But wives and maids<br />And the thick-crowding +poor, that many a time<br />Had wailed on war-fields o’er their +brethren slain,<br />Went down before that strain as river reeds<br />Before +strong wind, went down when o’er them passed<br />Its last word, +“Death;” and grief’s infection spread<br />From least +to first; and weeping filled the hall.<br />Then on Saint Patrick fell +compassion great;<br />He rose amid that concourse, and with voice<br />And +words now lost, alas, or all but lost,<br />Such that the chief of sight +amerced, beheld<br />The imagined man before him crowned with light,<br />Proclaimed +that God who hideth not His face,<br />His people’s King and Father; +open flung<br />The portals of His realm, that inward rolled,<br />With +music of a million singing spheres<br />Commanded all to enter. +Who was He<br />Who called the worlds from nought? His name is +Love!<br />In love He made those worlds. They have not lost,<br />The +sun his splendour, nor the moon her light:<br /><i>That</i> miracle +survives. Alas for thee!<br />Thou better miracle, fair human +love,<br />That splendour shouldst have been of home and hearth,<br />Now +quenched by mortal hate! Whence come our woes<br />But from our +lusts? O desecrated law<br />By God’s own finger on our +hearts engraved,<br />How well art thou avenged! No dream it was,<br />That +primal greatness, and that primal peace:<br />Man in God’s image +at the first was made,<br />A God to rule below!</p> +<p> He +told it all -<br />Creation, and that Sin which marred its face;<br />And +how the great Creator, creature made,<br />God - God for man incarnate +- died for man:<br />Dead, with His Cross he thundered on the gates<br />Of +Death’s blind Hades. Then, with hands outstretched<br />His +Holy Ones that, in their penance prison<br />From hope in Him had ceased +not, to the light<br />Flashed from His bleeding hands and branded brow<br />Through +darkness soared: they reign with Him in heaven:<br />Their brethren +we, the children of one Sire.<br />Long time he spake. The winds +forbore their wail;<br />The woods were hushed. That wondrous +tale complete,<br />Not sudden fell the silence; for, as when<br />A +huge wave forth from ocean toiling mounts<br />High-arched, in solid +bulk, the beach rock-strewn,<br />Burying his hoar head under echoing +cliffs,<br />And, after pause, refluent to sea returns<br />Not all +at once is stillness, countless rills<br />Or devious winding down the +steep, or borne<br />In crystal leap from sea-shelf to sea-well,<br />And +sparry grot replying; gradual thus<br />With lessening cadence sank +that great discourse,<br />While round him gazed Saint Patrick, now +the old<br />Regarding, now the young, and flung on each<br />In turn +his boundless heart, and gazing longed<br />As only Apostolic heart +can long<br />To help the helpless.</p> +<p> “Fair, +O friends, the bourn<br />We dwell in! Holy King makes happy land:<br />Our +King is in our midst. He gave us gifts;<br />Laws that are Love, +the sovereignty of Truth.<br />What, sirs, ye knew Him not! But +ye by signs<br />Foresaw His coming, as, when buds are red<br />Ye say, +‘The spring is nigh us.’ Him, unknown,<br />Each loved +who loved his brother! Shepherd youths,<br />Who spread the pasture +green beneath your lambs<br />And freshened it with snow-fed stream +and mist?<br />Who but that Love unseen? Grey mariners,<br />Who +lulled the rough seas round your midnight nets,<br />And sent the landward +breeze? Pale sufferers wan,<br />Rejoice! His are ye; yea, +and His the most!<br />Have ye not watched the eagle that upstirs<br />Her +nest, then undersails her falling brood<br />And stays them on her plumes, +and bears them up<br />Till, taught by proof, they learn their unguessed +powers<br />And breast the storm? Thus God stirs up His people;<br />Thus +proves by pain. Ye too, O hearths well-loved!<br />How oft your +sin-stained sanctities ye mourned!<br />Wives! from the cradle reigns +the Bethelem Babe!<br />Maidens! henceforth the Virgin Mother spreads<br />Her +shining veil above you!</p> +<p> “Speak +aloud,<br />Chieftains world-famed! I hear the ancient blood<br />That +leaps against your hearts! What? Warriors ye!<br />Danger +your birthright, and your pastime death!<br />Behold your foes! +They stand before you plain:<br />Ill passions, base ambitions, falsehood, +hate:<br />Wage war on these! A King is in your host!<br />His +hands no roses plucked but on the Cross:<br />He came not hand of man +in woman’s tasks<br />To mesh. In woman’s hand, in +childhood’s hand,<br />Much more in man’s, He lodged His +conquering sword;<br />Them too His soldiers named, and vowed to war.<br />Rise, +clan of Kings, rise, champions of man’s race,<br />Heaven’s +sun-clad army militant on earth,<br />One victory gained, the realm +decreed is ours.<br />The bridal bells ring out, for Low with High<br />Is +wed in endless nuptials. It is past,<br />The sin, the exile, +and the grief. O man,<br />Take thou, renewed, thy sister-mate +by hand;<br />Know well thy dignity, and hers: return,<br />And meet +once more Thy Maker, for He walks<br />Once more within thy garden, +in the cool<br />Of the world’s eve!”</p> +<p> The +words that Patrick spake<br />Were words of power, not futile did they +fall:<br />But, probing, healed a sorrowing people’s wound.<br />Round +him they stood, as oft in Grecian days,<br />Some haughty city sieged, +her penitent sons<br />Thronging green Pnyx or templed Forum hushed<br />Hung +listening on that People’s one true Voice,<br />The man that ne’er +had flattered, ne’er deceived,<br />Nursed no false hope. +It was the time of Faith;<br />Open was then man’s ear, open his +heart:<br />Pride spurned not then that chiefest strength of man<br />The +power, by Truth confronted, to believe.<br />Not savage was that wild, +barbaric race:<br />Spirit was in them. On their knees they sank,<br />With +foreheads lowly bent; and when they rose<br />Such sound went forth +as when late anchored fleet<br />Touched by dawn breeze, shakes out +its canvas broad<br />And sweeps into new waters. Man with man<br />Clasped +hands; and each in each a something saw<br />Till then unseen. +As though flesh-bound no more,<br />Their souls had touched. One +Truth, the Spirit’s life,<br />Lived in them all, a vast and common +joy.<br />And yet as when, that Pentecostal morn,<br />Each heard the +Apostle in his native tongue,<br />So now, on each, that Truth, that +Joy, that Life<br />Shone forth with beam diverse. Deep peace +to one<br />Those tidings seemed, a still vale after storm;<br />To +one a sacred rule, steadying the world;<br />A third exulting saw his +youthful hope<br />Written in stars; a fourth triumphant hailed<br />The +just cause, long oppressed. Some laughed, some wept:<br />But +she, that aged chieftain’s mournful wife<br />Clasped to her boding +breast his hoary head<br />Loud clamouring, “Death is dead; and +not for long<br />That dreadful grave can part us.” Last +of all,<br />He too believed. That hoary head had shaped<br />Full +many a crafty scheme: - behind them all<br />Nature held fast her own.</p> +<p> O +happy night!<br />Back through the gloom of centuries sin-defaced<br />With +what a saintly radiance thou dost shine!<br />They slept not, on the +loud-resounding shore<br />In glory roaming. Many a feud that +night<br />Lay down in holy grave, or, mockery made,<br />Was quenched +in its own shame. Far shone the fires<br />Crowning dark hills +with gladness: soared the song;<br />And heralds sped from coast to +coast to tell<br />How He the Lord of all, no Power Unknown<br />But +like a man rejoicing in his house,<br />Ruled the glad earth. +That demon-haunted wood,<br />Sad Erin’s saddest region, yet, +men say,<br />Tenderest for all its sadness, rang at last<br />With +hymns of men and angels. Onward sailed<br />High o’er the +long, unbreaking, azure waves<br />A mighty moon, full-faced, as though +on winds<br />Of rapture borne. With earliest red of dawn<br />Northward +once more the wingèd war-ships rushed<br />Swift as of old to +that long hated shore -<br />Not now with axe and torch. His Name +they bare<br />Who linked in one the nations.</p> +<p> On +a cliff<br />Where Fochlut’s Wood blackened the northern sea<br />A +convent rose. Therein those sisters twain<br />Whose cry had summoned +Patrick o’er the deep,<br />Abode, no longer weepers. Pallid +still,<br />In radiance now their faces shone; and sweet<br />Their +psalms amid the clangour of rough brine.<br />Ten years in praise to +God and good to men<br />That happy precinct housed them. In their +morn<br />Grief had for them her great work perfected;<br />Their eve +was bright as childhood. When the hour<br />Came for their blissful +transit, from their lips<br />Pealed forth ere death that great triumphant +chant<br />Sung by the Virgin Mother. Ages passed;<br />And, year +by year, on wintry nights, <i>that</i> song<br />Alone the sailors heard +- a cry of joy.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND KING LAEGHAIRE.</p> +<p>“Thou son of Calphurn, in peace go forth!<br /> This +hand shall slay them whoe’er shall slay thee!<br />The carles +shall stand to their necks in earth<br /> Till they die of +thirst who mock or stay thee!</p> +<p>“But my father, Nial, who is dead long since,<br /> Permits +not me to believe thy word;<br />For the servants of Jesus, thy heavenly +Prince,<br /> Once dead, lie flat as in sleep, interred:<br />But +we are as men that through dark floods wade;<br />We stand in our black +graves undismayed;<br />Our faces are turned to the race abhorred,<br />And +at each hand by us stand spear or sword,<br />Ready to strike at the +last great day,<br />Ready to trample them back into clay!</p> +<p>“This is my realm, and men call it Eire,<br /> Wherein +I have lived and live in hate<br />Like Nial before me and Erc his sire,<br /> Of +the race Lagenian, ill-named the Great!”</p> +<p>Thus spake Laeghaire, and his host rushed on,<br /> A +river of blood as yet unshed: -<br />At noon they fought: and at set +of sun<br /> That king lay captive, that host lay dead!</p> +<p>The Lagenian loosed him, but bade him swear<br /> He would +never demand of them Tribute more:<br /> So Laeghaire by +the dread “God-Elements” swore,<br />By the moon divine +and the earth and air;<br />He swore by the wind and the broad sunshine<br /> That +circle for ever both land and sea,<br />By the long-backed rivers, and +mighty wine,<br /> By the cloud far-seeing, by herb and tree,<br />By +the boon spring shower, and by autumn’s fan,<br />By woman’s +breast, and the head of man,<br />By Night and the noonday Demon he +swore<br />He would claim the Boarian Tribute no more.</p> +<p>But with time wrath waxed; and he brake his faith:<br />Then the +dread “God-Elements” wrought his death;<br />For the Wind +and Sun-Strength by Cassi’s side<br />Came down and smote on his +head that he died.<br />Death-sick three days on his throne he sate;<br />Then +died, as his father died, great in hate.</p> +<p>They buried their king upon Tara’s hill,<br />In his grave +upright - there stands he still:<br />Upright there stands he as men +that wade<br />By night through a castle-moat, undismayed;<br />On his +head is the crown, the spear in his hand;<br />And he looks to the hated +Lagenian land.</p> +<p>Such rites in the time of wrath and wrong<br /> Were Eire’s: +baptised, they were hers no longer:<br />For Patrick had taught her +his sweet new song,<br /> “Though hate is strong, yet +love is stronger.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR;</p> +<p>OR, MAC KYLE OF MAN.</p> +<p><i>Mac Kyle, a child of death, dwells in a forest with other<br /> men +like unto himself, that slay whom they will.<br /> Saint +Patrick coming to that wood, a certain Impostor<br /> devises +how he may be deceived and killed; but God<br /> smites +the Impostor through his own snare, and he<br /> dies. +Mac Kyle believes, and demanding penance is<br /> baptised. +Afterwards he preaches in Manann <a name="citation77"></a><a href="#footnote77">{77}</a> +Isle,<br /> and becomes a great Saint.</i></p> +<p>In Uladh, near Magh Inis, lived a chief,<br />Fierce man and fell. +From orphaned childhood he<br />Through lawless youth to blood-stained +middle age<br />Had rushed as stormy morn to stormier noon,<br />Working, +except that still he spared the poor,<br />All wrongs with iron will; +a child of death.<br />Thus spake he to his followers, while the woods<br />Snow-cumbered +creaked, their scales of icy mail<br />Angered by winter winds: “At +last he comes,<br />He that deceives the people with great signs,<br />And +for the tinkling of a little gold<br />Preaches new Gods. Where +rises yonder smoke<br />Beyond the pinewood, camps this Lord of Dupes:<br />How +say ye? Shall he track o’er Uladh’s plains,<br />As +o’er the land beside, his venomous way?<br />Forth with your swords! +and if that God he serves<br />Can save him, let him prove it!”</p> +<p> Dark +with wrath<br />Thus spake Mac Kyle; and all his men approved,<br />Shouting, +while downward fell the snows hard-caked Loosened by shock of forest-echoed +hands,<br />Save Garban. Crafty he, and full of lies,<br />That +thing which Patrick hated. Sideway first<br />Glancing, as though +some secret foe were nigh,<br />He spake: “Mac Kyle! a counsel +for thine ear!<br />A man of counsel I, as thou of war!<br />The people +love this stranger. Patrick slain,<br />Their wrath will blaze +against us, and demand<br />An <i>eric</i> for his head. Let us +by craft<br />Unravel first <i>his</i> craft: then safe our choice;<br />We +slay a traitor, or great ransom take:<br />Impostors lack not gold. +Lay me as dead<br />Upon a bier: above me spread yon cloth,<br />And +make your wail: and when the seer draws nigh<br />Worship him, crying, +‘Lo, our friend is dead!<br />Kneel, prophet, kneel, and pray +that God thou serv’st<br />To raise him.’ If he kneels, +no prophet he,<br />But like the race of mortals. Sweep the cloth<br />Straight +from my face; then, laughing, I will rise.”</p> +<p>Thus counselled Garban; and the counsel pleased;<br />Yet pleased +not God. Upon a bier, branch-strewn,<br />They laid their man, +and o’er him spread a cloth;<br />Then, moving towards that smoke +behind the pines,<br />They found the Saint and brought him to that +bier,<br />And made their moan - and Garban ’neath that cloth<br />Smiled +as he heard it - “Lo, our friend is dead!<br />Great prophet kneel; +and pray the God thou serv’st<br />To raise him from the dead.”</p> +<p> The +man of God<br />Upon them fixed a sentence-speaking eye:<br />“Yea! +he is dead. In this ye have not lied:<br />Behold, this day shall +Garban’s covering be<br />The covering of the dead. Remove +that cloth.”</p> +<p>Then drew they from his face the cloth; and lo!<br />Beneath it Garban +lay, a corpse stone-cold.</p> +<p>Amazement fell upon that bandit throng,<br />Contemplating that corpse, +and on Mac Kyle<br />Grief for his friend, remorse, and strong belief,<br />A +threefold power: for she that at his birth,<br />Her brief life faithful +to that Law she knew,<br />Had died, in region where desires are crowned<br />That +hour was strong in prayer. “From God he came,”<br />Thus +cried they; “and we worked a work accursed,<br />Tempting God’s +prophet.” Patrick heard, and spake;<br />“Not me ye +tempted, but the God I serve.”<br />At last Mac Kyle made answer: +“I have sinned;<br />I, and this people, whom I made to sin:<br />Now +therefore to thy God we yield ourselves<br />Liegemen henceforth, his +thralls as slave to Lord,<br />Or horse to master. That which +thou command’st<br />That will we do.” And Patrick +said, “Believe;<br />Confess your sins; and be baptised to God,<br />The +Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit,<br />And live true life.” +Then Patrick where he stood<br />Above the dead, with hands uplifted +preached<br />To these in anguish and in terror bowed<br />The tidings +of great joy from Bethlehem’s Crib<br />To Calvary’s Cross. +Sudden upon his knees,<br />Heart-pierced, as though he saw that Head +thorn-pierced,<br />Fell that wild chief, and was baptised to God;<br />And, +lifting up his great strong hands, while still<br />The waters streamed +adown his matted locks,<br />He cried, “Alas, my master, and my +sire!<br />I sinned a mighty sin; for in my heart<br />Fixed was my +purpose, soon as thou hadst knelt,<br />To slay thee with my sword. +Therefore judge thou<br />What <i>eric</i> I must pay to quit my sin?”<br />Him +Patrick answered, “God shall be thy Judge:<br />Arise, and to +the seaside flee, as one<br />That flies his foe. There shalt +thou find a boat<br />Made of one hide: eat nought, and nothing take<br />Except +one cloak alone: but in that boat<br />Sit thou, and bear the sin-mark +on thy brow,<br />Facing the waves, oarless and rudderless;<br />And +bind the boat chain thrice around thy feet,<br />And fling the key with +strength into the main,<br />Far as thou canst: and wheresoe’er +the breath<br />Of God shall waft thee, there till death abide<br />Working +the Will Divine.” Then spake that chief,<br />“I, +that commanded others, can obey;<br />Such lore alone is mine: but for +this man<br />That sinned my sin, alas, to see him thus!”<br />To +whom the Saint, “For him, when thou art gone,<br />My prayer shall +rise. If God will raise the dead<br />He knows: not I.”</p> +<p> Then +rose that chief, and rushed<br />Down to the shore, as one that flies +his foe;<br />Nor ate, nor drank, nor spake to wife or child,<br />But +loosed a little boat, of one hide made,<br />And sat therein, and round +his ankles wound<br />The boat chain thrice; and flung the key far forth<br />Above +the ridged sea foam. The Lord of all<br />Gave ordinance to the +wind, and, as a leaf<br />Swift rushed that boat, oarless and rudderless,<br />Over +the on-shouldering, broad-backed, glaucous wave<br />Slow-rising like +the rising of a world,<br />And purple wastes beyond, with funeral plume<br />Crested, +a pallid pomp. All night the chief<br />Under the roaring tempest +heard the voice<br />That preached the Son of Man; and when the morn<br />Shone +out, his coracle drew near the surge<br />Reboant on Manann’s +Isle. Not unbeheld<br />Rose it, and fell; not unregarded danced<br />A +black spot on the inrolling ridge, then hung<br />Suspense upon the +mile-long cataract<br />That, overtoppling, changed grass-green to light,<br />And +drowned the shores in foam. Upon the sands<br />Two white-haired +Elders in the salt air knelt,<br />Offering to God their early orisons,<br />Coninri +and Romael. Sixty years<br />These two unto a hard and stubborn +race<br />Had preached the Word; and gaining by their toil<br />But +thirty souls, had daily prayed their God<br />To send ere yet they died +some ampler arm,<br />And reap the ill-grown harvest of their youth.<br />Ten +years they prayed, not doubting, and from God,<br />Who hastens not, +this answer had received,<br />“Ye shall not die until ye see +his face.”<br />Therefore, each morning, peered they o’er +the waves,<br />Long-watching. These through breakers dragged +the man,<br />Their wished-for prize, half-frozen, and nigh to death,<br />And +bare him to their cell, and warmed and fed him,<br />And heaped his +couch with skins. Deep sleep he slept<br />Till evening lay upon +the level sea<br />With roses strewn like bridal chamber’s floor;<br />Within +it one star shone. Rested, he woke<br />And sought the shore. +From earth, and sea, and sky,<br />Then passed into his spirit the Spirit +of Love;<br />And there he vowed his vow, fierce chief no more,<br />But +soldier of the cross.</p> +<p> The +weeks ran on,<br />And daily those grey Elders ministered<br />God’s +teaching to that chief, demanding still,<br />“Son, understandst +thou? Gird thee like a man<br />To clasp, and hold, the total +Faith of Christ,<br />And give us leave to die.” The months +fled fast:<br />Ere violets bloomed, he knew the creed; and when<br />Far +heathery hills purpled the autumnal air,<br />He sang the psalter whole. +That tale he told<br />Had power, and Patrick’s name. His +strenous arm<br />Labouring with theirs, reaped harvest heavy and sound,<br />Till +wondering gazed their wearied eyes on barns<br />Knee-deep in grain. +At last an eve there fell,<br />When, on the shore in commune, with +such might<br />Discoursed that pilgrim of the things of God,<br />Such +insight calm, and wisdom reverence-born,<br />Each on the other gazing +in their hearts<br />Received once more an answer from the Lord,<br />“Now +is your task completed: ye shall die.”</p> +<p>Then on the red sand knelt those Elders twain<br />With hands upraised, +and all their hoary hair<br />Tinged like the foam-wreaths by that setting +sun,<br />And sang their “Nunc Dimittis.” At its close<br />High +on the sandhills, ’mid the tall hard grass<br />That sighed eternal +o’er the unbounded waste<br />With ceaseless yearnings like their +own for death<br />They found the place where first, that bark descried,<br />Their +sighs were changed to songs. That spot they marked,<br />And said, +“Our resurrection place is here:”<br />And, on the third +day dying, in that place<br />The man who loved them laid them, at their +heads<br />Planting one cross because their hearts were one<br />And +one their lives. The snowy-breasted bird<br />Of ocean o’er +their undivided graves<br />Oft flew with wailing note; but they rejoiced<br />’Mid +God’s high realm glittering in endless youth.</p> +<p>These two with Christ, on him, their son in Christ<br />Their mantle +fell; and strength to him was given.<br />Long time he toiled alone; +then round him flocked<br />Helpers from far. At last, by voice +of all<br />He gat the Island’s great episcopate,<br />And king-like +ruled the region. This is he,<br />Mac Kyle of Uladh, bishop, +and Penitent,<br />Saint Patrick’s missioner in Manann’s +Isle,<br />Sinner one time, and, after sinner, Saint<br />World-famous. +May his prayer for sinners plead!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AT CASHEL;</p> +<p>OR, THE BAPTISM OF AENGUS.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Saint Patrick goes to Cashel of the Rings to celebrate<br /> the +Feast of the Annunciation. Aengus, who reigns<br /> there, +receives him with all honour. He and his<br /> people +believe, and by Baptism are added unto the<br /> Church. +Aengus desires to resign his sovereignty, and<br /> become +a monk. The Saint suffers not this, because<br /> he +had discovered by two notable signs, both at the<br /> baptism +of Aengus and before it, that the Prince is of<br /> those +who are called by God to rule men.</i></p> +<p>When Patrick now o’er Ulster’s forest bound,<br />And +Connact, echoing to the western wave,<br />And Leinster, fair with hill-suspended +woods,<br />Had raised the cross, and where the deep night ruled,<br />Splendour +had sent of everlasting light,<br />Sole peace of warring hearts, to +Munster next,<br />Thomond and Desmond, Heber’s portion old,<br />He +turned; and, fired by love that mocks at rest<br />Pushed on through +raging storm the whole night long,<br />Intent to hold the Annunciation +Feast<br />At Cashel of the Kings. The royal keep<br />High-seated +on its Rock, as morning broke<br />Faced them at last; and at the selfsame +hour<br />Aengus, in his father’s absence lord,<br />Rising from +happy sleep and heaven-sent dreams<br />Went forth on duteous tasks. +With sudden start<br />The prince stept back; for, o’er the fortress +court<br />Like grove storm-levelled lay the idols huge,<br />False +gods and foul that long had awed the land,<br />Prone, without hand +of man. O’er-awed he gazed;<br />Then on the air there rang +a sound of hymns,<br />And by the eastern gate Saint Patrick stood,<br />The +brethren round him. On their shaggy garb<br />Auroral mist, struck +by the rising sun,<br />Glittered, that diamond-panoplied they seemed,<br />And +as a heavenly vision. At that sight<br />The youth, descending +with a wildered joy,<br />Welcomed his guests: and, ere an hour, the +streets<br />Sparkled far down like flowering meads in spring,<br />So +thronged the folk in holiday attire<br />To see the man far-famed. +“Who spurns our gods?”<br />Once they had cried in wrath: +but, year by year,<br />Tidings of some deliverance great and strange,<br />Some +life more noble, some sublimer hope,<br />Some regal race enthroned +beyond the grave,<br />Had reached them from afar. The best believed,<br />Great +hearts for whom nor earthly love sufficed<br />Nor earthly fame. +The meaner scoffed: yet all<br />Desired the man. Delay had edged +their thirst.</p> +<p>Then Patrick, standing up among them, spake,<br />And God was with +him. Not as when loose tongue<br />Babbles vain rumour, or the +Sophist spins<br />Thought’s air-hung cobwebs gay with Fancy’s +dews,<br />Spake he, but words of might, as when a man<br />Bears witness +to the things which he has seen,<br />And tells of that he knows: and +as the harp<br />Attested is by rapture of the ear,<br />And sunlight +by consenting of the eye<br />That, seeing, knows it sees, and neither +craves<br />Inferior demonstration, so his words<br />Self-proved, went +forth and conquered: for man’s mind,<br />Created in His image +who is Truth,<br />Challenged by truth, with recognising voice<br />Cries +out “Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,”<br />And cleaves +thereto. In all that listening host<br />One vast, dilating heart +yearned to its God.<br />Then burst the bond of years. No haunting +doubt<br />They knew. God dropped on them the robe of Truth<br />Sun-like: +down fell the many-coloured weed<br />Of error; and, reclothed ere yet +unclothed,<br />They walked a new-born earth. The blinded Past<br />Fled, +vanquished. Glorious more than strange it seemed<br />That He +who fashioned man should come to man,<br />And raise by ruling. +They, His trumpet heard,<br />In glory spurned demons misdeemed for +gods:<br />The great chief had returned: the clan enthralled<br />Trod +down the usurping foe.</p> +<p> Then +rose the cry,<br />“Join us to Christ!” His strong +eyes on them set,<br />Patrick replied, “Know ye what thing ye +seek<br />Ye that would fain be house-mates with my King?<br />Ye seek +His cross!” He paused, then added slow:<br />“If ye +be liegeful, sirs, decree the day,<br />His baptism shall be yours.”</p> +<p> That +eve, while shone<br />The sunset on the green-touched woods, that, grazed<br />By +onward flight of unalighting spring,<br />Caught warmth yet scarcely +flamed, Aengus stood<br />With Patrick in a westward-facing tower<br />Which +overlooked far regions town-besprent,<br />And lit with winding waters. +Thus he spake:<br />“My Father! what is sovereignty of man?<br />Say, +can I shield yon host from death, from sin,<br />Taking them up into +my breast, like God?<br />I trow not so! Mine be the lowliest +place<br />Following thy King who left his Father’s throne<br />To +walk the lowliest!” Patrick answered thus:<br />“Best +lot thou choosest, son. If thine that lot<br />Thou know’st +not yet; nor I. The Lord, thy God,<br />Will teach us.”</p> +<p> When +the day decreed had dawned<br />Loud rang the bull-horn; and on every +breeze<br />Floated the banners, saffron, green, and blue;<br />While +issuing from the horizon’s utmost verge<br />The full-voiced People +flocked. So swarmed of old<br />Some migratory nation, instinct-urged<br />To +fly their native wastes sad winter’s realm;<br />So thronged on +southern slopes when, far below,<br />Shone out the plains of promise. +Bright they came!<br />No summer sea could wear a blithsomer sheen<br />Though +every dancing crest and milky plume<br />Ran on with rainbows braided. +Minstrel songs<br />Wafted like winds those onward hosts, or swayed<br />Or +stayed them; while among them heralds passed<br />Lifting white wands +of office. Foremost rode<br />Aileel, the younger brother of the +prince:<br />He ruled a milk-white horse. Fluttered, breeze-borne<br />His +mantle green, while all his golden hair<br />Streamed back redundant +from the ring of gold<br />Circling his head uncovered. Loveliest +light<br />Of innocence and joy was on that face:<br />Full well the +young maids marked it! Brighter yet<br />Beamed he, his brother +noting. On the verge<br />Of Cashel’s Rock that hour Aengus +stood,<br />By Patrick’s side. That concourse nearer now<br />He +gazed upon it, crying, with clasped hands,<br />“My Father, fair +is sunrise, fair the sea,<br />The hills, the plains, the wind-stirred +wood, the maid;<br />But what is like a People onward borne<br />In +gladness? When I see that sight, my heart<br />Expands like palace-gates +wide open flung<br />That say to all men, ‘Enter.’” +Then the Saint<br />Laid on that royal head a hand of might,<br />And +said, “The Will of God decrees thee King!<br />Son of this People +art thou: Sire one day<br />Thou shalt be! Son and Sire in one +are King.<br />Shepherd for God thy flock, thou Shepherd true!”<br />He +spake: that word was ratified in Heaven.</p> +<p> Meantime that multitude innumerable<br />Had reached +the Rock, and, now the winding road<br />In pomp ascending, faced those +fair-wrought gates<br />Which, by the warders at the prince’s +sign<br />Drawn back, to all gave entrance. In they streamed,<br />Filling +the central courtway. Patrick stood<br />High stationed on a prostrate +idol’s base,<br />In vestments of the Vigil of that Feast<br />The +Annunciation, which with annual boon<br />Whispers, while melting snows +dilate those streams<br />Purer than snows, to universal earth<br />That +Maiden Mother’s joy. The Apostle watched<br />The advancing +throng, and gave them welcome thus;<br />“As though into the great +Triumphant Church,<br />O guests of God, ye flock! Her place is +Heaven:<br />Sirs! we this day are militant below:<br />Not less, advance +in faith. Behold your crowns -<br />Obedience and Endurance.”</p> +<p> There +and then<br />The Rite began: his people’s Chief and Head<br />Beside +the font Aengus stood; his face<br />Sweet as a child’s, yet grave +as front of eld:<br />For reverence he had laid his crown aside,<br />And +from the deep hair to the unsandalled feet<br />Was raimented in white. +With mitred head<br />And massive book, forward Saint Patrick leaned,<br />Stayed +by the gem-wrought crosier. Prayer on prayer<br />Went up to God; +while gift on gift from God,<br />All Angel-like, invisibly to man,<br />Descended. +Thrice above that princely brow<br />Patrick the cleansing waters poured, +and traced<br />Three times thereon the Venerable Sign,<br />Naming +the Name Triune. The Rite complete,<br />Awestruck that concourse +downward gazed. At last<br />Lifting their eyes, they marked the +prince’s face<br />That pale it was though bright, anguished and +pale,<br />While from his naked foot a blood-stream gushed<br />And +o’er the pavement welled. The crosier’s point,<br />Weighted +with weight of all that priestly form,<br />Had pierced it through. +“Why suffer’dst thou so long<br />The pain in silence?” +Patrick spake, heart-grieved:<br />Smiling, Aengus answered, “O +my Sire,<br />I thought, thus called to follow Him whose feet<br />Were +pierced with nails, haply the blissful Rite<br />Bore witness to their +sorrows.”</p> +<p> At +that word<br />The large eyes of the Apostolic man<br />Grew larger; +and within them lived that light<br />Not fed by moon or sun, a visible +flash<br />Of that invisible lightning which from God<br />Vibrates +ethereal through the world of souls,<br />Vivific strength of Saints. +The mitred brow<br />Uptowered sublime: the strong, yet wrinkled hands,<br />Ascending, +ceased not, till the crosier’s head<br />Glittered above the concourse +like a star.<br />At last his hands disparting, down he drew<br />From +Heaven the Royal Blessing, speaking thus:<br />“For this cause +may the blessing, Sire of kings,<br />Cleave to thy seed forever! +Spear and sword<br />Before them fall! In glory may the race<br />Of +Nafrach’s sons, Aengus, and Aileel,<br />Hold sway on Cashel’s +summit! Be their kings<br />Great-hearted men, potent to rule +and guard<br />Their people; just to judge them; warriors strong;<br />Sage +counsellors; faithful shepherds; men of God,<br />That so through them +the everlasting King<br />May flood their land with blessing.” +Thus he spake;<br />And round him all that nation said, “Amen.”</p> +<p> Thus held they feast in Cashel of the Kings<br />That +day till all that land was clothed with Christ:<br />And when the parting +came from Cashel’s steep<br />Patrick the People’s Blessing +thus forth sent:<br />“The Blessing fall upon the pasture broad,<br />On +fruitful mead, and every corn-clad hill,<br />And woodland rich with +flowers that children love:<br />Unnumbered be the homesteads, and the +hearths: -<br />A blessing on the women, and the men,<br />On youth, +and maiden, and the suckling babe:<br />A blessing on the fruit-bestowing +tree,<br />And foodful river tide. Be true; be pure,<br />Not +living from below, but from above,<br />As men that over-top the world. +And raise<br />Here, on this rock, high place of idols once,<br />A +kingly church to God. The same shall stand<br />For aye, or, wrecked, +from ruin rise restored,<br />His witness till He cometh. Over +Eire<br />The Blessing speed till time shall be no more<br />From Cashel +of the Kings.”</p> +<p> The +Saint fared forth:<br />The People bare him through their kingdom broad<br />With +banner and with song; but o’er its bound<br />The women of that +People followed still<br />A half day’s journey with lamenting +voice;<br />Then silent knelt, lifting their babes on high;<br />And, +crowned with two-fold blessing, home returned.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDLESS MOTHER.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Saint Patrick finds an aged Pagan woman making great<br /> lamentation +above a tomb which she believes to be that<br /> of +her son. He kneels beside her in prayer, while<br /> around +them a wondrous tempest sweeps. After a long<br /> time, +he declares unto her the Death of Christ, and<br /> how, +through that Death, the Dead are blessed.<br /> Lastly, +he dissuades her from her rage of grief, and<br /> admonishes +her to pray for her son on a tomb hard by,<br /> which +is his indeed. The woman believes, and, being<br /> consoled +by a Sign of Heaven, departs in peace.</i></p> +<p>Across his breast one hundred times each day<br />Saint Patrick drew +the Venerable Sign,<br />And sixty times by night: and whensoe’er<br />In +travel Cross was seen far off or nigh<br />On lonely moor, or rock, +or heathy hill,<br />For Erin then was sown with Christian seed,<br />He +sought it, and before it knelt. Yet once,<br />While cold in winter +shone the star of eve<br />Upon their board, thus spake a youthful monk:<br />“Three +times this day, my father, didst thou pass<br />The Cross of Christ +unmarked. At morn thou saw’st<br />A last year’s lamb +that by it sheltered lay,<br />At noon a dove that near it sat and mourned,<br />At +eve a little child that round it raced,<br />Well pleased with each; +yet saw’st thou not that Cross,<br />Nor mad’st thou any +reverence!” At that word<br />Wondering, the Saint arose, +and left the meat,<br />And, wondering, went to venerate that Cross.</p> +<p> Dark was the earth and dank ere yet he reached<br />That +spot; and lo! where lamb had lain, and dove<br />Had mourned, and child +had raced, there stood indeed<br />High-raised, the Cross of Christ. +Before it long<br />He prayed, and kneeling, marked that on a tomb<br />That +Cross was raised. Then, inly moved by God,<br />The Saint demanded, +“Who, of them that walked<br />The sun-warmed earth lies here +in darkness hid?”<br />And answer made a lamentable Voice:<br />“Pagan +I lived, my own soul’s bane: - when dead,<br />Men buried here +my body.” Patrick then:<br />“How stands the Cross +of Christ on Pagan grave?”<br />And answered thus the lamentable +Voice:<br />“A woman’s work. She had been absent long;<br />Her +son had died; near mine his grave was made;<br />Half blind was she +through fleeting of her tears,<br />And, erring, raised the Cross upon +my tomb,<br />Misdeeming it for his. Nightly she comes,<br />Wailing +as only Pagan mothers wail;<br />So wailed my mother once, while pain +tenfold<br />Ran through my bodiless being. For her sake,<br />If +pity dwells on earth or highest heaven,<br />May it this mourner comfort! +Christian she,<br />And capable of pity.”</p> +<p> Then +the Saint<br />Cried loud, “O God, Thou seest this Pagan’s +heart,<br />That love within it dwells: therefore not his<br />That +doom of Souls all hate, and self-exiled<br />To whom Thy Presence were +a woe twice told.<br />Eternal Pity! pity Thou Thy work; -<br />Sole +Peace of them that love Thee, grant him peace.”<br />Thus Patrick +prayed; and in the heaven of heavens<br />God heard his servant’s +prayer. Then Patrick mused<br />“Now know I why I passed +that Cross unmarked;<br />It was not that it seemed.”</p> +<p> As +thus he knelt,<br />Behold, upon the cold and bitter wind<br />Rang +wail on wail; and o’er the moor there moved<br />What seemed a +woman’s if a human form.<br />That miserable phantom onward came<br />With +cry succeeding cry that sank or swelled<br />As dipped or rose the moor. +Arrived at last,<br />She heeded not the Saint, but on that grave<br />Dashed +herself down. Long time that woman wailed;<br />And Patrick, long, +for reverence of her woe<br />Forbore. At last he spake low-toned +as when<br />Best listener knows not when the strain begins.<br />“Daughter! +the sparrow falls not to the ground<br />Without his Maker. He +that made thy son<br />Hath sent His Son to bear all woes of men,<br />And +vanquish every foe - the latest, Death.”<br />Then rolled that +woman on the Saint an eye<br />As when the last survivor of a host<br />Glares +on some pitying conqueror. “Ho! the man<br />That treads +upon my grief! He ne’er had sons;<br />And thou, O son of +mine, hast left no sons,<br />Though oft I said, ‘When I am old, +his babes<br />Shall climb my knees.’ My boast was mine +in youth;<br />But now mine age is made a barren stock<br />And as a +blighted briar.” In grief she turned;<br />And as on blackening +tarn gust follows gust,<br />Again came wail on wail. On strode +the night:<br />The jagged forehead of that forest old<br />Alone was +seen: all else was gloom. At last<br />With voice, though kind, +upbraiding, Patrick spake:<br />“Daughter, thy grief is wilful +and it errs;<br />Errs like those sad and tear-bewildered eyes<br />That +for a Christian’s take a Pagan’s grave,<br />And for a son’s +a stranger’s. Ah! poor child,<br />Thy pride it was to raise, +where lay thy son,<br />A Cross, his memory’s honour. By +thee close<br />All dewed and glimmering in yon rising moon,<br />Low +lies a grave unhonoured, and unknown:<br />No cross stands on it; yet +upon its breast<br />Graved shalt thou find what Christian tomb ne’er +lacks,<br />The Cross of Christ. Woman, there lies thy son.”</p> +<p> She rose; she found that other tomb; she knelt;<br />And +o’er it went her wandering palms, as though<br />Some stone-blind +mother o’er an infant’s face<br />Should spread an agonising +hand, intent<br />To choose betwixt her own and counterfeit;<br />She +found that cross deep-grav’n, and further sign<br />Close by, +to her well known. One piercing shriek -<br />Another moment, +and her body lay<br />Along that grave with kisses, and wild hands<br />As +when some forest beast tears up the ground,<br />Seeking its prey there +hidden. Then once more<br />Rang the wild wail above that lonely +heath,<br />While roared far off the vast invisible woods,<br />And +with them strove the blast, in eddies dire<br />Whirling both branch +and bough. Through hurrying clouds<br />The scared moon rushed +like ship that naked glares<br />One moment, lightning-lighted in the +storm,<br />Anon in wild waves drowned. An hour went by:<br />Still +wailed that woman, and the tempest roared;<br />While in the heart of +ruin Patrick prayed.<br />He loved that woman. Unto Patrick dear,<br />Dear +as God’s Church was still the single Soul,<br />Dearest the suffering +Soul. He gave her time;<br />He let the floods of anguish spend +themselves:<br />But when her wail sank low; when woods were mute,<br />And +where the skiey madness late had raged<br />Shone the blue heaven, he +spake with voice in strength<br />Gentle like that which calmed the +Syrian lake,<br />“My sister, God hath shown me of thy wound,<br />And +wherefore with the blind old Pagan’s cry<br />Hopeless thou mourn’st. +Returned from far, thou found’st<br />Thy son had Christian died, +and saw’st the Cross<br />On Christian graves: and ill thy heart +endured<br />That tomb so dear should lack its reverence meet.<br />To +him thou gav’st the Cross, albeit that Cross<br />Inly thou know’st +not yet. That knowledge thine,<br />Thou hadst not left thy son +amerced of prayer,<br />And given him tears, not succour.” +“Yea,” she said,<br />“Of this new Faith I little +understand,<br />Being an aged woman and in woe:<br />But since my son +was Christian, such am I;<br />And since the Christian tomb is decked +with Cross<br />He shall not lack his right.”</p> +<p> Then +Patrick spake:<br />“O woman, hearken, for through me thy son<br />Invokes +thee. All night long for thee, unknown,<br />My hands have risen: +but thou hast raised no prayer<br />For him, thy dearest; nor from founts +of God,<br />Though brimful, hast thou drawn for lips that thirst.<br />Arise, +and kneel, and hear thy loved one’s cry:<br />Too long he waiteth. +Blessed are the dead:<br />They rest in God’s high Will. +But more than peace,<br />The rapturous vision of the Face of God,<br />Won +by the Cross of Christ - for that they thirst<br />As thou, if viewless +stood thy son close by,<br />Wouldst thirst to see his countenance. +Eyes sin-sealed<br />Not yet can see their God. Prayer speeds +the time:<br />The living help the dead; all praise to Him<br />Who +blends His children in a league of help,<br />Making all good one good. +Eternal Love!<br />Not thine the will that love should cease with life,<br />Or, +living, cease from service, barren made,<br />A stagnant gall eating +the mourner’s heart<br />That hour when love should stretch a +hand of might<br />Up o’er the grave to heaven. O great +in love,<br />Perfect love’s work: for well, sad heart, I know,<br />Hadst +thou not trained thy son in virtuous ways,<br />Christian he ne’er +had been.”</p> +<p> Those +later words<br />That solitary mourner understood,<br />The earlier +but in part, and answered thus:<br />“A loftier Cross, and farther +seen, shall rise<br />Upon this grave new-found! No hireling hands +-<br />Mine own shall raise it; yea, though thirty years<br />Should +sweat beneath the task.” And Patrick said:<br />“What +means the Cross? That lore thou lack’st now learn.”</p> +<p> Then that which Kings desired to know, and seers<br />And +prophets vigil-blind - that Crown of Truths,<br />Scandal of fools, +yet conqueror of the world,<br />To her, that midnight mourner, he divulged,<br />Record +authentic: how in sorrow and sin<br />The earth had groaned; how pity, +like a sword,<br />Had pierced the great Paternal Heart in heaven;<br />How +He, the Light of Light, and God of God,<br />Had man become, and died +upon the Cross,<br />Vanquishing thus both sorrow and sin, and risen,<br />The +might of death o’erthrown; and how the gates<br />Of heaven rolled +inwards as the Anointed King<br />Resurgent and ascending through them +passed<br />In triumph with His Holy Dead; and how<br />The just, thenceforth +death-freed, the selfsame gates<br />Entering, shall share the everlasting +throne.<br />Thus Patrick spake, and many a stately theme<br />Rehearsed +beside, higher than heaven, and yet<br />Near as the farthest can alone +be near.<br />Then in that grief-worn creature’s bosom old<br />Contentions +rose, and fiercer fires than burn<br />In sultry breasts of youth: and +all her past,<br />Both good and evil, woke, in sleep long sealed;<br />And +all the powers and forces of her soul<br />Rushed every way through +darkness seeking light,<br />Like winds or tides. Beside her Patrick +prayed,<br />And mightier than his preaching was his prayer,<br />Sheltering +that crisis dread. At last beneath<br />The great Life-Giver’s +breath that Human Soul,<br />An inner world vaster than planet worlds,<br />In +undulation swayed, as when of old<br />The Spirit of God above the waters +moved<br />Creative, while the blind and shapeless void<br />Yearned +into form, and form grew meet for life,<br />And downward through the +abysses Law ran forth<br />With touch soul-soft, and seas from lands +retired,<br />And light from dark, and wondering Nature passed<br />Through +storm to calm, and all things found their home.</p> +<p>Silence long time endured; at last, clear-voiced,<br />Her head not +turning, thus the woman spake:<br />“That God who Man became - +who died, and lives, -<br />Say, died He for my son?” And +Patrick said,<br />“Yea, for thy son He died. Kneel, woman, +kneel!<br />Nor doubt, for mighty is a mother’s prayer,<br />That +He who in the eternal light is throned,<br />Lifting the roseate and +the nail-pierced palm,<br />Will make in heaven the Venerable Sign,<br />For +He it is prays in us, and that Soul<br />Thou lov’st pass on to +glory.”</p> +<p> At +his word<br />She knelt, and unto God, with help of God,<br />Uprushed +the strength of prayer, as when the cloud<br />Uprushes past some beetling +mountain wall<br />From billowy deeps unseen. Long time she prayed;<br />While +heaven and earth grew silent as that night<br />When rose the Saviour. +Sudden ceased the prayer:<br />And rang upon the night her jubilant +cry,<br />“I saw a Sign in Heaven. Far inward rolled<br />The +gates; and glory flashed from God; and he<br />I love his entrance won.” +Then, fair and tall,<br />That woman stood with hands upraised to heaven<br />The +dusky shadow of her youth renewed,<br />And instant Patrick spake, “Give +thanks to God,<br />And speed thee home, and sleep; and since thy son<br />No +children left, take to thee orphans twain<br />And rear them, in his +honour, unto Christ;<br />And yearly, when the death-day of thy son<br />Returns, +his birth-day name it; call thy friends;<br />Give alms; and range the +poor around thy door,<br />So shall they feast, and pray. Woman, +farewell:<br />All night the dark upon thy face hath lain;<br />Yet +shall we know each other, met in heaven.”</p> +<p>Then blithe of foot that Mother crossed the moor;<br />And when she +reached her door a zone of white<br />Loosening along a cloud that walled +the east<br />Revealed the coming dawn. That dawn ere long<br />Lay, +unawaking, on a face serene,<br />On tearless lids, and quiet, open +palms,<br />On stormless couch and raiment calm that hid<br />A breast +if faded now, yet happier far<br />Than when in prime its youthful wave +first heaved<br />Rocking a sleeping Infant.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AT THE FEAST OF KNOCK CAE;<br />OR, THE FOUNDING OF +MUNGRET.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Saint Patrick, being bidden to a feast, discourses<br /> on +the way against the pride of the Bards, for whom<br /> Fiacc +pleads. Derball, a scoffer, requires the Saint<br /> to +remove a mountain. He kneels down and prays, and<br /> Derball +avers that the mountain moved.<br /> Notwithstanding, +Derball believes not, but departs.<br /> The Saint +declares that he saw not whether the<br /> mountain +moved. He places Nessan over his convent at<br /> Mungret +because he had given a little wether to the<br /> hungry. +Nessan’s mother grudged the gift; and Saint<br /> Patrick +prophesies that her grave shall not be in her<br /> son’s +church.</i></p> +<p>In Limneach, <a name="citation101"></a><a href="#footnote101">{101}</a> +ere he reached it, fame there ran<br />Of Patrick’s words and +works. Before his foot<br />Aileel had fallen, loud wailing, with +his wife,<br />And cried, “Our child is slain by savage beasts;<br />But +thou, O prophet, if that God thou serv’st<br />Be God indeed, +restore him!” Patrick turned<br />To Malach, praised of +all men. “Brother, kneel,<br />And raise yon child.” +But Malach answered, “Nay,<br />Lest, tempting God, His service +I should shame.”<br />Then Patrick, “Answer of the base +is thine;<br />And base shall be that house thou build’st on earth,<br />Little, +and low. A man may fail in prayer:<br />What then? Thank +God! the fault is ours not His,<br />And ours alone the shame.” +The Apostle turned<br />To Ibar, and to Ailbè, bishops twain,<br />And +bade them raise the child. They heard and knelt:<br />And Patrick +knelt between them; and these three<br />Upheaved a wondrous strength +of prayer; and lo!<br />All pale, yet shining, rose the child, and sat,<br />Lifting +small hands, and preached to those around,<br />And straightway they +believed, and were baptized.</p> +<p>Thus with loud rumour all the land was full,<br />And some believed; +some doubted; and a chief,<br />Lonan, the son of Eire, that half believed,<br />Willing +to draw from Patrick wonder and sign,<br />By messengers besought him, +saying, “Come,<br />For in thy reverence waits thy servant’s +feast<br />Spread on Knock Cae.” That pleasant hill ascends<br />Westward +of Ara, girt by rivers twain,<br />Maigue, lily-lighted, and the “Morning +Star”<br />Once “Samhair” named, that eastward through +the woods<br />Winding, upon its rapids earliest meets<br />The morn, +and flings it far o’er mead and plain.</p> +<p>From Limneach therefore Patrick, while the dawn<br />Still dusk, +its joyous secret kept, went forth,<br />O’er dustless road soon +lost in dewy fields,<br />And groves that, touched by wakening winds, +began<br />To load damp airs with scent. That time it was<br />When +beech leaves lose their silken gloss, and maids<br />From whitest brows +depose the hawthorn white,<br />Red rose in turn enthroning. Earliest +gleams<br />Glimmered on leaves that shook like wings of birds:<br />Saint +Patrick marked them well. He turned to Fiacc -<br />“God +might have changed to Pentecostal tongues<br />The leaves of all the +forests in the world,<br />And bade them sing His love! He wrought +not thus:<br />A little hint He gives us and no more.<br />Alone the +willing see. Thus they sin less<br />Who, if they saw, seeing +would disbelieve.<br />Hark to that note! O foolish woodland choirs!<br />Ye +sing but idle loves; and, idler far,<br />The bards sing war - war only!”</p> +<p> Answered +thus<br />The monk bard-loving: “Sing it! Ay, and make<br />The +keys of all the tempests hang on zones<br />Of those cloud-spirits! +They, too, can ‘bind and loose:’<br />A bard incensed hath +proved a kingdom’s doom!<br />Such Aidan. Upon cakes of +meal his host,<br />King Aileach, fed him in a fireless hall:<br />The +bard complained not - ay, but issuing forth,<br />Sang in dark wood +a keen and venomed song<br />That raised on the king’s countenance +plague-spots three;<br />Who saw him named them Scorn, Dishonour, Shame,<br />And +blighted those three oak trees nigh his door.<br />What next? +Before a month that realm lay drowned<br />In blood; and fire went o’er +the opprobrious house!”<br />Thus spake the youth, and blushed +at his own zeal<br />For bardic fame; then added, “Strange the +power<br />Of song! My father, do I vainly dream<br />Oft thinking +that the bards, perchance the birds,<br />Sing something vaster than +they think or know?<br />Some fire immortal lives within their strings:<br />Therefore +the people love them. War divine,<br />God’s war on sin +- true love-song best and sweetest -<br />Perforce they chaunt in spirit, +not wars of clans:<br />Yea, one day, conscious, they shall sing that +song;<br />One day by river clear of south or north,<br />Pagan no more, +the laurelled head shall rise,<br />And chaunt the Warfare of the Realm +of Souls,<br />The anguish and the cleansing, last the crown -<br />Prelude +of songs celestial!”</p> +<p> Patrick +smiled:<br />“Still, as at first, a lover of the bards!<br />Hard +task was mine to win thee to the cowl!<br />Dubtach, thy master, sole +in Tara’s hall<br />Who made me reverence, mocked my quest. +He said,<br />‘Fiacc thou wouldst? - my Fiacc? Few days +gone by<br />I sent the boy with poems to the kings;<br />He loves me: +hardly will he leave the songs<br />To wear thy tonsure!’ +As he spake, behold,<br />Thou enter’dst. Sudden hands on +Dubtach’s head<br />I laid, as though to gird with tonsure crown:<br />Then +rose thy clamour, ‘Erin’s chief of bards<br />A tonsured +man! Me, father, take, not him!<br />Far less the loss to Erin +and the songs!’<br />Down knelt’st thou; and, ere long, +old Dubtach’s floor<br />Shone with thy vernal locks, like forest +paths<br />Made gold by leaves of autumn!”</p> +<p> As +he spake,<br />The sun, new-risen, flashed on a breast of wood<br />That +answered from a thousand jubilant throats:<br />Then Fiacc, with all +their music in his face,<br />Resumed: “My father, upon Tara’s +steep<br />Patient thou sat’st whole months, sifting with care<br />The +laws of Eire, recasting for all time,<br />Ill laws from good dissevering, +as that Day<br />Shall sever tares from wheat. I see thee still,<br />As +then we saw - thy clenched hand lost in beard<br />Propping thy chin; +thy forehead wrinkle-trenched<br />Above that wondrous tome, the ‘Senchus +Mohr,’<br />Like his, that Hebrew lawgiver’s, who sat<br />Throned +on the clouded Mount, while far below<br />The Tribes waited in awe. +Now answer make!<br />Three bishops, and three brehons, and three kings.<br />Ye +toiled - who helped thee best?” “Dubtach, the bard,”<br />Patrick +replied - “Yea, wise was he, and knew<br />Man’s heart like +his own strings.” “All bards are wise,”<br />Shouted +the youth, “except when war they wage<br />On thee, the wisest. +In their music bath<br />They cleanse man’s heart, not less, and +thus prepare,<br />Though hating thee, thy way. The bards are +wise<br />For all except themselves. Shall God not save them,<br />He +who would save the worst? Such grace were hard<br />Unless, death +past, their souls to birds might change,<br />And in the darksomest +grove of Paradise<br />Lament, amerced, their error, yet rejoice<br />In +souls that walked obedient!” “Darksomest grove,”<br />Patrick +made answer; “darksome is their life;<br />Darksome their pride, +their love, their joys, their hopes;<br />Darksome, though gleams of +happier lore they have,<br />Their light! Seest thou yon forest +floor, and o’er it,<br />The ivy’s flash - earth-light? +Such light is theirs:<br />By such can no man walk.”</p> +<p> Thus, +gay or grave,<br />Conversed they, while the Brethren paced behind;<br />Till +now the morn crowded each cottage door<br />With clustered heads. +They reached ere long in woods<br />A hamlet small. Here on the +weedy thatch<br />White fruit-bloom fell: through shadow, there, went +round<br />The swinging mill-wheel tagged with silver fringe;<br />Here +rang the mallet; there was heard remote<br />The one note of the love-contented +bird.<br />Though warm the sun, in shade the young spring morn<br />Was +edged with winter yet, and icy film<br />Glazed the deep ruts. +The swarthy smith worked hard,<br />And working sang; the wheelwright +toiled close by;<br />An armourer next to these: through flaming smoke<br />Glared +the fierce hands that on the anvil fell<br />In thunder down. +A sorcerer stood apart<br />Kneading Death’s messenger, that missile +ball,<br />The <i>Lia Laimbhè</i>. To his heart he clasped +it,<br />And o’er it muttered spells with flatteries mixed:<br />“Hail, +little daughter mine! ’Twixt hand and heart<br />I knead +thee! From the Red Sea came that sand<br />Which, blent with viper’s +poison, makes thy flesh!<br />Be thou no shadow wandering on the air!<br />Rush +through the battle gloom as red-combed snake<br />Cleaves the blind +waters! On! like Witch’s glance,<br />Or forkèd flash, +or shaft of summer pest,<br />And woe to him that meets thee! +Mouth blood-red<br />My daughter hath: - not healing be her kiss!”<br />Thus +he. In shade he stood, and phrensy-fired;<br />And yet he marked +who watched him. Without word<br />Him Patrick passed; but spake +to all the rest<br />With voice so kindly reverent, “Is not this,”<br />Men +asked, “the preacher of the ‘Tidings Good?’”<br />“What +tidings? Has he found a mine?” “He speaks<br />To +princes as to brothers; to the hind<br />As we to princes’ children! +Yea, when mute,<br />Saith not his face ‘Rejoice’?”</p> +<p> At +times the Saint<br />Laid on the head of age his strong right hand,<br />Gentle +as touch of soft-accosting eyes;<br />And once before an open door he +stopped,<br />Silent. Within, all glowing like a rose,<br />A +mother stood for pleasure of her babes<br />That - in them still the +warmth of couch late left -<br />Around her gambolled. On his +face, as hers,<br />Their sport regarding, long time lay the smile;<br />Then +crept a shadow o’er it, and he spake<br />In sadness: “Woman! +when a hundred years<br />Have passed, with opening flower and falling +snow,<br />Where then will be thy children?” Like a cloud<br />Fear +and great wrath fell on her. From the wall<br />She snatched a +battle-axe and raised it high<br />In both hands, clamouring, “Wouldst +thou slay my babes?”<br />He answered, “I would save them. +Woman, hear!<br />Seest thou yon floating shape? It died a worm;<br />It +lives, the blue-winged angel of spring meads.<br />Thy children, likewise, +if they serve my King,<br />Death past, shall find them wings.” +Then to her cheek<br />The bloom returned, and splendour to her eye;<br />And +catching to her breast, that larger swelled,<br />A child, she wept, +“Oh, would that he might live<br />For ever! Prophet, speak! +thy words are good!<br />Their father, too, must hear thee.” +Patrick said,<br />“Not so; nor falls this seed on every road;”<br />Then +added thus: “You child, by all the rest<br />Cherished as though +he were some infant God,<br />Is none of thine.” She answered, +“None of ours;<br />A great chief sent him here for fosterage.”<br />Then +he: “All men on earth the children are<br />Of One who keeps them +here in fosterage:<br />They see not yet His face; but He sees them,<br />Yea, +and decrees their seasons and their times:<br />Like infants, they must +learn Him first by touch,<br />Through nature, and her gifts - by hearing +next,<br />The hearing of the ear, and that is Faith -<br />By Vision +last. Woman, these things are hard;<br />But thou to Limneach +come in three days’ time,<br />Likewise thy husband; there, by +Sangul’s Well,<br />Thou shalt know all.”</p> +<p> The +Saint had reached ere long<br />That festal mount. Thousands with +bannered line<br />Scaled it light-hearted. Never favourite lamb<br />In +ribands decked shone brighter than that hour<br />The fair flank of +Knock Cae. Heath-scented airs<br />Lightened the clambering toil. +At times the Saint<br />Stayed on their course the crowds, and towards +the Truth<br />Drew them by parable, or record old,<br />Oftener by +question sage. Not all believed:<br />Of such was Derball. +Man of wealth and wit,<br />Nor wise, nor warlike, toward the Saint +he strode<br />With bubble-seething brain, and head high tossed,<br />And +cried, “Great Seer! remove yon mountain blue,<br />Cenn Abhrat, +by thy prayer! That done, to thee<br />Fealty I pledge.” +Saint Patrick knelt in prayer:<br />Soon Derball cried, “The central +ridge descends; -<br />Southward, beyond it, Longa’s lake shines +out<br />In sunlight flashing!” At his word drew near<br />The +men of Erin. Derball homeward turned,<br />Mocking: “Believe +who will, believe not I!<br />Me more imports it o’er my foodful +fields<br />To draw the Maigue’s rich waters than to stare<br />At +moving hills.” But certain of that throng,<br />Light men, +obsequious unto Derball’s laugh,<br />Questioned of Patrick if +the mountain moved.<br />He answered, “On the ground mine eyes +were fixed;<br />Nought saw I. Haply, through defect of mine,<br />It +moved not. Derball said the mountain moved;<br />Yet kept he not +his pledge, but disbelieved.<br />‘Faith can move mountains.’ +Never said my King<br />That mountains moved could move reluctant faith<br />In +unbelieving heart.” With sad, calm voice<br />He spake; +and Derball’s laughter frustrate died.</p> +<p> Meantime, high up on that thyme-scented hill<br />By +shadows swept, and lights, and rapturous winds,<br />Lonan prepared +the feast, and, with that chief,<br />Mantan, a deacon. Tables +fair were spread;<br />And tents with branches gay. Beside those +tents<br />Stood the sweet-breathing, mournful, slow-eyed kine<br />With +hazel-shielded horns, and gave their milk<br />Gravely to merry maidens. +Low the sun<br />Had fallen, when, Patrick near the summit now,<br />There +burst on him a wandering troop, wild-eyed,<br />With scant and quaint +array. O’er sunburnt brows<br />They wore sere wreaths; +their piebald vests were stained,<br />And lean their looks, and sad: +some piped, some sang,<br />Some tossed the juggler’s ball. +“From far we came,”<br />They cried; “we faint with +hunger; give as food!”<br />Upon them Patrick bent a pitying eye,<br />And +said, “Where Lonan and where Mantan toil<br />Go ye, and pray +them, for mine honour’s sake,<br />To gladden you with meat.” +But Lonan said,<br />And Mantan, “Nay, but when the feast is o’er,<br />The +fragments shall be yours.” With darkening brow<br />The +Saint of that denial heard, and cried,<br />“He cometh from the +North, even now he cometh,<br />For whom the Blessing is reserved; he +cometh<br />Bearing a little wether at his back:”<br />And, straightway, +through the thicket evening-dazed<br />A shepherd - by him walked his +mother - pushed,<br />Bearing a little wether. Patrick said,<br />“Give +them to eat. They hunger.” Gladly then<br />That shepherd +youth gave them the wether small:<br />With both his hands outstretched, +and liberal smile,<br />He gave it, though, with angry eye askance<br />His +mother grudged it sore. The wether theirs,<br />As though earth-swallowed, +vanished that wild tribe,<br />Fearing that mother’s eye.</p> +<p> Then +Patrick spake<br />To Lonan, “Zealous is thy service, friend;<br />Yet +of thy house no king shall sit on throne,<br />No bishop bless the people.” +Turning then<br />To Mantan, thus he spake, “Careful art thou<br />Of +many things; not less that church thou raisest<br />Shall not be of +the honoured in the land;<br />And in its chancel waste the mountain +kine<br />Shall couch above thy grave.” To Nessan last<br />Thus +spake he: “Thou that didst the hungry feed,<br />The poor of Christ, +that know not yet His name,<br />And, helping them that cried to me +for help,<br />Cherish mine honour, like a palm, one day,<br />Shall +rise thy greatness.” Nessan’s mother old<br />For +pardon knelt. He blessed her hoary head,<br />Yet added, mournful, +“Not within the Church<br />That Nessan serves shall lie his mother’s +grave.”<br />Then Nessan he baptized, and on him bound<br />Ere +long the deacon’s grade, and placed him, later,<br />Priest o’er +his church at Mungret. Centuries ten<br />It stood, a convent +round it as a star<br />Forth sending beams of glory and of grace<br />O’er +woods Teutonic and the Tyrrhene Sea.<br />Yet Nessan’s mother +in her son’s great church<br />Slept not; nor where the mass bell +tinkled low:<br />West of the church her grave, to his - her son’s +-<br />Neighbouring, yet severed by the chancel wall.</p> +<p>Thus from the morning star to evening star<br />Went by that day. +In Erin many such<br />Saint Patrick lived, using well pleased the chance,<br />Or +great or small, since all things come from God:<br />And well the people +loved him, being one<br />Who sat amid their marriage feasts, and saw,<br />Where +sin was not, in all things beauty and love.<br />But, ere he passed +from Munster, longing fell<br />On Patrick’s heart to view in +all its breadth<br />Her river-flood, and bless its western waves;<br />Therefore, +forth journeying, to that hill he went,<br />Highest among the wave-girt, +heathy hills,<br />That still sustains his name, and saw the flood<br />At +widest stretched, and that green Isle <a name="citation111"></a><a href="#footnote111">{111}</a> +hard by,<br />And northern Thomond. From its coasts her sons<br />Rushed +countless forth in skiff and coracle<br />Smiting blue wave to white, +till Sheenan’s sound<br />Ceased, in their clamour lost. +That hour from God<br />Power fell on Patrick; and in spirit he saw,<br />Invisible +to flesh, the western coasts,<br />And the ocean way, and, far beyond, +that land<br />The Future’s heritage, and prophesied<br />Of Brendan +who ere long in wicker boat<br />Should over-ride the mountains of the +deep,<br />Shielded by God, and tread - no fable then -<br />Fabled +Hesperia. Last of all he saw<br />More near, thy hermit home, +Senanus; - ‘Hail,<br />Isle of blue ocean and the river’s +mouth!<br />The People’s Lamp, their Counsel’s Head, is +thine!”<br />That hour shone out through cloud the westering sun<br />And +paved the wave with fire: that hour not less<br />Strong in his God, +westward his face he set,<br />Westward and north, and spread his arms +abroad,<br />And drew the blessing down, and flung it far:<br />“A +blessing on the warriors, and the clans,<br />A blessing on high field, +and golden vales,<br />On sea-like plain and on the showery ridge,<br />On +river-ripple, cliff, and murmuring deep,<br />On seaward peaks, harbours, +and towns, and ports;<br />A blessing on the sand beneath the ships:<br />On +all descend the Blessing!” Thus he prayed,<br />Great-hearted; +and from all the populous hills<br />And waters came the People’s +vast “Amen!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND KING EOCHAID.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>King Eochaid submits himself to the Christian Law because<br /> Saint +Patrick has delivered his son from bonds, yet<br /> only +after making a pact that he is not, like the<br /> meaner +sort, to be baptized. In this stubbornness he<br /> persists, +though otherwise a kindly king; and after<br /> many +years, he dies. Saint Patrick had refused to<br /> see +his living face; yet after death he prays by the<br /> death-bed. +Life returns to the dead; and sitting up,<br /> like +one sore amazed, he demands baptism. The Saint<br /> baptizes +him, and offers him a choice either to reign<br /> over +all Erin for fifteen years, or to die. Eochaid<br /> chooses +to die, and so departs.</i></p> +<p>Eochaid, son of Crimther, reigned, a King<br />Northward in Clochar. +Dearer to his heart<br />Than kingdom or than people or than life<br />Was +he, the boy long wished for. Dear was she,<br />Keinè, +his daughter. Babyhood’s white star,<br />Beauteous in childhood, +now in maiden dawn<br />She witched the world with beauty. From +her eyes<br />A light went forth like morning o’er the sea;<br />Sweeter +her voice than wind on harp; her smile<br />Could stay men’s breath. +With wingèd feet she trod<br />The yearning earth that, if it +could, like waves<br />Had swelled to meet their pressure. Ah, +the pang!<br />Beauty, the immortal promise, like a cheat<br />If unwed +glides into the shadow land,<br />Childless and twice defeated. +Beauty wed<br />To mate unworthy, suffers worse eclipse -<br />“Ill +choice between two ills!” thus spleenfull cried<br />Eochaid; +but not his the pensive grief:<br />He would have kept his daughter +in his house<br />For ever; yet, since better might not be,<br />Himself +he chose her out a mate, and frowned,<br />And said, “The dog +must have her.” But the maid<br />Wished not for marriage. +Tender was her heart;<br />Yet though her twentieth year had o’er +her flown,<br />And though her tears had dewed a mother’s grave,<br />In +her there lurked, not flower of womanhood,<br />But flower of angel +texture. All around<br />To her was love. The crown of earthly +love<br />Seemed but its crown of mockery. Love Divine -<br />For +that she yearned, and yet she knew it not;<br />Knew less that love +she feared.</p> +<p> She +walked in woods<br />While all the green leaves, drenched by sunset’s +gold,<br />Upon a shower-bespangled sycamore<br />Shivered, and birds +among them choir on choir<br />Chanted her praise - or spring’s. +“Ill sung,” she laughed,<br />“My dainty minstrels! +Grant to me your wings,<br />And I for them will teach you song of mine:<br />Listen!” +A carol from her lip there gushed<br />That, ere its time, might well +have called the spring<br />From winter’s coldest cave. +It ceased; she turned.<br />Beside her Patrick stood. His hand +he raised<br />To bless her. Awed, though glad, upon her knees<br />The +maiden sank. His eye, as if through air,<br />Saw through that +stainless soul, and, crystal-shrined<br />Therein, its inmate, Truth. +That other Truth<br />Instant to her he preached - the Truth Divine +-<br />(For whence is caution needful, save from sin?)<br />And those +two Truths, each gazing upon each,<br />Embraced like sisters, thenceforth +one. For her<br />No arduous thing was Faith, ere yet she heard<br />In +heart believing: and, as when a babe<br />Marks some bright shape, if +near or far, it knows not,<br />And stretches forth a witless hand to +clasp<br />Phantom or form, even so with wild surmise<br />And guesses +erring first, and questions apt,<br />She chased the flying light, and +round it closed<br />At last, and found it substance. “This +is He.”<br />Then cried she, “This, whom every maid should +love,<br />Conqueror self-sacrificed of sin and death:<br />How shall +we find, how please Him, how be nigh?”<br />Patrick made answer: +“They that do His will<br />Are nigh Him.” And the +virgin: “Of the nigh,<br />Say, who is nighest?” Thus, +that wingèd heart<br />Rushed to its rest. He answered: +“Nighest they<br />Who offer most to Him in sacrifice,<br />As +when the wedded leaves her father’s house<br />And cleaveth to +her husband. Nighest they<br />Who neither father’s house +nor husband’s house<br />Desire, but live with Him in endless +prayer,<br />And tend Him in His poor.” Aloud she cried,<br />“The +nearest to the Highest, that is love; -<br />I choose that bridal lot!” +He answered, “Child,<br />The choice is God’s. For +each, that lot is best<br />To which He calls us.” Lifting +then pure hands,<br />Thus wept the maiden: “Call me, Virgin-born!<br />Will +not the Mother-Maid permit a maid<br />To sit beside those nail-pierced +feet, and wipe,<br />With hair untouched by wreaths of mortal love,<br />The +dolorous blood-stains from them? Stranger guest,<br />Come to +my father’s tower! Against my will,<br />Against his own, +in bridal bonds he binds me:<br />My suit he might resist: he cannot +thine!”</p> +<p> She spake; and by her Patrick paced with feet<br />To +hers accordant. Soon they reached that fort:<br />Central within +a circling rath earth-built<br />It stood; the western tower of stone; +the rest,<br />Not high, but spreading wide, of wood compact;<br />For +thither many a forest hill had sent<br />His wind-swept daughter brood, +relinquishing<br />Converse with cloud and beam and rain forever<br />To +echo back the revels of a Prince.<br />Mosaic was the work, beam laced +with beam<br />In quaint device: high up, o’er many a door<br />Shone +blazon rich of vermeil, or of green,<br />Or shield of bronze, glittering +with veinèd boss,<br />Chalcedony or agate, or whate’er<br />The +wave-lipped marge of Neagh’s broad lake might boast,<br />Or ocean’s +shore, northward from Brandon’s Head<br />To where the myriad-pillared +cliffs hang forth<br />Their stony organs o’er the lonely main.<br />And +trembles yet the pilgrim, noting at eve<br />The pride Fomorian, and +that Giant Way <a name="citation116"></a><a href="#footnote116">{116}</a><br />Trending +toward eastern Alba. From his throne<br />Above the semicirque +of grassy seats<br />Whereon by Brehons and by Ollambs girt<br />Daily +be judged his people, rose the king<br />And bade the stranger welcome.</p> +<p> Day +to day<br />And night to night succeeded. In fit time,<br />For +Patrick, sometimes sudden, oft was slow,<br />He spoke his Master’s +message. At the close,<br />As though in trance, the warriors +circling stood<br />With hands outstretched; the Druids downward frowned,<br />Silent; +and like a strong man awed for once,<br />Eochaid round him stared. +A little while,<br />And from him passed the amazement. Buoyant +once more,<br />And bright like trees fresher for thunder-shower,<br />With +all his wonted aspect, bold and keen,<br />He answered: “O my +prophet, words, words, words!<br />We too have Prophets. Better +thrice our Bards;<br />Yet, being no better these than trumpet’s +blast,<br />The trumpet more I prize. Had words been work,<br />Myself +in youth had led the loud-voiced clan!<br />Deeds I preferred. +What profit e’er had I<br />From windy marvels? Once with +me in war<br />A seer there camped that, bending back his head,<br />Fit +rites performed, and upward gazing, blew<br />With rounded lips into +the heaven of heavens<br />Druidic breath. That heaven was changed +to cloud,<br />Cloud that on borne to Clairè’s hated bound<br />Down +fell, a rain of blood! To me what gain?<br />Within three weeks +my son was trapped and snared<br />By Aodh of Hy Brinin, king whose +hosts<br />Number my warriors fourfold. Three long years<br />Beyond +those purple mountains in the west<br />Hostage he lies.” +Lightly Eochaid spake,<br />And turned: but shaken chin betrayed that +grief<br />Which lived beneath his lightness.</p> +<p> Sudden +thronged<br />High on the neighbouring hills a jubilant troop,<br />Their +banners waving, while the midway vale<br />With harp and horn resounded. +Patrick spake:<br />“Rejoice! thy son returns! not sole he comes,<br />But +in his hand a princess, fair and good,<br />A kingdom for her dowry. +Aodh’s realm,<br />By me late left, welcomed <i>my</i> King with +joy:<br />All fire the mountains shone. ‘The God I serve,’<br />Thus +spake I, Aodh pointing to those fires,<br />‘In mountains of rejoicing +hath no joy<br />While sad beyond them sits a childless man,<br />His +only son thy captive. Captive groaned<br />Creation; Bethlehem’s +Babe set free the slave.<br />For His sake loose thy thrall!’ +A sweeter voice<br />Pleaded with mine, his daughter’s ’mid +her tears.<br />‘Aodh,’ I said, ‘these two each other +love!<br />What think’st thou? He who shaped the linnet’s +nest,<br />Indifferent unto Him are human loves?<br />Arise! thy work +make perfect! Righteous deeds<br />Are easier whole than half.’ +In thought awhile<br />Old Aodh sat; then to his daughter turned,<br />And +thus, imperious even in kindness, spake:<br />‘Well fought the +youth ere captured, like the son<br />Of kings, and worthy to be sire +of kings:<br />Wed him this hour: and in three days, at eve,<br />Restore +him to his father!’ King, this hour<br />Thou know’st +if Christ’s strong Faith be empty words,<br />Or truth, and armed +with power.”</p> +<p> That +night was passed<br />In feasting and in revel, high and low<br />Rich +with a common gladness. Many a torch<br />Flared in the hand of +servitors hill-sent,<br />That standing, each behind a guest, retained<br />Beneath +that roof clouded by banquet steam<br />Their mountain wildness. +Here, the splendour glanced<br />On goblet jewel-chased and dark with +wine,<br />Swift circling; there, on walls with antlers spread,<br />And +rich with yew-wood carvings, flower or bud,<br />Or clustered grape +pendent in russet gleam<br />As though from nature’s hand. +A hall hard by<br />Echoed the harp that now nor kindled rage,<br />Nor +grief condoled, nor sealed with slumber’s balm<br />Tempestuous +spirits, triumphs three of song,<br />But raised to rapture, mirth. +Far shone that hall<br />Glowing with hangings steeped in every tinct<br />The +boast of Erin’s dyeing-vats, now plain,<br />Now pranked with +bird or beast or fish, whate’er<br />Fast-flying shuttle from +the craftsman’s thought<br />Catching, on bore through glimmering +warp and woof,<br />A marvellous work; now traced by broiderer’s +hand<br />With legends of Ferdìadh and of Meave,<br />Even to +the golden fringe. The warriors paced<br />Exulting. Oft +they showed their merit’s prize,<br />Poniard or cup, tribute +ordained of tribes<br />From age to age, Eochaid’s right, on them<br />With +equal right devolving. Slow they moved<br />In mantle now of crimson, +now of blue,<br />Clasped with huge torque of silver or of gold<br />Just +where across the snowy shirt there strayed<br />Tendril of purple thread. +With jewelled fronts<br />Beauteous in pride ’mid light of winsome +smiles,<br />Over the rushes green with slender foot<br />In silver +slipper hid, the ladies passed,<br />Answering with eyes not lips the +whispered praise,<br />Or loud the bride extolling - “When was +seen<br />Such sweetness and such grace?”</p> +<p> Meantime +the king<br />Conversed with Patrick. Vexed he heard announced<br />His +daughter’s high resolve: but still his looks<br />Went wandering +to his son. “My boy! Behold him!<br />His valour and +his gifts are all from me:<br />My first-born!” From the +dancing throng apart<br />His daughter stood the while, serene and pale,<br />Down-gazing +on that lily in her hand<br />With face of one who notes not shapes +around,<br />But dreams some happy dream. The king drew nigh,<br />And +on her golden head the sceptre staff<br />Leaning, but not to hurt her, +thus began:<br />“Your prophets of the day, I trust them not!<br />If +sent from God, why came they not long since?<br />Our Druids came before +them, and, belike,<br />Shall after them abide! With these new +seers<br />I count not Patrick. Things that Patrick says<br />I +ofttimes thought. His lineage too is old -<br />Wide-browed, grey-eyed, +with downward lessening face,<br />Not like your baser breeds, with +questing eyes<br />And jaw of dog. But for thy Heavenly Spouse,<br />I +like not Him! At least, wed Cormac first!<br />If rude his ways, +yet noble is his name,<br />And being but poor the man will bide with +me:<br />He’s brave, and likeliest soon in fight may fall!<br />When +Cormac dies, wed next - “ a music clash<br />Forth bursting drowned +his words.</p> +<p> Three +days passed by:<br />To Patrick, then preparing to depart,<br />Thus +spake Eochaid in the ears of all:<br />“Herald Heaven-missioned +of the Tidings Good!<br />Those tidings I have pondered. They +are true:<br />I for that truth’s sake, and in honour bound<br />By +reason of my son set free, resolve<br />The same, upon conditions, to +believe,<br />And suffer all my people to believe,<br />Just terms exacted. +Briefly these they are:<br />First, after death, I claim admittance +frank<br />Into thy Heavenly Kingdom: next, till death<br />For me exemption +from that Baptism Rite,<br />Imposed on kerne and hind. Experience-taught,<br />I +love not rigid bond and written pledge:<br />’Tis well to brand +your mark on sheep or lamb:<br />Kings are of lion breed; and of my +house<br />’Tis known there never yet was king baptized.<br />This +pact concluded, preach within my realm<br />Thy Faith; and wed my daughter +to thy God.<br />Not scholarly am I to know what joy<br />A maid can +find in psalm, and cell, and spouse<br />Unseen: yet ever thus my sentence +stood,<br />‘Choose each his way.’ My son restored, +her loss<br />To me is loss the less.” Thus spake the king.</p> +<p>Then Patrick, on whose face the princess bent<br />The supplication +softly strong of eyes<br />Like planets seen through mist, Eochaid’s +heart<br />Knowing, which miracle had hardened more,<br />Made answer, +“King, a man of jests art thou,<br />Claiming free range in heaven, +and yet its gate<br />Thyself close barring! In thy daughter’s +prayers<br />Belike thou trustest, that where others creep<br />Thou +shalt its golden bastions over-fly.<br />Far otherwise than in that +way thou ween’st,<br />That daughter’s prayers shall speed +thee. With thy word<br />I close, that word to frustrate. +God be with thee!<br />Thou living, I return not. Fare thee well.”</p> +<p> Thus speaking, by the hand he took the maid,<br />And +led her through the concourse. At her feet<br />The poor fell +low, kissing her garment’s hem,<br />And many brought their gifts, +and all their prayers,<br />And old men wept. A maiden train snow-garbed,<br />Her +steps attending, whitened plain and field,<br />As when at times dark +glebe, new-turned, is changed<br />To white by flock of ocean birds +alit,<br />Or inland blown by storm, or hunger-urged<br />To filch the +late-sown grain. Her convent home<br />Ere long received her. +There Ethembria ruled,<br />Green Erin’s earliest nun. Of +princely race,<br />She in past years before the font of Christ<br />Had +knelt at Patrick’s feet. Once more she sought him:<br />Over +the lovely, lovelier change had passed,<br />As when on childish girlhood, +’mid a shower<br />Of lilies earthward wafted, maidenhood<br />In +peacefuller state assumes her spotless throne;<br />So, from that maiden, +vestal now had risen: -<br />Lowlier she seemed, more tender, soft, +and grave,<br />Yet loftier; hushed in quiet more divine,<br />Yet wonder-awed. +Again she knelt, and o’er<br />The bending queenly head, till +then unbent,<br />He flung that veil which woman bars from man<br />To +make her more than woman. Nigh to death<br />The Saint forgat +not her. With her remained<br />Keinè; but Patrick dwelt +far off at Saul.</p> +<p> Years came and went: yet neither chance nor change,<br />Nor +war, nor peace, nor warnings from the priests,<br />Nor whispers ’mid +the omen-mongering crowd,<br />Might from Eochaid charm his wayward +will,<br />Nor reasonings of the wise that still preferred<br />Safe +port to victory’s pride. He reasoned too,<br />For confident +in his reasonings was the king,<br />Reckoning on pointed fingers every +link<br />That clenched his mail of proof. “On Patrick’s +word<br />Ye tell me Baptism is the gate of Heaven:<br />Attend, Sirs! +I have Patrick’s word no less<br />That I shall enter Heaven. +What need I more?<br />If, Death, truth-speaker, shows that Patrick +lied,<br />Plain is my right against him! Heaven not won,<br />Patrick +bare hence my daughter through a fraud:<br />He must restore her fourfold +- daughters four,<br />As fair and good. If not, the prophet’s +pledge<br />For honour’s sake his Master must redeem,<br />And +unbaptized receive me. Dupes are ye!<br />Doomed ’mid the +common flock, with branded fleece<br />Bleating to enter Heaven!”</p> +<p> The +years went by;<br />And weakness came. No more his small light +form<br />To reverent eyes seemed taller than it was:<br />No more the +shepherd watched him from the hill<br />Heading his hounds, and hoped +to catch his smile,<br />Yet feared his questions keen. The end +drew near.<br />Some wept, some railed; restless the warriors tramped;<br />The +Druids conned their late discountenanced spells;<br />The bard his lying +harpstrings spurned, so long<br />Healing, unhelpful now. But +far away,<br />Within that lonely convent tower from her<br />Who prayed +for ever, mightier rose the prayer.</p> +<p>Within the palace, now by usage old<br />To all flung open, all were +sore amazed,<br />All save the king. The leech beside the bed<br />Sobbed +where he stood, yet sware, “The fit will pass:<br />Ten years +the King may live.” Eochaid frowned:<br />“Shall I, +to patch thy fame, live ten years more,<br />My death-time come? +My seventy years are sped:<br />My sire and grandsire died at sixty-nine.<br />Like +Aodh, shall I lengthen out my days<br />Toothless, nor fit to vindicate +my clan,<br />Some losel’s song? The kingdom is my son’s!<br />Strike +from my little milk-white horse the shoes,<br />And loose him where +the freshets make the mead<br />Greenest in springtide. He must +die ere long;<br />And not to him did Patrick open Heaven.<br />Praise +be to Patrick’s God! May He my sins,<br />Known and unknown, +forgive!”</p> +<p> Backward +he sank<br />Upon his bed, and lay with eyes half closed,<br />Murmuring +at times one prayer, five words or six;<br />And twice or thrice he +spake of trivial things;<br />Then like an infant slumbered till the +sun,<br />Sinking beneath a great cloud’s fiery skirt,<br />Smote +his old eyelids. Waking, in his ears<br />The ripening cornfields +whispered ’neath the breeze,<br />For wide were all the casements +that the soul<br />By death delivered hindrance none might find<br />(Careful +of this the king); and thus he spake:<br />“Nought ever raised +my heart to God like fields<br />Of harvest, waving wide from hill to +hill,<br />All bread-full for my people. Hale me forth:<br />When +I have looked once more upon that sight<br />My blessing I will give +them, and depart.”</p> +<p>Then in the fields they laid him, and he spake.<br />“May He +that to my people sends the bread,<br />Send grace to all who eat it!” +With that word<br />His hands down-falling, back once more he sank,<br />And +lay as dead; yet, sudden, rising not,<br />Nor moving, nor his eyes +unclosing, said,<br />“My body in the tomb of ancient kings<br />Inter +not till beside it Patrick stands<br />And looks upon my brow.” +He spake, then sighed<br />A little sigh, and died.</p> +<p> Three +days, as when<br />Black thunder cloud clings fast to mountain brows,<br />So +to the nation clung the grief: three days<br />The lamentation sounded +on the hills<br />And rang around the pale blue meres, and rose<br />Shrill +from the bleeding heart of vale and glen,<br />And rocky isle, and ocean’s +moaning shore;<br />While by the bier the yellow tapers stood,<br />And +on the right side knelt Eochaid’s son,<br />Behind him all the +chieftains cloaked in black;<br />And on his left his daughter knelt, +the nun,<br />Behind her all her sisterhood, white-veiled,<br />Like +tombstones after snowstorm. Far away,<br />At “Saul of Patrick,” +dwelt the Saint when first<br />The king had sickened. Message +sent he none<br />Though knowing all; and when the end was nigh,<br />And +heralds now besought him day by day,<br />He made no answer till o’er +eastern seas<br />Advanced the third fair morning. Then he rose,<br />And +took the Staff of Jesus, and at eve<br />Beside the dead king standing, +on his brow<br />Fixed a sad eye. Aloud the people wept;<br />The +kneeling warriors eyed their lord askance;<br />The nuns intoned their +hymn. Above that hymn<br />A cry rang out: it was the daughter’s +prayer;<br />And after that was silence. By the dead<br />Still +stood the Saint, nor e’er removed his gaze.<br />Then - seen of +all - behold, the dead king’s hands<br />Rose slowly, as the weed +on wave upheaved<br />Without its will; and all the strengthless shape<br />In +cerements wrapped, as though by mastering voice<br />From the white +void evoked and realm of death,<br />Without its will, a gradual bulk +half rose,<br />The hoar head gazing forth. Upon the face<br />Had +passed a change, the greatest earth may know;<br />For what the majesty +of death began<br />The majesties of worlds unseen, and life<br />Resurgent +ere its time, had perfected,<br />All accidents of flesh and sorrowful +years<br />Cancelled and quelled. Yet horror from his eyes<br />Looked +out as though some vision once endured<br />Must cling to them for ever. +Patrick spake:<br />“Soul from the dead sent back once more to +earth<br />What seek’st thou from God’s Church?” +He answer made,<br />“Baptism.” Then Patrick o’er +him poured the might<br />Of healing waters in the Name Triune,<br />The +Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit;<br />And from his eyes the horror +passed, and light<br />Went from them, as the light of eyes that rest<br />On +the everlasting glory, while he spake:<br />“Tempest of darkness +drave me past the gates<br />Celestial, and, a moment’s space, +within<br />I heard the hymning of the hosts of God<br />That feed for +ever on the Bread of Life<br />As feed the nations on the harvest wheat.<br />Tempest +of darkness drave me to the gates<br />Of Anguish: then a cry came up +from earth,<br />Cry like my daughter’s when her mother died,<br />That +stayed the on-rushing whirlwind; yet mine eyes<br />Perforce looked +in, and, many a thousand years,<br />Branded upon them lay that woful +sight<br />Now washed from them for ever.” Patrick spake:<br />“This +day a twofold choice I give thee, son;<br />For fifteen years the rule +o’er Erin’s land,<br />Rule absolute, Ard-Righ o’er +lesser kings;<br />Or instant else to die, and hear once more<br />That +hymn celestial, and that Vision see<br />They see who sing that anthem.” +Light from God<br />Over that late dead countenance streamed amain,<br />Like +to his daughter’s now - more beauteous thrice -<br />Yet awful, +more than beauteous. “Rule o’er earth,<br />Rule without +end, were nought to that great hymn<br />Heard but a single moment. +I would die.”</p> +<p>Then Patrick, on him gazing, answered, “Die!”<br />And +died the king once more, and no man wept;<br />But on her childless +breast the nun sustained<br />Softly her father’s head.</p> +<p> That +night discourse<br />Through hall and court circled in whispers low.<br />First +one, “Was that indeed our king? But where<br />The sword-scar +and the wrinkles?” “Where,” rejoined,<br />Wide-eyed, +the next, “his little cranks and girds<br />The wisdom, and the +whim?” Then Patrick spake:<br />“Sirs, till this day +ye never saw your king;<br />The man ye doted on was but his mask,<br />His +picture - yea, his phantom. Ye have seen<br />At last the man +himself.” That night nigh sped,<br />While slowly o’er +the darkling woods went down,<br />Warned by the cold breath of the +up-creeping morn<br />Invisible yet nigh, the August moon,<br />Two +vestals, gliding past like moonlight gleams,<br />Conversed: one said, +“His daughter’s prayer prevailed!”<br />The second, +“Who may know the ways of God?<br />For this, may many a heart +one day rejoice<br />In hope! For this, the gift to many a man<br />Exceed +the promise; Faith’s invisible germ<br />Quickened with parting +breath; and Baptism given,<br />It may be, by an angel’s hand +unseen!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND THE FOUNDING OF ARMAGH CATHEDRAL.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Saint Patrick repairs to Ardmacha, there to found the<br /> chief +church of Erin. For that purpose he demands of<br /> Dairè, +the king, a certain woody hill. The king<br /> refuses +it, and afterwards treats him with alternate<br /> scorn +and reverence; while the Saint, in each event<br /> alike, +makes the same answer, “Deo Gratias.” At last<br /> the +king concedes to him the hill; and on the<br /> summit +of it Saint Patrick finds a little white fawn<br /> asleep. +The men of Erin would have slain that fawn;<br /> but +the Saint carries it on his shoulder, and restores<br /> it +to its dam. Where the fawn lay, he places the<br /> altar +of his cathedral.</i></p> +<p>At Cluain Cain, in Ross, unbent yet old,<br />Dwelt Patrick long. +Its sweet and flowery sward<br />He to the rock had delved, with fixed +resolve<br />To build thereon Christ’s chiefest church in Eire.<br />Then +by him stood God’s angel, speaking thus:<br />“Not here, +but northward.” He replied, “O, would<br />This spot +might favour find with God! Behold!<br />Fair is it, and as meet +to clasp a church<br />As is a true heart in a virgin breast<br />To +clasp the Faith of Christ. The hinds around<br />Name it ‘the +beauteous meadow.’” “Fair it is,”<br />The +angel answered, “nor shall lack its crown.<br />Another’s +is its beauty. Here, one day<br />A pilgrim from the Britons sent +shall build,<br />And, later, what he builds shall pass to thine;<br />But +thou to Macha get thee.”</p> +<p> Patrick +then,<br />Obedient as that Patriarch Sire who faced<br />At God’s +command the desert, northward went<br />In holy silence. Soon +to him was lost<br />That green and purple meadow-sea, embayed<br />’Twixt +two descending woody promontories,<br />Its outlet girt with isles of +rock, its shores<br />Cream-white with meadow-sweet. Not once +he turned,<br />Climbing the uplands rough, or crossing streams<br />Swoll’n +by the melted snows. The Brethren paced<br />Behind; Benignus +first, his psalmist; next<br />Secknall, his bishop; next his brehon +Erc;<br />Mochta, his priest; and Sinell of the Bells;<br />Rodan, his +shepherd; Essa, Bite, and Tassach,<br />Workers of might in iron and +in stone,<br />God-taught to build the churches of the Faith<br />With +wisdom and with heart-delighting craft;<br />Mac Cairthen last, the +giant meek that oft<br />On shoulders broad bare Patrick through the +floods:<br />His rest was nigh. That hour they crossed a stream;<br />’Twas +deep, and, ’neath his load, the giant sighed.<br />Saint Patrick +said, “Thou wert not wont to sigh!”<br />He answered, “Old +I grow. Of them my mates<br />How many hast thou left in churches +housed<br />Wherein they rule and rest!” The Saint replied,<br />“Thee +also will I leave within a church<br />For rule and rest; not to mine +own too near<br />For rarely then should we be seen apart,<br />Nor +yet remote, lest we should meet no more.”<br />At Clochar soon +he placed him. There, long years<br />Mac Cairthen sat, its bishop.</p> +<p> As +they went,<br />Oft through the woodlands rang the battle-shout;<br />And +twice there rose above the distant hill<br />The smoke of hamlet fired. +Yet, none the less,<br />Spring-touched, the blackbird sang; the cowslip +changed<br />Green lawn to green and golden; and grey rock<br />And +river’s marge with primroses were starred;<br />Here shook the +windflower; there the blue-bells gleamed,<br />As though a patch of +sky had fallen on earth.</p> +<p>Then to Benignus spake the Saint: “My son,<br />If grief were +lawful in a world redeemed<br />The blood-stains on a land so strong +in faith,<br />So slack in love, might cloud the holiest brow,<br />Yea, +his whose head lay on the breast of Christ.<br />Clan wars with clan: +no injury is forgiven;<br />Like to the joy in stag-hunts is the war:<br />Alas! +for such what hope!” Benignus answered<br />“O Father, +cease not for this race to hope,<br />Lest they should hope no longer! +Hope they have;<br />Still say they, ‘God will snare us in the +end<br />Though wild.’” And Patrick, “Spirits +twain are theirs:<br />The stranger, and the poor, at every door<br />They +meet, and bid him in. The youngest child<br />Officious is in +service; maids prepare<br />The bath; men brim the wine-cup. Then, +forth borne,<br />Cities they fire and rich in spoil depart,<br />Greed +mixed with rage - an industry of blood!”<br />He spake, and thus +the younger made reply:<br />“Father, the stranger is the brother-man<br />To +them; the poor is neighbour. Septs remote<br />To them are alien +worlds. They know not yet<br />That rival clans are men.”</p> +<p> “That +know they shall,”<br />Patrick made answer, “when a race +far off<br />Tramples their race to clay! God sends abroad<br />His +plague of war that men on earth may know<br />Brother from foe, and +anguish work remorse.”<br />He spake, and after musings added +thus:<br />“Base of God’s kingdom is Humility -<br />I have +not spared to thunder o’er their pride;<br />Great kings have +I rebuked and signs sent forth,<br />And banned for their sake fruitful +plain, and bay;<br />Yet still the widow’s cry is on the air,<br />The +orphan’s wail!” Benignus answered mild,<br />“O +Father, not alone with sign and ban<br />Hast thou rebuked their madness. +Oftener far<br />Thy sweetness hath reproved them. Once in woods<br />Northward +of Tara as we tracked our way<br />Round us there gathered slaves who +felled the pines<br />For ship-masts. Scarred their hands, and +red with blood,<br />Because their master, Trian, thus had sworn,<br />‘Let +no man sharpen axe!’ Upon those hands<br />Gazing, they +wept soon as thy voice they heard,<br />Because that voice was soft. +Thou heard’st their tale;<br />Straight to that chieftain’s +castle went’st thou up,<br />And bound’st him with thy fast, +beside his gate<br />Sitting in silence till his heart should melt;<br />And +since he willed it not to melt, he died.<br />Then, in her arms two +babes, came forth the queen<br />Black-robed, and freed her slaves, +and gave them hire;<br />And, we returning after many years,<br />Filled +was that wood with homesteads; plots of corn<br />Rustled around them; +here were orchards; there<br />In trench or tank they steeped the bright +blue flax;<br />The saw-mill turned to use the wanton brook;<br />Murmured +the bee-hive; murmured household wheel;<br />Soft eyes looked o’er +it through the dusk; at work<br />The labourers carolled; matrons glad +and maids<br />Bare us the pail head-steadied, children flowers:<br />Last, +from her castle paced the queen, and led<br />In either hand her sons +whom thou hadst blest,<br />Thenceforth to stand thy priests. +The land believed;<br />And not through ban, or word, sharp-edged or +soft,<br />But silence and thy fast the ill custom died.”</p> +<p>He answered, “Christ, in Christ-like life expressed,<br />This, +this, not words, subdues a land to Christ;<br />And in this best Apostolate +all have part.<br />Ah me! that flower thou hold’st is strong +to preach<br />Creative Love, because itself is lovely;<br />But we, +the heralds of Redeeming Love,<br />Because we are unlovely in our lives,<br />Preach +to deaf ears! Yet theirs, theirs too, the sin.”<br />Benignus +made reply: “The race is old;<br />Not less their hearts are young. +Have patience with them!<br />For see, in spring the grave old oaks +push forth<br />Impatient sprays, wine-red: their strength matured,<br />These +sober down to verdure.” Patrick paused,<br />Then, brooding, +spake, as one who thinks, not speaks:<br />“A priest there walked +with me ten years and more;<br />Warrior in youth was he. One +day we heard<br />The shock of warring clans - I hear it still:<br />Within +him, as in darkening vase you note<br />The ascending wine, I watched +the passion mount: -<br />Sudden he dashed him down into the fight,<br />Nor +e’er to Christ returned.” Benignus answered;<br />“I +saw above a dusky forest roof<br />The glad spring run, leaving a track +sea-green:<br />Not straight she ran; and yet she reached her goal:<br />Later +I saw above green copse of thorn<br />The glad spring run, leaving a +track foam-white:<br />Not straight she ran; yet soon she conquered +all!<br />O Father, is it sinful to be glad<br />Here amid sin and sorrow? +Joy is strong,<br />Strongest in spring-tide! Mourners I have +known<br />That, homeward wending from the new-dug grave,<br />Against +their will, where sang the happy birds<br />Have felt the aggressive +gladness stir their hearts,<br />And smiled amid their tears.” +So babbled he,<br />Shamed at his spring-tide raptures.</p> +<p> As +they went,<br />Far on their left there stretched a mighty land<br />Of +forest-girdled hills, mother of streams:<br />Beyond it sank the day; +while round the west<br />Like giants thronged the great cloud-phantoms +towered.<br />Advancing, din they heard, and found in woods<br />A hamlet +and a field by war unscathed,<br />And boys on all sides running. +Placid sat<br />The village Elders; neither lacked that hour<br />The +harp that gently tranquillises age,<br />Yet wakes young hearts with +musical unrest,<br />Forerunner oft of love’s unrest. Ere +long<br />The measure changed to livelier: maid with maid<br />Danced +’mid the dancing shadows of the trees,<br />And youth with youth; +till now, the strangers near,<br />Those Elders welcomed them with act +benign;<br />And soon was slain the fatted kid, and soon<br />The lamb; +nor any asked till hunger’s rage<br />Was quelled, “Who +art thou?” Patrick made reply,<br />“A Priest of God.” +Then prayed they, “Offer thou<br />To Him our sacrifice! +Belike ’tis He<br />Who saves from war this hamlet hid in woods:<br />Unblest +be he who finds it!” Thus they spake,<br />The matrons, +not the youths. In friendly talk<br />The hours went by with laughter +winged and tale;<br />But when the moon, on rolling through the heavens,<br />Showered +through the leaves a dew of sprinkled light<br />O’er the dark +ground, the maidens garments brought<br />Woven in their quiet homes +when nights were long,<br />Red cloak and kirtle green, and laid them +soft,<br />Still with the wearers’ blameless beauty warm,<br />For +coverlet upon the warm dry grass,<br />Honouring the stranger guests. +For these they deemed<br />Their low-roofed cots too mean. Glad-hearted +rose<br />The Christian hymn, not timid: far it rang<br />Above the +woods. Ere long, their blissful rites<br />Fulfilled, the wanderers +laid them down and slept.</p> +<p>At midnight by the side of Patrick stood<br />Victor, God’s +Angel, saying, “Lo! thy work<br />Hath favour found and thou ere +long shalt die:<br />Thus therefore saith the Lord, ‘So long as +sea<br />Girdeth this isle, so long thy name shall hang<br />In splendour +o’er it, like the stars of God.’”<br />Then Patrick +said, “A boon! I crave a boon!”<br />The angel answered, +“Speak;” and Patrick said,<br />“Let them that with +me toiled, or in the years<br />To come shall toil, building o’er +all this land<br />The Fortress-Temple and great House of Christ,<br />Equalled +with me my name in Erin share.”<br />And Victor answered, “Half +thy prayer is thine;<br />With thee shall they partake. Not less, +thy name<br />Higher than theirs shall rise, and wider spread,<br />Since +thus more plainly shall His glory shine<br />Whose glory is His justice.”</p> +<p> With +the morn<br />Those pilgrims rose, and, prime entoned and lauds,<br />Poured +out their blessing on that woodland clan<br />Which, round them pressing, +kissed them, robe and knee;<br />Then on they journeyed till at set +of sun<br />Shone out the roofs of Macha, and that tower<br />Where +Dairè dwelt, its lord.</p> +<p> Saint +Patrick sent<br />To Dairè embassage, vouchsafing prayer<br />As +sire might pray of son; “Give thou yon hill<br />To Christ, that +we may build His church thereon.”<br />And Dairè answered +with a brow of storms<br />Bent forward darkly, and long, sneering lips,<br />“Your +master is a mighty man, we know.<br />Garban, that lied to God, he slew +through prayer,<br />And banned full many a lake, and many a plain,<br />For +trespass there committed! Let it be!<br />A Chief of souls he +is! No signs we work,<br />Rulers earth-born: yet somewhat are +we here -<br />Depart! By others answer we will send.”</p> +<p> So Dairè sent to Patrick men of might,<br />Fierce +men, the battle’s nurslings. Thus they spake:<br />“High +region for high heads! If build ye must,<br />Build on the plain: +the hill is Dairè’s right:<br />Church site he grants you, +and the field around.”<br />And Patrick, glancing from his Office +Book,<br />Made answer, “Deo Gratias,” and no more.</p> +<p>Upon that plain he built a little church<br />Ere long, a convent +likewise, girt with mound<br />Banked from the meadow loam, and deftly +set<br />With stone, and fence, and woody palisade,<br />That neither +warring clans, far heard by day,<br />Might hurt his cloistered charge, +nor wolves by night,<br />Howling in woods; and there he served the +Lord.</p> +<p>But Dairè scorned the Saint, and grudged his gift,<br />Though +small; and half in spleen, and half in greed,<br />Sent down two stately +coursers all night long<br />To graze the deep sweet pasture round the +church:<br />Ill deed: - and so, for guerdon of that sin,<br />Dead +lay the coursers twain at the break of dawn.</p> +<p>Then fled the servants back, and told their lord,<br />Fearing for +negligence rebuke and scath,<br />“Thy Christian slew the coursers!” +and the king<br />Gave word to slay or bind him. But from God<br />A +sickness fell on Dairè nigh to death<br />That day and night. +When morning brake, the queen,<br />A woman leal with kind barbaric +heart,<br />Her bosom from the sick man’s head withdrew<br />A +moment while he slept; and, round her gazing,<br />Closed with both +hands upon a liegeman’s arm,<br />And sped him to the Saint for +pardon and peace.<br />Then Patrick, dipping in the inviolate fount<br />A +chalice, blessed the water, with command<br />“Sprinkle the stately +coursers and the king; “<br />And straightway as from death the +king arose,<br />And rose from death the coursers.</p> +<p> Dairè +then,<br />His tall frame boastful with that life renewed,<br />Took +with him men, and down the stone-paved hill<br />Rode from his tower, +and through the woodlands green,<br />And bare with him an offering +of those days,<br />A brazen cauldron vast. Embossed it shone<br />With +sculptured shapes. On one side hunters rode:<br />Low stretched +their steeds: the dogs pulled down the stag<br />Unseen, except the +branching horns that rose<br />Like hands in protest. Feasters, +on the other,<br />Raised high the cup pledging the safe return.<br />This +offering Dairè brought, and, entering, spake:<br />“A gift +for guerdon and for grace, O Priest!”<br />And Patrick, upward +glancing from his book,<br />Made answer, “Deo Gratias!” +and no more.</p> +<p>King Dairè, homeward riding with knit brow<br />Muttered, +“Churl’s welcome for a kingly boon!”<br />And, drinking +late that night the stormy breath<br />Of others’ anger blent +with his, commanded,<br />“Ride forth at morn and bring me back +my gift!<br />Spurn it he shall not, though he prize it not.”<br />They +heard him, and obeyed. At noon the king<br />Demanded thus, “What +answer made the Saint?”<br />They said, “His eyes he raised +not from his book,<br />But answered, ‘Deo Gratias!’ and +no more.”</p> +<p>Then Dairè stamped his foot, like war-horse stung<br />By +gadfly: musing next, and mute he sat<br />A space, and lastly roared +great laughter peals<br />Till roared in mockery back the raftered roof,<br />And +clashed his hands together shouting thus:<br />“A gift, and ‘Deo +Gratias!’ - gift withdrawn,<br />And ‘Deo Gratias!’ +Sooth, the word is good!<br />Madman is this, or man of God? We’ll +know!”<br />So from his frowning fortress once again<br />Adown +the resonant road o’er street and bridge<br />Rode Dairè, +at his right the queen in fear,<br />With dumbly pleading countenance; +close behind,<br />With tangled locks and loose-hung battle-axe<br />Ran +the wild kerne; and loud the bull-horn blew.<br />The convent reached, +King Dairè from his horse<br />Flung his great limbs, and at +the doorway towered<br />In gazing stern: the queen beside him stood,<br />Her +lustrous violet eyes all lost in tears:<br />One hand on Dairè’s +garment lay like light<br />Wandering on dusky ripple; one, upraised,<br />Held +in the high-necked horse that champed the bit,<br />His head near hers. +Within, the man of God,<br />Sole-sitting, read his office book unmoved,<br />And +ending fixed his keen eye on the king,<br />Not rising from his seat.</p> +<p> Then +fell from God<br />Insight on Dairè, and aloud he cried,<br />“A +kingly man, of mind unmovable<br />Art thou; and as the rock beneath +my tower<br />Shakes not in storm so shakes not heart of thine:<br />Such +men are of the height and not the plain:<br />Therefore that hill to +thee I grant unsought<br />Which whilome I refused. Possession +take<br />This day, lest hostile demon warp my mood;<br />And build +thereon thy church. The same shall stand<br />Strong mother-church +of all thy great clan Christ!”</p> +<p>Thus Dairè spake; and Patrick, at his word<br />Rising, gave +thanks to God, and to the king<br />High blessing heard in heaven; and +making sign<br />Went forth, attended by his priestly train,<br />Benignus +first, his dearest, then the rest.<br />In circuit thrice they girt +that hill, and sang<br />Anthem first heard when unto God was vowed<br />That +House which David offered in his heart<br />His son in act, and hymn +of holy Church<br />Hailing that city like a bride attired,<br />From +heaven to earth descending. With them sang<br />An angel choir +above them borne. The birds<br />Forbore their songs, listening +that angel strain,<br />Ethereal music and by men unheard<br />Except +the Elect. The king in reverence paced<br />Behind, his liegemen +next, a mass confused<br />With saffron standard gay and spears upheld<br />Flashing +through thickets green. These kept not line,<br />For Alp was +still recounting battles old,<br />Aodh of wizards sang, and Ir of love;<br />While +bald-pate Conan, sharpening from his eye<br />The sneering light, shot +from his plastic mouth<br />Shrill taunt and biting gibe. The +younger sort<br />Eyed the dense copse and launched full many a shaft<br />Through +it at flying beast. From ledge to ledge<br />Clomb Angus, keen +of sight, with hand o’er brow,<br />Forth gazing on some far blue +ridge of war<br />With nostril wide outblown, and snorting cried,<br />“Would +I were there!”</p> +<p> Meantime, +the man of God<br />Had reached the fair crown of that sacred hill,<br />A +circle girt with woodland branching low,<br />And roofed with heaven. +Beyond its tonsure fringe,<br />Birch trees and oaks, there pushed a +thorn milk-white,<br />And close beside it slept in shade a fawn<br />Whiter. +The startled dam had left its side,<br />And through the dark stems +fled like flying gleam.<br />Minded they were, the kernes, to kill that +fawn,<br />And all the priests stood silent; but the Saint<br />Put +forth his hand, and o’er her signed the Cross,<br />And, stooping, +on his shoulder placed her firm,<br />And bade the brethren mark with +stones her lair<br />Dewless and dusk: then, singing as he went<br />“Like +as the hart desires the water brooks,”<br />He walked, that hill +descending. Light from God<br />O’ershone his face. +Meantime the awakened fawn<br />Now rolled her dark eye on the silver +head<br />Close by, now turning licked the wrinkled hand,<br />Unfearing. +Soon, with little whimpering sob,<br />The doe drew near and paced at +Patrick’s side.<br />At last they reached a little field low down<br />Beneath +that hill: there Patrick laid the fawn.</p> +<p>King Dairè questioned Patrick of that deed,<br />Incensed; +and scornful asked, “Shall mitred man<br />Play thus the shepherd +and the forester?”<br />And Patrick answered, “Aged men, +O king,<br />Forget their reasons oft. Benignus seek,<br />If +haply God has shown him for what cause<br />I wrought this thing.” +Then Dairè turned him back<br />And faced Benignus; and with +lifted hand,<br />Pure as a maid’s, and dimpled like a child’s,<br />Picturing +his thoughts on air, the little monk<br />Thus glossed that deed. +“Great mystery, king, is Love:<br />Poets its worthiness have +sung in lays<br />Unread by ruder ones like me; and yet<br />Thus much +the simplest and the rudest know,<br />Dear is the fawn to her that +gave it birth,<br />And to the sceptred monarch dear the child<br />That +mounts his knee. Nor here the marvel ends;<br />For, like yon +star, the great Paternal Heart<br />Through all the unmeted, unimagined +years,<br />While yet Creation uncreated hung,<br />A thought, a dawn-streak +on the verge extreme<br />Of lonely Godhead’s inner Universe,<br />Panted +and pants with splendour of its love,<br />The Eternal Sire rejoicing +in the Son<br />And Both in Him Who still from Both proceeds,<br />Bond +of their love. Moreover, king, that Son<br />Who, Virgin-born, +raised from the ruinous gulf<br />Our world, and made it footstool to +God’s throne,<br />The same is Love, and died for Love, and reigns:<br />Loveless, +His Church were but a corse stone-cold;<br />Loveless, her creed were +but a winter leaf<br />Network of barren thoughts, the cerement wan<br />Of +Faith extinct. Therefore our Saint revered<br />The love and anguish +of that mother doe,<br />And inly vowed that where her offspring couched<br />Christ’s +chiefest church should stand, from age to age<br />Confession plain +’mid raging of the clans<br />That God is Love; - His worship +void and vain<br />Disjoined from Love that, rising to the heights<br />Even +to the depths descends.”</p> +<p> Conversing +thus,<br />Macha they reached. Ere long where lay the fawn<br />Stood +God’s new altar; and, ere many years,<br />Far o’er the +woodlands rose the church high-towered,<br />Preaching God’s peace +to still a troubled world.<br />The Saint who built it found not there +his grave<br />Though wished for; him God buried otherwhere,<br />Fulfilling +thus the counsels of His Will:<br />But old, and grey, when many a winter’s +frost<br />To spring had yielded, bent by wounds and woes<br />Upon +that church’s altar looked once more<br />King Dairè; at +its font was joined to Christ;<br />And, midway ’twixt that altar +and that font,<br />Rejoined his beauteous mate a later day.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>THE ARRAIGNMENT OF SAINT PATRICK.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Secknall, the poet, brings, in sport, three heavy charges<br /> against +Saint Patrick, who, supposing them to be<br /> serious, +defends himself against them. Lastly<br /> Secknall +sings a hymn written in praise of a Saint.<br /> Saint +Patrick commends it, affirming that for once<br /> Fame +has dispensed her honours honestly. Upon this,<br /> Secknall +recites the first stave, till then craftily<br /> reserved, +which offers the whole homage of that hymn<br /> to +Patrick, who, though the humblest of men, has thus<br /> arrogated +to himself the saintly Crown. There is<br /> laughter +among the brethren.</i></p> +<p>When Patrick now was old and nigh to death<br />Undimmed was still +his eye; his tread was strong;<br />And there was ever laughter in his +heart,<br />And music in his laughter. In a wood<br />Nigh to +Ardmacha dwelt he with his monks;<br />And there, like birds that cannot +stay their songs<br />Love-touched in Spring, or grateful for their +nests,<br />They to the woodsmen preached of Christ, their King,<br />To +swineherds, and to hinds that tended sheep,<br />Yea, and to pilgrim +guests from distant clans;<br />His shepherd-worshipped birth when breath +of kine<br />Went o’er the Infant; all His wondrous works<br />Or +words from mount, or field, or anchored boat,<br />And Christendom upreared +for weal of men<br />And Angel-wonder. Daily preached the monks<br />And +daily built their convent. Wildly sweet<br />The season, prime +of unripe spring, when March<br />Distils from cup half gelid yet some +drops<br />Of finer relish than the hand of May<br />Pours from her +full-brimmed beaker. Frost, though gone,<br />Had left its glad +vibration on the air;<br />Laughed the blue heavens as though they ne’er +had frowned,<br />Through leafless oak-boughs; limes of kindlier grace<br />And +swifter to believe Spring’s “tidings good”<br />Took +the sweet lights upon a breast bud-swoll’n,<br />And crimson as +the redbreast’s; while, as when<br />Clear rings a flute-note +through sea-murmurs harsh,<br />At intervals ran out a streak of green<br />Across +the dim-hued forest.</p> +<p> From +their wood<br />The strong arms of the monks had hewn them space<br />For +all their convent needed; farmyard stored<br />With stacks that all +the winter long had clutched<br />Their hoarded harvest sunshine; pasture +green<br />Whitened with sheep; fair garden fenceless still<br />With +household herbs new-sprouting: but, as oft<br />Some conquered race, +forth sallying in its spleen<br />When serves the occasion, wins a province +back,<br />Or flouts at least the foe, so here once more<br />Wild flowers, +a clan unvanquished, raised their heads<br />’Mid sprouting wheat; +and where from craggy height<br />Pushed the grey ledge, the woodland +host recoiled<br />As though in Parthian flight; while many a bird,<br />Barbaric +from the inviolate forest launched<br />Wild warbled scorn on all that +life reclaimed,<br />Mute garth-still orchard. Child of distant +hills,<br />A proud stream, swollen by midnight rains, down leaped<br />From +rock to rock. It spurned the precinct now<br />With airy dews +silvering the bramble green<br />And redd’ning more the beech-stock.</p> +<p> ’Twas +the hour<br />Of rest, and every monk was glad at heart,<br />For each +had wrought with might. With hands upheld,<br />Mochta, the priest, +had thundered against sin,<br />Wrath-roused, as when some prince too +late returned<br />Stares at his sea-side village all in flames,<br />The +slave-thronged ship escaped. The bishop, Erc,<br />Had reconciled +old feuds by Brehon Law<br />Where Brehon Law was lawful. Boys +wild-eyed<br />Had from Benignus learned the church’s song,<br />Boys +brightened now, yet tempered, by that age<br />Gracious to stripling +as to maid, that brings<br />Valour to one and modesty to both<br />Where +youth is loyal to the Virgin-born.<br />The giant meek, Mac Cairthen, +on bent neck<br />Had carried beam on beam, while Criemther felled<br />The +oaks, and from the anvil Laeban dashed<br />The sparks in showers. +A little way removed,<br />Beneath a pine three vestals sat close-veiled:<br />A +song these childless sang of Bethlehem’s Child,<br />Low-toned, +and worked their Altar-cloth, a Lamb<br />All white on golden blazon; +near it bled<br />The bird that with her own blood feeds her young:<br />Red +drops affused her holy breast. These three<br />Were daughters +of three kings. The best and fairest,<br />King Dairè’s +daughter, Erenait by name,<br />Had loved Benignus in her Pagan years.<br />He +knew it not: full sweet to her his voice<br />Chaunting in choir. +One day through grief of love<br />The maiden lay as dead: Benignus +shook<br />Dews from the font above her, and she woke<br />With heart +emancipate that outsoared the lark<br />Lost in blue heavens. +She loved the Spouse of Souls.<br />It was as though some child that, +dreaming, wept<br />Its childish playthings lost, awaked by bells,<br />Bride-bells, +had found herself a queen new wed<br />Unto her country’s lord.</p> +<p> While +monk with monk<br />Conversed, the son of Patrick’s sister sat,<br />Secknall +by name, beside the window sole<br />And marked where Patrick from his +hill of prayer<br />Approached, descending slowly. At the sight<br />He, +maker blithe of songs, and wild as hawk<br />Albeit a Saint, whose wont +it was at times<br />Or shy, or strange, or shunning flattery’s +taint,<br />To attempt with mockery those whom most he loved,<br />Whispered +a brother, “Speak to Patrick thus:<br />‘When all men praised +thee, Secknall made reply<br />“A blessed man were Patrick save +for this,<br />Alms deeds he preaches not.”’” +The brother went:<br />Ere long among them entered Patrick, wroth,<br />Or, +likelier, feigning wrath: - “What man is he<br />Who saith I preach +not alms deeds?” Secknall rose:<br />“I said it, Father, +and the charge is true.”<br />Then Patrick answered, “Out +of Charity<br />I preach not Charity. This people, won<br />To +Christ, ere long will prove a race of Saints;<br />To give will be its +passion, not to gain:<br />Its heart is generous; but its hand is slack<br />In +all save war: herein there lurks a snare:<br />The priest will fatten, +and the beggar feast:<br />But the lean land will yield nor chief nor +prince<br />Hire of two horses yoked to chariot beam.”<br />Then +Secknall spake, “O Father, dead it lies<br />Mine earlier charge +against thee. Hear my next,<br />Since in our Order’s equal +Brotherhood<br />Censure uncensured is the right of all.<br />You press +to the earth your converts! gold you spurn;<br />Yet bind upon them +heavier load than when<br />Conqueror his captive tasks. Have +shepherds three<br />Bowed them to Christ? ‘Build up a church,’ +you cry;<br />So one must draw the sand, and one the stone<br />And +one the lime. Honouring the seven great Gifts,<br />You raise +in one small valley churches seven.<br />Who serveth you fares hard!” +The Saint replied,<br />“Second as first! I came not to +this land<br />To crave scant service, nor with shallow plough<br />Cleave +I this glebe. The priest that soweth much<br />For here the land +is fruitful, much shall reap:<br />Who soweth little nought but weeds +shall bind<br />And poppies of oblivion.” Secknall next:<br />“Yet +man to man will whisper, and the face<br />Of all this people darken +like a sea<br />When pipes the coming storm.” He answered, +“Son,<br />I know this people better. Fierce they are<br />In +anger; neither flies their thought direct;<br />For some, though true +to Nature, lie to men,<br />And others, true to men, are false to God:<br />Yet +as the prince’s is the poor man’s heart;<br />Burthen for +God sustained no burden is<br />To him; and those who most have given +to Christ<br />Largeliest His fulness share.”</p> +<p> Secknall +replied,<br />“Low lies my second charge; a third remains,<br />Which, +as a shaft from seasoned bow, not green,<br />Shall pierce the marl. +With convents still you sow<br />The land: in other countries sparse +and small<br />They swell to cities here. A hundred monks<br />On +one late barren mountain dig and pray:<br />A hundred nuns gladden one +woodland lawn,<br />Or sing in one small island. Well - ’tis +well!<br />Yet, balance lost and measure, nought is well.<br />The Angelic +Life more common will become<br />Than life of mortal men.” +The Saint replied,<br />“No shaft from homicidal yew-tree bow<br />Is +thine, but winged of thistle-down! Now hear!<br />Measure is good; +but measure’s law with scale<br />Changeth; nor doth the part +reflect the whole.<br />Each nation hath its gift, and each to all<br />Not +equal ministers. If all were eye,<br />Where then were ear? +If all were ear or hand,<br />Where then were eye? The nation +is the part;<br />The Church the whole” - But Criemther where +he stood,<br />Old warrior, shouted like a chief war-waked,<br />“This +land is Eire! No nation lives like her!<br />A part! Who +portions Eire?” The Saint, with smile<br />Resumed: “The +whole that from the part receives,<br />Repaying still that part, till +man’s whole race<br />Grow to the fulness of Mankind redeemed.<br />What +gift hath God in eminence given to Eire?<br />Singly, her race is feeble; +strong when knit:<br />Nought knits them truly save a heavenly aim.<br />I +knit them as an army unto God,<br />Give them God’s War! +Yon star is militant!<br />Its splendour ’gainst the dark must +fight or die:<br />So wars that Faith I preach against the world;<br />And +nations fitted least for this world’s gain<br />Can speed Faith’s +triumph best. Three hundred years,<br />Well used, should make +of Eire a northern Rome.<br />Criemther! her destiny is this, or nought;<br />Secknall! +the highest only can she reach;<br />Alone the Apostle’s crown +is hers: for this,<br />A Rule I give her, strong, yet strong in Love;<br />Monastic +households build I far and wide;<br />Monastic clans I plant among her +clans,<br />With abbots for their chiefs. The same shall live,<br />Long +as God’s love o’errules them.”</p> +<p> Secknall +then<br />Knelt, reverent; yet his eye had in it mirth,<br />And round +the full bloom of the red rich mouth,<br />No whit ascetic, ran a dim +half smile.<br />“Father, my charges three have futile fallen,<br />And +thrice, like some great warrior of the bards,<br />Your conquering wheels +above me you have driven.<br />Brought low, I make confession. +Once, in woods<br />Wandering, we heard a sound, now loud, now low,<br />As +he that treads the sand-hills hears the sea<br />High murmuring while +he climbs the seaward slope,<br />Low, as he drops to landward. +’Twas a throng<br />Awed, yet tumultuous, wild-eyed, wondering, +fierce,<br />That, standing round a harper, stave on stave<br />Acclaimed +as each had ending. ‘War, still war!’<br />Thou saidst; +‘the bards but sing of War and Death!<br />Ah! if they sang that +Death which conquered Death,<br />Then, like a tide, this people, music-drawn,<br />Would +mount the shores of Christ! Bards love not us,<br />Prescient +that power, that power wielded elsewhere<br />By priest, but here by +them, shall pass to us:<br />Yet we love them for good one day their +gift.’<br />Then didst thou turn on me an eye of might<br />Such +as on Malach, when thou had’st him raise<br />By miracle of prayer +that babe boar-slain,<br />And said’st, ‘Go, fell thy pine, +and frame thy harp,<br />And in the hearing of this people sing<br />Some +Saint, the friend of Christ.’ Too long the attempt<br />Shame-faced, +I shunned; at last, like him of old,<br />That better brother who refused, +yet went,<br />I made my hymn. ’Tis called ‘A Child +of Life.’”<br />Then Patrick, “Welcome is the praise +of Saints:<br />Sing thou thy hymn.”</p> +<p> From +kneeling Secknall rose<br />And stood, and singing, raised his hand +as when<br />Her cymbal by the Red Sea Miriam raised<br />While silent +stood God’s hosts, and silent lay<br />Those host-entombing waters. +Shook, like hers,<br />His slight form wavering ’mid the gusts +of song.<br />He sang the Saint of God, create from nought<br />To work +God’s Will. As others gaze on earth,<br />Her vales, her +plains, her green meads ocean-girt,<br />So gazed the Saint for ever +upon God<br />Who girds all worlds - saw intermediate nought -<br />And +on Him watched the sunshine and the storm,<br />And learned His Countenance, +and from It alone,<br />Drew in upon his heart its day and night.<br />That +contemplation was for him no dream:<br />It hurled him on his mission. +As a sword<br />He lodged his soul within the Hand Divine<br />And wrought, +keen-edged, God’s counsel. Next to God<br />Next, and how +near, he loved the souls of men:<br />Yea, men to him were Souls; the +unspiritual herd<br />He saw as magic-bound, or chained to beast,<br />And +groaned to free them. For their sakes, unfearing,<br />He faced +the ravening waves, and iron rocks,<br />Hunger, and poniard’s +edge, and poisoned cup,<br />And faced the face of kings, and faced +the host<br />Of demons raging for their realm o’erthrown.<br />This +was the Man of Love. Self-love cast out,<br />The love made spiritual +of a thousand hearts<br />Met in his single heart, and kindled there<br />A +sun-like image of Love Divine. Within<br />That Spirit-shadowed +heart was Christ conceived<br />Hourly through faith, hourly through +Love was born;<br />Sole secret this of fruitfulness to Christ.<br />Who +heard him heard with his a lordlier Voice,<br />Strong as that Voice +which said, “Let there be light,”<br />And light o’erflowed +their beings. He from each<br />His secret won; to each God’s +secret told:<br />He touched them, and they lived. In each, the +flesh<br />Subdued to soul, the affections, vassals proud<br />By conscience +ruled, and conscience lit by Christ,<br />The whole man stood, planet +full-orbed of powers<br />In equipoise, Image restored of God.<br />A +nation of such men his portion was;<br />That nation’s Patriarch +he. No wrangler loud;<br />No sophist; lesser victories knew he +none:<br />No triumph his of sect, or camp, or court;<br />The Saint +his great soul flung upon the world,<br />And took the people with him +like a wind<br />Missioned from God that with it wafts in spring<br />Some +wingèd race, a multitudinous night,<br />Into new sun-bright +climes.</p> +<p> As +Secknall sang,<br />Nearer the Brethren drew. On Patrick’s +right<br />Benignus stood; old Mochta on his left,<br />Slow-eyed, with +solemn smile and sweet; next Erc,<br />Whose ever-listening countenance +that hour<br />Beyond its wont was listening; Criemther near<br />The +workman Saint, his many-wounded hands<br />Together clasped: forward +each mighty arm<br />On shoulders propped of Essa and of Bite,<br />Leaned +the meek giant Cairthen: twelve in all<br />Clustering they stood and +in them was one soul.<br />When Secknall ceased, in silence still they +hung<br />Each upon each, glad-hearted since the meed<br />Of all their +toils shone out before them plain,<br />Gold gates of heaven - a nation +entering in.<br />A light was on their faces, and without<br />Spread +a great light, for sunset now had fallen<br />A Pentecostal fire upon +the woods,<br />Or else a rain of angels streamed o’er earth.<br />In +marvel gazed the twelve: yea, clans far off<br />Stared from their hills, +deeming the site aflame.<br />That glory passed away, discourse arose<br />On +Secknall’s hymn. Its radiance from his face<br />Had, like +the sunset’s, vanished as he spake.<br />“Father, what sayst +thou?” Patrick made reply,<br />“My son, the hymn +is good; for Truth is gold;<br />And Fame, obsequious often to base +heads,<br />For once is loyal, and its crown hath laid<br />Where honour’s +debt was due.” Then Secknall raised<br />In triumph both +his hands, and chaunted loud<br />That hymn’s first stave, earlier +through craft withheld,<br />Stave that to Patrick’s name, and +his alone,<br />Offered that hymn’s whole incense! Ceasing, +he stood<br />Low-bowed, with hands upon his bosom crossed.<br />Great +laughter from the brethren came, their Chief<br />Thus trapped, though +late - he meekest man of men -<br />To claim the saintly crown. +First young, then old,<br />Later the old, and sore against their will,<br />That +laughter raised. Last from the giant chest<br />Of Cairthen forth +it rolled its solemn bass,<br />Like sea-sound swallowing lighter sounds +hard by.<br />But Patrick laughed not: o’er his face there passed<br />Shade +lost in light; and thus he spake, “O friends<br />That which I +have to do I know in part:<br />God grant I work my work. That +which I am<br />He knows Who made me. Saints He hath, good store:<br />Their +names are written in His Book of Life;<br />Kneel down, my sons, and +pray that if thus long<br />I seem to stand, I fall not at the end.”</p> +<p>Then in a circle kneeling prayed the twelve.<br />But when they rose, +Secknall with serious brow<br />Advanced, and knelt, and kissed Saint +Patrick’s foot,<br />And said, “O Father, at thy hest that +hymn<br />I made, long labouring, and thy crown it stands:<br />Thou, +therefore, grant me gifts, for strong thy prayer.”</p> +<p>And Patrick said, “The house wherein thy hymn<br />Is sung +at morn or eve shall lack not bread:<br />And if men sing it in a house +new-built,<br />Where none hath dwelt, nor bridegroom yet, nor bride,<br />Nor +hath the cry of babe been heard therein,<br />Upon that house the watching +of the Saints<br />Of Eire, and Patrick’s watching, shall be fixed<br />Even +as the stars.” And Secknall said, “What more?”</p> +<p>Then Patrick added, “They that night and morn<br />Down-lying +and up-rising, sing that hymn,<br />They too that softly whisper it, +nigh death,<br />If pure of heart, and liegeful unto Christ,<br />Shall +see God’s face; and, since the hymn is long,<br />Its grace shall +rest for children and the poor<br />Full measure on the last three lines; +and thou<br />Of this dear company shalt die the first,<br />And first +of Eire’s Apostles.” Then his cheek<br />Secknall +laid down once more on Patrick’s foot,<br />And answered, “Deo +Gratias.”</p> +<p> Thus +in mirth,<br />And solemn talk, and prayer, that brother band<br />In +the golden age of Faith with great free heart<br />Gave thanks to God +that blissful eventide,<br />A thousand and four hundred years and more<br />Gone +by. But now clear rang the compline bell,<br />And two by two +they wended towards their church<br />Across a space for cloister set +apart,<br />Yet still with wood-flowers sweet, and scent beside<br />Of +sod that evening turned. The night came on;<br />A dim ethereal +twilight o’er the hills<br />Deepened to dewy gloom. Against +the sky<br />Stood ridge and rock unmarked amid the day:<br />A few +stars o’er them shone. As bower on bower<br />Let go the +waning light, so bird on bird<br />Let go its song. Two songsters +still remained,<br />Each feebler than a fountain soon to cease,<br />And +claimed somewhile across the dusking dell<br />Rivals unseen in sleepy +argument,<br />Each, the last word: - a pause; and then, once more,<br />An +unexpected note: - a longer pause;<br />And then, past hope, one other +note, the last.<br />A moment more the brethren stood in prayer:<br />The +rising moon upon the church-roof new<br />Glimmered; and o’er +it sang an angel choir,<br />“Venite Sancti.” Entering, +soon were said<br />The psalm, “He giveth sleep,” and hymn, +“Lætare;”<br />And in his solitary cell each monk<br />Lay +down, rejoicing in the love of God.</p> +<p>The happy years went by. When Patrick now<br />And all his +company were housed with God<br />That hymn, at morning sung, and noon, +and eve,<br />Even as it lulled the waves of warring clans<br />So lulled +with music lives of toil-worn men<br />And charmed their ebbing breath. +One time it chanced<br />When in his convent Kevin with his monks<br />Had +sung it thrice, the board prepared, a guest,<br />Foot-sore and hungered, +murmured, “Wherefore thrice?”<br />And Kevin answered, “Speak +not thus, my son,<br />For while we sang it, visible to all,<br />Saint +Patrick was among us. At his right<br />Benignus stood, and, all +around, the Twelve,<br />God’s light upon their brows; while Secknall +knelt<br />Demanding meed of song. Moreover, son,<br />This self-same +day and hour, twelve months gone by,<br />Patrick, our Patriarch, died; +and happy Feast<br />Is that he holds, by two short days alone<br />Severed +from his of Hebrew Patriarchs last,<br />And Chief. The Holy House +at Nazareth<br />He ruled benign, God’s Warder with white hairs;<br />And +still his feast, that silver star of March,<br />When snows afflict +the hill and frost the moor,<br />With temperate beam gladdens the vernal +Church -<br />All praise to God who draws that Twain so near.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>THE STRIVING OF SAINT PATRICK ON MOUNT CRUACHAN.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Saint Patrick, seeing that now Erin believes, desires<br /> that +the whole land should stand fast in belief till<br /> Christ +returns to judge the world. For this end he<br /> resolves +to offer prayer on Mount Cruachan; but<br /> Victor, +the Angel who has attended him in all his<br /> labours, +restrains him from that prayer as being too<br /> great. +Notwithstanding, the Saint prays three times<br /> on +the mountain, and three times all the demons of<br /> Erin +contend against him, and twice Victor, the Angel,<br /> rebukes +his prayers. In the end Saint Patrick<br /> scatters +the demons with ignominy, and God’s Angel<br /> bids +him know that his prayer hath conquered through<br /> constancy.</i></p> +<p>From realm to realm had Patrick trod the Isle;<br />And evermore +God’s work beneath his hand,<br />Since God had blessed that hand, +ran out full-sphered,<br />And brighter than a new-created star.<br />The +Island race, in feud of clan with clan<br />Barbaric, gracious else +and high of heart,<br />Nor worshippers of self, nor dulled through +sense,<br />Beholding, not alone his wondrous works;<br />But, wondrous +more, the sweetness of his strength<br />And how he neither shrank from +flood nor fire,<br />And how he couched him on the wintry rocks,<br />And +how he sang great hymns to One who heard,<br />And how he cared for +poor men and the sick,<br />And for the souls invisible of men,<br />To +him made way - not simple hinds alone,<br />But chiefly wisest heads, +for wisdom then<br />Prime wisdom saw in Faith; and, mixt with these,<br />Chieftains +and sceptred kings. Nigh Tara, first,<br />Scorning the king’s +command, had Patrick lit<br />His Paschal fire, and heavenward as it +soared,<br />The royal fire and all the Beltaine fires<br />Shamed by +its beam had withered round the Isle<br />Like fires on little hearths +whereon the sun<br />Looks in his greatness. Later, to that plain<br />Central +’mid Eire, “of Adoration” named,<br />Down-trampled +for two thousand years and more<br />By erring feet of men, the Saint +had sped<br />In Apostolic might, and kenned far off<br />Ill-pleased, +the nation’s idol lifting high<br />His head, and those twelve +vassal gods around<br />All mailed in gold and shining as the sun,<br />A +pomp impure. Ill-pleased the Saint had seen them,<br />And raised +the Staff of Jesus with a ban:<br />Then he, that demon named of men +Crom-dubh,<br />With all his vassal gods, into the earth<br />That knew +her Maker, to their necks had sunk<br />While round the island rang +three times the cry<br />Of fiends tormented.</p> +<p> Not +for this as yet<br />Had Patrick perfected his strength: as yet<br />The +depths he had not trodden; nor had God<br />Drawn forth His total forces +in the man<br />Hidden long since and sealed. For this cause he,<br />Who +still his own heart in triumphant hour<br />Suspected most, remembering +Milchoe’s fate,<br />With fear lest aught of human mar God’s +work,<br />And likewise from his handling of the Gael<br />Knowing not +less their weakness than their strength,<br />Paused on his conquering +way, and lonely sat<br />In cloud of thought. The great Lent Fast +had come:<br />Its first three days went by; the fourth, he rose,<br />And +meeting his disciples that drew nigh<br />Vouchsafed this greeting only: +“Bide ye here<br />Till I return,” and straightway set his +face<br />Alone to that great hill “of eagles” named<br />Huge +Cruachan, that o’er the western deep<br />Hung through sea-mist, +with shadowing crag on crag,<br />High-ridged, and dateless forest long +since dead.</p> +<p>That forest reached, the angel of the Lord<br />Beside him, as he +entered, stood and spake:<br />“The gifts thy soul demands, demand +them not;<br />For they are mighty and immeasurable,<br />And over great +for granting.” And the Saint:<br />“This mountain +Cruachan I will not leave<br />Alive till all be granted, to the last.”</p> +<p>Then knelt he on the shrouded mountain’s base,<br />And was +in prayer; and, wrestling with the Lord,<br />Demanded wondrous things +immeasurable,<br />Not easy to be granted, for the land;<br />Nor brooked +repulse; and when repulse there came,<br />Repulse that quells the weak +and crowns the strong,<br />Forth from its gloom like lightning on him +flashed<br />Intelligential gleam and insight winged<br />That plainlier +showed him all his people’s heart,<br />And all the wound thereof: +and as in depth<br />Knowledge descended, so in height his prayer<br />Rose, +and far spread; nor roused alone those Powers<br />Regioned with God; +for as the strength of fire<br />When flames some palace pile, or city +vast,<br />Wakens a tempest round it dragging in<br />Wild blast, and +from the aggression mightier grows,<br />So wakened Patrick’s +prayer the demon race,<br />And drew their legions in upon his soul<br />From +near and far. First came the Accursed encamped<br />On Connact’s +cloudy hills and watery moors;<br />Old Umbhall’s Heads, Iorras, +and Arran Isle,<br />And where Tyrawley clasps that sea-girt wood<br />Fochlut, +whence earliest rang the Children’s Cry,<br />To demons trump +of doom. In stormy rack<br />They came, and hung above the invested +Mount<br />Expectant. But, their mutterings heeding not,<br />When +Patrick still in puissance rose of prayer,<br />O’er all their +armies round the realm dispersed<br />There ran prescience of fate; +and, north and south,<br />From all the mountain-girdled coasts - for +still<br />Best site attracts worst Spirit - on they came,<br />From +Aileach’s shore and Uladh’s hoary cliffs,<br />Which held +the aeries of that eagle race<br />More late in Alba throned, “Lords +of the Isles” -<br />High chiefs whose bards, in strong transmitted +line,<br />Filled with the name of Fionn, and thine, Oiseen,<br />The +blue glens of that never-vanquished land -<br />From those purpureal +mountains that o’ergaze<br />Rock-bowered Loch Lene broidered +with sanguine bead,<br />They came, and many a ridge o’er sea-lake +stretched<br />That, autumn-robed in purple and in gold,<br />Pontific +vestment, guard the memories still<br />Of monks who reared thereon +their mystic cells,<br />Finian and Kieran, Fiacre, and Enda’s +self<br />Of hermits sire, and that sea-facing Saint<br />Brendan, who, +in his wicker boat of skins<br />Before that Genoese a thousand years<br />Found +a new world; and many more that now<br />Under wind-wasted Cross of +Clonmacnoise<br />Await the day of Christ.</p> +<p> So +rushed they on<br />From all sides, and, close met, in circling storm<br />Besieged +the enclouded steep of Cruachan,<br />That scarce the difference knew +’twixt night and day<br />More than the sunless pole. Him +sought they, him<br />Whom infinitely near they might approach,<br />Not +touch, while firm his faith - their Foe that dragged,<br />Sole-kneeling +on that wood-girt mountain’s base,<br />With both hands forth +their realm’s foundation stone.<br />Thus ruin filled the mountain: +day by day<br />The forest torment deepened; louder roared<br />The +great aisles of the devastated woods;<br />Black cave replied to cave; +and oaks, whole ranks,<br />Colossal growth of immemorial years,<br />Sown +ere Milesius landed, or that race<br />He vanquished, or that earliest +Scythian tribe,<br />Fell in long line, like deep-mined castle wall,<br />At +either side God’s warrior. Slowly died<br />At last, far +echoed in remote ravines,<br />The thunder: then crept forth a little +voice<br />That shrilly whispered to him thus in scorn:<br />“Two +thousand years yon race hath walked in blood<br />Neck-deep; and shall +it serve thy Lord of Peace?”<br />That whisper ceased. Again +from all sides burst<br />Tenfold the storm; and as it waxed, the Saint<br />Waxed +in strong heart; and, kneeling with stretched hands,<br />Made for himself +a panoply of prayer,<br />And wound it round his bosom twice and thrice,<br />And +made a sword of comminating psalm,<br />And smote at them that mocked +him. Day by day,<br />Till now the second Sunday’s vesper +bell<br />Gladdened the little churches round the isle,<br />That conflict +raged: then, maddening in their ire,<br />Sudden the Princedoms of the +Dark, that rode<br />This way and that way through the tempest, brake<br />Their +sceptres, and with one great cry it fell:<br />At once o’er all +was silence: sunset lit<br />The world, that shone as though with face +upturned<br />It gazed on heavens by angel faces thronged<br />And answered +light with light. A single bird<br />Carolled; and from the forest +skirt down fell,<br />Gem-like, the last drops of the exhausted storm.</p> +<p>Then bowed the Saint his forehead to the ground<br />Thanking his +God; and there in sacred trance,<br />Which was not sleep, abode not +hours alone<br />But silent nights and days; and, ’mid that trance,<br />God +fed his heart with unseen Sacraments,<br />Immortal food. Awaking, +Patrick felt<br />Yearnings for nearer commune with his God,<br />Though +great its cost; and gat him on his feet,<br />And, mile by mile, ascended +through the woods<br />Till stunted were its growths; and still he clomb<br />Printing +with sandalled foot the dewy steep:<br />But when above the mountain +rose the moon<br />Brightening each mist, while sank the prone morass<br />In +double night, he came upon a stone<br />Tomb-shaped, that flecked that +steep: a little stream<br />Dropped by it from the summits to the woods:<br />Thereon +he knelt; and was once more in prayer.</p> +<p>Nor prayed unnoticed by that race abhorred.<br />No sooner had his +knees the mountain touched<br />Than through their realm vibration went; +and straight<br />His prayer detecting back they trooped in clouds<br />And +o’er him closed, blotting with bat-like wing<br />And inky pall, +the moon. Then thunder pealed<br />Once more, nor ceased from +pealing. Over all<br />Night ruled, except when blue and forkèd +flash<br />Revealed the on-circling waterspout or plunge<br />Of rain +beneath the blown cloud’s ravelled hem,<br />Or, huge on high, +that lion-coloured steep<br />Which, like a lion, roared into the night<br />Answering +the roaring from sea-caves far down.<br />Dire was the strife. +That hour the Mountain old,<br />An anarch throned ’mid ruins +flung himself<br />In madness forth on all his winds and floods,<br />An +omnipresent wrath! For God reserved,<br />Too long the prey of +demons he had been;<br />Possession foul and fell. Now nigh expelled<br />Those +demons rent their victim freed. Aloft,<br />They burst the rocky +barrier of the tarn<br />That downward dashed its countless cataracts,<br />Drowning +far vales. On either side the Saint<br />A torrent rushed - mightiest +of all these twain -<br />Peeling the softer substance from the hills<br />Their +flesh, till glared, deep-trenched, the mountain’s bones;<br />And +as those torrents widened, rocks down rolled<br />Showering upon that +unsubverted head<br />Sharp spray ice-cold. Before him closed +the flood,<br />And closed behind, till all was raging flood,<br />All +but that tomb-like stone whereon he knelt.</p> +<p>Unshaken there he knelt with hands outstretched,<br />God’s +Athlete! For a mighty prize he strove,<br />Nor slacked, nor any +whit his forehead bowed:<br />Fixed was his eye and keen; the whole +white face<br />Keen as that eye itself, though - shapeless yet -<br />The +infernal horde to ear not eye addressed<br />Their battle. Back +he drave them, rank on rank,<br />Routed, with psalm, and malison, and +ban,<br />As from a sling flung forth. Revolt’s blind spawn<br />He +named them; one time Spirits, now linked with brute,<br />Yea, bestial +more and baser: and as a ship<br />Mounts with the mounting of the wave, +so he<br />O’er all the insurgent tempest of their wrath<br />Rising +rode on triumphant. Days went by,<br />Then came a lull; and lo! +a whisper shrill,<br />Once heard before, again its poison cold<br />Distilled: +“Albeit to Christ this land should bow,<br />Some conqueror’s +foot one day would quell her Faith.”<br />It ceased. Tenfold +once more the storm burst forth:<br />Once more the ecstatic passion +of his prayer<br />Met it, and, breasting, overbore, until<br />Sudden +the Princedoms of the dark that rode<br />This way and that way through +the whirlwind, dashed<br />Their vanquished crowns of darkness to the +ground<br />With one long cry. Then silence came; and lo!<br />The +white dawn of the fourth fair Day of God<br />O’erflowed the world. +Slowly the Saint upraised<br />His wearied eyes. Upon the mountain +lawns<br />Lay happy lights; and birds sang; and a stream<br />That +any five-years’ child might overleap,<br />Beside him lapsed crystalline +between banks<br />With violets all empurpled, and smooth marge<br />Green +as that spray which earliest sucks the spring.</p> +<p>Then Patrick raised to God his orison<br />On that fair mount, and +planted in the grass<br />His crozier staff, and slept; and in his sleep<br />God +fed his heart with unseen Sacraments,<br />Manna of might divine. +Three days he slept;<br />The fourth he woke. Upon his heart there +rushed<br />Yearning for closer converse with his God<br />Though great +its cost; and on his feet he gat,<br />And high, and higher yet, that +mountain scaled,<br />And reached at noon the summit. Far below<br />Basking +the island lay, through rainbow shower<br />Gleaming in part, with shadowy +moor, and ridge<br />Blue in the distance looming. Westward stretched<br />A +galaxy of isles, and, these beyond,<br />Infinite sea with sacred light +ablaze,<br />And high o’erhead there hung a cloudless heaven.</p> +<p>Upon that summit kneeling, face to sea<br />The Saint, with hands +held forth and thanks returned,<br />Claimed as his stately heritage +that realm<br />From north to south: but instant as his lip<br />Printed +with earliest pulse of Christian prayer<br />That clear aërial +clime Pagan till then;<br />The Host Accursed, sagacious of his act,<br />Rushed +back from all the isle and round him met<br />With anger seven times +heated, since their hour,<br />And this they knew, was come. Nor +thunder din<br />And challenge through the ear alone, sufficed<br />That +hour their rage malign that, craving sore<br />Material bulk to rend +his bulk - their foe’s -<br />Through fleshly strength of that +their murder-lust<br />Flamed forth in fleshly form phantoms night-black<br />Though +bodiless yet to bodied mass as nigh<br />As Spirits can reach. +More thick than vultures winged<br />To fields with carnage piled, the +Accursèd thronged<br />Making thick night which neither earth +nor sky<br />Could pierce, from sense expunged. In phalanx now,<br />Anon +in breaking legion, or in globe,<br />With clang of iron pinion on they +rushed<br />And spectral dart high-held. Nor quailed the Saint,<br />Contending +for his people on that Mount,<br />Nor spared God’s foes; for +as old minster towers<br />Besieged by midnight storm send forth reply<br />In +storm outrolled of bells, so sent he forth<br />Defiance from fierce +lip, vindictive chaunt,<br />And blight and ban, and maledictive rite<br />Potent +on face of Spirits impure to raise<br />These plague-spots three, Defeat, +Madness, Despair;<br />Nor stinted flail of taunt - “When first +my bark<br />Threatened your coasts, as now upon the hills<br />Hung +ye in cloud; as now, I raised this Cross;<br />Ye fled before it and +again shall fly!”<br />So hurled he back their squadrons. +Day by day<br />The hurricanes of war shook earth and heaven:<br />Till +now, on Holy Saturday, that hour<br />Returned which maketh glad the +Church of God<br />When over Christendom in widowed fanes<br />Two days +by penance stripped, and dumb as though<br />Some Antichrist had trodd’n +them down, once more<br />Swells forth amid the new-lit paschal lights<br />The +“Gloria in Excelsis:” sudden then<br />That mighty conflict +ceased, save one low voice<br />Twice heard before, now edged with bitterer +scoff,<br />“That race thou lov’st, though fierce in wrath, +is soft:<br />Plenty and peace will melt their Faith one day:”<br />Then +with that whisper dying, died the night:<br />Then forth from darkness +issued earth and sky:<br />Then fled the phantoms far o’er ocean’s +wave,<br />Thence to return not till the day of doom.</p> +<p>But he, their conqueror wept, upon that height<br />Standing; nor +of his victory had he joy,<br />Nor of that jubilant isle restored to +light,<br />Nor of that heaven relit; so worked that scoff<br />Winged +from the abyss; and ever thus the man<br />With darkness communed and +that poison cold:<br />“If Faith indeed should flood the land +with peace,<br />And peace with gold, and gold eat out her heart<br />Once +true, till Faith one day through Faith’s reward<br />Or die, or +live diseased, the shame of Faith,<br />Then blacker were this land +and more accursed<br />Than lands that knew no Christ.” +And musing thus<br />The whole heart of the man was turned to tears,<br />A +fount of bale and chalice brimmed with death -<br />For oft a thought +chance-born more racks than truth<br />Proven and sure - and, weeping, +still he wept<br />Till drenched was all his sad monastic cowl<br />As +sea-weed on the dripping shelf storm-cast<br />Latest, and tremulous +still.</p> +<p> As +thus he wept<br />Sudden beside him on that summit broad,<br />Ran out +a golden beam like sunset path<br />Gilding the sea: and, turning, by +his side<br />Victor, God’s angel, stood with lustrous brow<br />Fresh +from that Face no man can see and live.<br />He, putting forth his hand, +with living coal<br />Snatched from God’s altar, made that dripping +cowl<br />Dry as an Autumn sheaf. The angel spake:<br />“Rejoice, +for they are fled that hate thy land,<br />And those are nigh that love +it.” Then the Saint<br />Upraised his head; and lo! in snowy +sheen<br />Cresting high rock, and ridge, and airy peak,<br />Innumerable +the Sons of God all round<br />Vested the invisible mountain with white +light,<br />As when the foam-white birds of ocean throng<br />Sea-rock +so close that none that rock may see.<br />In trance the Living Creatures +stood, with wings<br />That pointing crossed upon their breasts; nor +seemed<br />As new arrived but native to that site<br />Though veiled +till now from mortal vision. Song<br />They sang to soothe the +vexed heart of the Saint -<br />Love-song of Heaven: and slowly as it +died<br />Their splendours waned; and through that vanishing light<br />Earth, +sea, and heaven returned.</p> +<p> To +Patrick then,<br />Thus Victor spake: “Depart from Cruachan,<br />Since +God hath given thee wondrous gifts, immense,<br />And through thy prayer +routed that rebel host.”<br />And Patrick, “Till the last +of all my prayers<br />Be granted, I depart not though I die: -<br />One +said, ‘Too fierce that race to bend to faith.’”<br />Then +spake God’s angel, mild of voice, and kind:<br />“Not all +are fierce that fiercest seem, for oft<br />Fierceness is blindfold +love, or love ajar.<br />Souls thou wouldst have: for every hair late +wet<br />In this thy tearful cowl and habit drenched<br />God gives +thee myriads seven of Souls redeemed<br />From sin and doom; and Souls, +beside, as many<br />As o’er yon sea in legioned flight might +hang<br />Far as thine eye can range. But get thee down<br />From +Cruachan, for mighty is thy prayer.”<br />And Patrick made reply: +“Not great thy boon!<br />Watch have I kept, and wearied are mine +eyes<br />And dim; nor see they far o’er yonder deep.”<br />And +Victor: “Have thou Souls from coast to coast<br />In cloud full-stretched; +but, get thee down: this Mount<br />God’s Altar is, and puissance +adds to prayer.”<br />And Patrick: “On this Mountain wept +have I;<br />And therefore giftless will I not depart:<br />One said, +‘Although that People should believe<br />Yet conqueror’s +heel one day would quell their Faith.’”<br />To whom the +angel, mild of voice, and kind:<br />“Conquerors are they that +subjugate the soul:<br />This also God concedes thee; conquering foe<br />Trampling +this land, shall tread not out her Faith<br />Nor sap by fraud, so long +as thou in heaven<br />Look’st on God’s Face; nay, by that +Faith subdued,<br />That foe shall serve and live. But get thee +down<br />And worship in the vale.” Then Patrick said,<br />“Live +they that list! Full sorely wept have I,<br />Nor will I hence +depart unsatisfied:<br />One said; ‘Grown soft, that race their +Faith will shame;’<br />Say therefore what the Lord thy God will +grant,<br />Nor stint His hand; since never scanter grace<br />Fell +yet on head of nation-taming man<br />Than thou to me hast portioned +till this hour.”</p> +<p>Then answer made the angel, soft of voice:<br />“Not all men +stumble when a Nation falls;<br />There are that stand upright. +God gives thee this:<br />They that are faithful to thy Faith, that +walk<br />Thy way, and keep thy covenant with God,<br />And daily sing +thy hymn, when comes the Judge<br />With Sign blood-red facing Jehosaphat,<br />And +fear lays prone the many-mountained world,<br />The same shall ’scape +the doom.” And Patrick said,<br />“That hymn is long, +and hard for simple folk,<br />And hard for children.” And +the angel thus:<br />“At least from ‘Christum Illum’ +let them sing,<br />And keep thy Faith: when comes the Judge, the pains<br />Shall +take not hold of such. Is that enough?”<br />And Patrick +answered, “That is not enough.”<br />Then Victor: “Likewise +this thy God accords:<br />The Dreadful Coming and the Day of Doom<br />Thy +land shall see not; for before that day<br />Seven years, a great wave +arched from out the deep,<br />Ablution pure, shall sweep the isle and +take<br />Her children to its peace. Is that enough?”<br />And +Patrick answered, “That is not enough.”</p> +<p>Then spake once more that courteous angel kind:<br />“What +boon demand’st then?” And the Saint, “No less<br />Than +this. Though every nation, ere that day<br />Recreant from creed +and Christ, old troth forsworn,<br />Should flee the sacred scandal +of the Cross<br />Through pride, as once the Apostles fled through fear,<br />This +Nation of my love, a priestly house,<br />Beside that Cross shall stand, +fate-firm, like him<br />That stood beside Christ’s Mother.” +Straightway, as one<br />Who ends debate, the angel answered stern:<br />“That +boon thou claimest is too great to grant:<br />Depart thou from this +mountain, Cruachan,<br />In peace; and find that Nation which thou lov’st,<br />That +like thy body is, and thou her head,<br />For foes are round her set +in valley and plain,<br />And instant is the battle.” Then +the Saint:<br />“The battle for my People is not there,<br />With +them, low down, but here upon this height<br />From them apart, with +God. This Mount of God<br />Dowerless and bare I quit not till +I die;<br />And dying, I will leave a Man Elect<br />To keep its keys, +and pray my prayer, and name<br />Dying in turn, his heir, successive +line,<br />Even till the Day of Doom.”</p> +<p> Then +heavenward sped<br />Victor, God’s angel, and the Man of God<br />Turned +to his offering; and all day he stood<br />Offering in heart that Offering +Undefiled<br />Which Abel offered, and Melchisedek,<br />And Abraham, +Patriarch of the faithful race,<br />In type, and which in fulness of +the times<br />The Victim-Priest offered on Calvary,<br />And, bloodless, +offers still in Heaven and Earth,<br />Whose impetration makes the whole +Church one.<br />Thus offering stood the man till eve, and still<br />Offered; +and as he offered, far in front<br />Along the aërial summit once +again<br />Ran out that beam like fiery pillar prone<br />Or sea-path +sunset-paved; and by his side<br />That angel stood. Then Patrick, +turning not<br />His eyes in prayer upon the West close held<br />Demanded, +“From the Maker of all worlds<br />What answer bring’st +thou?” Victor made reply:<br />“Down knelt in Heaven +the Angelic Orders Nine,<br />And all the Prophets and the Apostles +knelt,<br />And all the Creatures of the hand of God<br />Visible, and +invisible, down knelt,<br />While thou thy mighty Mass, though altarless,<br />Offeredst +in spirit, and thine Offering joined;<br />And all God’s Saints +on earth, or roused from sleep<br />Or on the wayside pausing, knelt, +the cause<br />Not knowing; likewise yearned the Souls to God<br />In +that fire-clime benign that clears from sin;<br />And lo! the Lord thy +God hath heard thy prayer,<br />Since fortitude in prayer - and this +thou know’st,” -<br />Smiling the Bright One spake, “is +that which lays<br />Man’s hand upon God’s sceptre. +That thou sought’st<br />Shall lack not consummation. Many +a race<br />Shrivelling in sunshine of its prosperous years,<br />Shall +cease from faith, and, shamed though shameless, sink<br />Back to its +native clay; but over thine<br />God shall extend the shadow of His +Hand,<br />And through the night of centuries teach to her<br />In woe +that song which, when the nations wake,<br />Shall sound their glad +deliverance: nor alone<br />This nation, from the blind dividual dust<br />Of +instincts brute, thoughts driftless, warring wills<br />By thee evoked +and shapen by thy hands<br />To God’s fair image which confers +alone<br />Manhood on nations, shall to God stand true;<br />But nations +far in undiscovered seas,<br />Her stately progeny, while ages fleet<br />Shall +wear the kingly ermine of her Faith,<br />Fleece uncorrupted of the +Immaculate Lamb,<br />For ever: lands remote shall raise to God<br /><i>Her</i> +fanes; and eagle-nurturing isles hold fast<br /><i>Her</i> hermit cells: +thy nation shall not walk<br />Accordant with the Gentiles of this world,<br />But +as a race elect sustain the Crown<br />Or bear the Cross: and when the +end is come,<br />When in God’s Mount the Twelve great Thrones +are set,<br />And round it roll the Rivers Four of fire,<br />And in +their circuit meet the Peoples Three<br />Of Heaven, and Earth, and +Hell, fulfilled that day<br />Shall be the Saviour’s word, what +time He stretched<br />Thy crozier-staff forth from His glory-cloud<br />And +sware to thee, ‘When they that with Me walked<br />Sit with Me +on their everlasting thrones<br />Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine +Israel,<br />Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness.’</p> +<p>Thou therefore kneel, and bless thy Land of Eire.”</p> +<p>Then Patrick knelt, and blessed the land, and said,<br />“Praise +be to God who hears the sinner’s prayer.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>EPILOGUE.</p> +<p>THE CONFESSION OF SAINT PATRICK.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Before his death, Saint Patrick makes confession to his<br /> brethren +concerning his life; of his love for that<br /> land +which had been his House of Bondage; of his<br /> ceaseless +prayer in youth: of his sojourn at Tours,<br /> where +St. Martin had made abode, at Auxerres with<br /> St. +Germanus, and at Lerins with the Contemplatives:<br /> of +that mystic mountain where the Redeemer Himself<br /> lodged +the Crozier Staff in his hand; of Pope<br /> Celestine +who gave him his Mission; of his Visions; of<br /> his +Labours. His last charge to the sons of Erin is<br /> that +they should walk in Truth; that they should put<br /> from +them the spirit of Revenge; and that they should<br /> hold +fast to the Faith of Christ.</i></p> +<p>At Saul then, by the inland-spreading sea,<br />There where began +my labour, comes the end:<br />I, blind and witless, willed it otherwise:<br />God +willed it thus. When prescience came of death<br />I said, “My +Resurrection place I choose” -<br />O fool, for ne’er since +boyhood choice was mine<br />Save choice to subject will of mine to +God -<br />“At great Ardmacha.” Thitherward I turned;<br />But +in my pathway, with forbidding hand,<br />Victor, God’s angel +stood. “Not so,” he said,<br />“For in Ardmacha +stands thy princedom fixed,<br />Age after age, thy teaching, and thy +law,<br />But not thy grave. Return thou to that shore<br />Thy +place of small beginnings, and thereon<br />Lessen in body and mind, +and grow in spirit:<br />Then sing to God thy little hymn and die.”</p> +<p>Yea, Lord, my mouth would praise Thee ere I die,<br />The Father, +and the Son, and Holy Spirit<br />Who knittest in His Church the just +to Christ:<br />Help me, my sons - mine orphans soon to be -<br />Help +me to praise Him; ye that round me sit<br />On those grey rocks; ye +that have faithful been,<br />Honouring, despite dishonour of my sins,<br />His +servant: I would praise Him yet once more,<br />Though mine the stammerer’s +voice, or as a child’s;<br />For it is written, “Stammerers +shall speak plain<br />Sounding Thy Gospel.” “They +whom Christ hath sent<br />Are Christ’s Epistle, borne to ends +of earth,<br />Writ by His Spirit, and plain to souls elect:”<br />Lord, +am not I of Thine Apostolate?</p> +<p>Yea, by abjection Thine, by suffering Thine!<br />Till I was humbled +I was as a stone<br />In deep mire sunk. Then, stretched from +heaven, Thy hand<br />Slid under me in might, and lifted me,<br />And +fixed me in Thy Temple where Thou wouldst.<br />Wonder, ye great ones, +wonder, ye the wise!<br />On me, the last and least, this charge was +laid<br />This crown, that I in humbleness and truth<br />Should walk +this nation’s Servant till I die.</p> +<p>Therefore, a youth of sixteen years, or less,<br />With others of +my land by pirates seized<br />I stood on Erin’s shore. +Our bonds were just;<br />Our God we had forsaken, and His Law,<br />And +mocked His priests. Tending a stern man’s swine<br />I trod +those Dalaraida hills that face<br />Eastward to Alba. Six long +years went by;<br />But - sent from God - Memory, and Faith, and Fear<br />Moved +on my spirit as winds upon the sea,<br />And the Spirit of Prayer came +down. Full many a day<br />Climbing the mountain tops, one hundred +times<br />I flung upon the storm my cry to God.<br />Nor frost, nor +rain might harm me, for His love<br />Burned in my heart. Through +love I made my fast;<br />And in my fasts one night I heard this voice,<br />“Thou +fastest well: soon shalt thou see thy Land.”<br />Later, once +more thus spake it: “Southward fly,<br />Thy ship awaits thee.” +Many a day I fled,<br />And found the black ship dropping down the tide,<br />And +entered with those Gentiles by Thy grace<br />Vanquished, though first +they spurned me, and was free.<br />It was Thy leading, Lord; the Hand +was Thine!<br />For now when, perils past, I walked secure,<br />Kind +greetings round me, and the Christian Rite,<br />There rose a clamorous +yearning in my heart,<br />And memories of that land so far, so fair,<br />And +lost in such a gloom. And through that gloom<br />The eyes of +little children shone on me,<br />So ready to believe! Such children +oft<br />Ran by me naked in and out the waves,<br />Or danced in circles +upon Erin’s shores,<br />Like creatures never fallen! Thought +of such<br />Passed into thought of others. From my youth<br />Both +men and women, maidens most, to me<br />As children seemed; and O the +pity then<br />To mark how oft they wept, how seldom knew<br />Whence +came the wound that galled them! As I walked,<br />Each wind that +passed me whispered, “Lo, that race<br />Which trod thee down! +Requite with good their ill!<br />Thou know’st their tongue; old +man to thee, and youth,<br />For counsel came, and lambs would lick +thy foot;<br />And now the whole land is a sheep astray<br />That bleats +to God.”</p> +<p> Alone +one night I mused,<br />Burthened with thought of that vocation vast.<br />O’er-spent +I sank asleep. In visions then,<br />Satan my soul plagued with +temptation dire.<br />Methought, beneath a cliff I lay, and lo!<br />Thick-legioned +demons o’er me dragged a rock,<br />That falling, seemed a mountain. +Near, more near,<br />O’er me it blackened. Sudden from +my heart<br />This thought leaped forth: “Elias! Him invoke!”<br />That +name invoked, vanished the rock; and I,<br />On mountains stood watching +the rising sun,<br />As stood Elias once on Carmel’s crest,<br />Gazing +on heaven unbarred, and that white cloud,<br />A thirsting land’s +salvation.</p> +<p> Might +Divine!<br />Thou taught’st me thus my weakness; and I vowed<br />To +seek Thy strength. I turned my face to Tours,<br />There where +in years gone by Thy soldier-priest<br />Martin had ruled, my kinsman +in the flesh.<br />Dead was the lion; but his lair was warm:<br />In +it I laid me, and a conquering glow<br />Rushed up into my heart. +I heard discourse<br />Of Martin still, his valour in the Lord,<br />His +rugged warrior zeal, his passionate love<br />For Hilary, his vigils, +and his fasts,<br />And all his pitiless warfare on the Powers<br />Of +darkness; and one day, in secrecy,<br />With Ninian, missioned then +to Alba’s shore,<br />I peered into his branch-enwoven cell,<br />Half-way +between the river and the rocks,<br />From Tours a mile and more.</p> +<p> So +passed eight years<br />Till strengthened was my heart by discipline:<br />Then +spake a priest, “Brother, thy will is good,<br />Yet rude thou +art of learning as a beast;<br />Fare thee to great Germanus of Auxerres,<br />Who +lightens half the West!” I heard, and went,<br />And to +that Saint was subject fourteen years.<br />He from my mind removed +the veil; “Lift up,”<br />He said, “thine eyes!” +and like a mountain land<br />The Queenly Science stood before me plain,<br />From +rocky buttress up to peak of snow:<br />The great Commandments first, +Edicts, and Laws<br />That bastion up man’s life: - then high +o’er these<br />The forest huge of Doctrine, one, yet many,<br />Forth +stretching in innumerable aisles,<br />At the end of each, the self-same +glittering star: -<br />Lastly, the Life God-hidden. Day by day,<br />With +him for guide, that first and second realm<br />I tracked, and learned +to shun the abyss flower-veiled,<br />And scale heaven-threatening heights. +This, too, he taught,<br />Himself long time a ruler and a prince,<br />The +regimen of States from chaos won<br />To order, and to Christ. +Prudence I learned,<br />And sageness in the government of men,<br />By +me sore needed soon. O stately man,<br />In all things great, +in action and in thought,<br />And plain as great! To Britain +called, the Saint<br />Trod down that great Pelagian Blasphemy,<br />Chief +portent of the age. But better far<br />He loved his cell. +There sat he vigil-worn,<br />In cowl and dusky tunic hued like earth<br />Whence +issued man and unto which returns;<br />I marvelled at his wrinkled +brows, and hands<br />Still tracing, enter or depart who would,<br />From +morn to night his parchments.</p> +<p> There, +once more,<br />O God, Thine eye was on me, or my hand<br />Once more +had missed the prize. Temptation now<br />Whispered in softness, +“Wisdom’s home is here:<br />Here bide untroubled.” +Almost I had fallen;<br />But, by my side, in visions of the night,<br />God’s +angel, Victor, stood as one that hastes,<br />On travel sped. +Unnumbered missives lay<br />Clasped in his hands. One stretched +he forth, inscribed<br />“The wail of Erin’s Children.” +As I read<br />The cry of babes, from Erin’s western coast<br />And +Fochlut’s forest, and the wintry sea,<br />Shrilled o’er +me, clamouring, “Holy youth, return!<br />Walk then among us!” +I could read no more.</p> +<p> Thenceforth rose up renewed mine old desire:<br />My +kinsfolk mocked me. “What! past woes too scant!<br />Slave +of four masters, and the best a churl!<br />Thy Gospel they will trample +under foot,<br />And rend thee! Late to them Palladius preached:<br />They +drave him as a leper from their shores.”<br />I stood in agony +of staggering mind<br />And warring wills. Then, lo! at dead of +night<br />I heard a mystic voice, till then unheard,<br />I knew not +if within me or close by<br />That swelled in passionate pleading; nor +the words<br />Grasped I, so great they seemed and wonderful,<br />Till +sank that tempest to a whisper: - “He<br />Who died for thee is +He that in thee groans.”<br />Then fell, methought, scales from +mine inner eyes:<br />Then saw I - terrible that sight, yet sweet -<br />Within +me saw a Man that in me prayed<br />With groans unutterable. That +Man was girt<br />For mission far. My heart recalled that word,<br />“The +Spirit helpeth our infirmities;<br />That which we lack we know not, +but the Spirit<br />Himself for us doth intercession make<br />With +groanings which may never be revealed.”<br />That hour my vow +was vowed; and he approved,<br />My master and my guide. “But +go,” he said,<br />“First to that island in the Tyrrhene +Sea,<br />Where live the high Contemplatives to God:<br />There learn +perfection; there that Inner Life<br />Win thou, God’s strength +amid the world’s loud storm:<br />Nor fear lest God should frown +on such delay,<br />For Heavenly Wisdom is compassionate:<br />Slowly +before man’s weakness moves it on;<br />Softly: so moved of old +the Wise Men’s Star,<br />Which curbed its lightning ardours and +forbore<br />Honouring the pensive tread of hoary Eld,<br />Honouring +the burthened slave, the camel line<br />Long-linked, with level head +and foot that fell<br />As though in sleep, printing the silent sands.”<br />Thus, +smiling, spake Germanus, large in lore.</p> +<p>So in that island-Eden I sojourned,<br />Lerins, and saw where Vincent +lived, and his,<br />Life fountained from on high. That life was +Love;<br />For all their mighty knowledge food became<br />Of Love Divine, +and took, by Love absorbed,<br />Shape from his flame-like body. +Hard their beds;<br />Ceaseless their prayers. They tilled a sterile +soil;<br />Beneath their hands it blossomed like the rose:<br />O’er +thymy hollows blew the nectared airs;<br />Blue ocean flashed through +olives. They had fled<br />From praise of men; yet cities far +away<br />Rapt those meek saints to fill the bishop’s throne.<br />I +saw the light of God on faces calm<br />That blended with man’s +meditative might<br />Simplicity of childhood, and, with both<br />The +sweetness of that flower-like sex which wears<br />Through love’s +Obedience twofold crowns of Love.<br />O blissful time! In that +bright island bloomed<br />The third high region on the Hills of God,<br />Above +the rock, above the wood, the cloud: -<br />There laughs the luminous +air, there bursts anew<br />Spring bud in summer on suspended lawns;<br />There +the bell tinkles while once more the lamb<br />Trips by the sun-fed +runnel: there green vales<br />Lie lost in purple heavens.</p> +<p> Transfigured +Life!<br />This was thy glory, that, without a sigh,<br />Who loved +thee yet could leave thee! Thus it fell:<br />One morning I was +on the sea, and lo!<br />An isle to Lerins near, but fairer yet,<br />Till +then unseen! A grassy vale sea-lulled<br />Wound inward, breathing +balm, with fruited trees,<br />And stream through lilies gliding. +By a door<br />There stood a man in prime, and others sat<br />Not far, +some grey; and one, a weed of years,<br />Lay like a withered wreath. +An old man spake:<br />“See what thou seest, and scan the mystery +well!<br />The man who stands so stately in his prime<br />Is of this +company the eldest born.<br />The Saviour in His earthly sojourn, Risen,<br />Perchance, +or ere His Passion, who can tell,<br />Stood up at this man’s +door; and this man rose,<br />And let Him in, and made for Him a feast;<br />And +Jesus said, ‘Tarry, till I return.’<br />Moreover, others +are there on this isle,<br />Both men and maids, who saw the Son of +Man,<br />And took Him in, and shine in endless youth;<br />But we, +the rest, in course of nature fade,<br />For we believe, yet saw not +God, nor touched.”<br />Then spake I, “Here till death my +home I make,<br />Where Jesus trod.” And answered he in +prime,<br />“Not so; the Master hath for thee thy task.<br />Parting, +thus spake He: ‘Here for Mine Elect<br />Abide thou. Bid +him bear this crozier staff;<br />My blessing rests thereon: the same +shall drive<br />The foes of God before him.’” Answer +thus<br />I made, “That crozier staff I will not touch<br />Until +I take it from that nail-pierced Hand.”<br />From these I turned, +and clomb a mountain high,<br />Hermon by name; and there - was this, +my God,<br />In visions of the Lord, or in the flesh? -<br />I spake +with Him, the Lord of Life, Who died;<br />He from the glory stretched +the Hand nail-pierced,<br />And placed in mine that crozier staff, and +said:<br />“Upon that day when they that with Me walked<br />Sit +with Me on their everlasting Thrones,<br />Judging the Twelve Tribes +of Mine Israel,<br />Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness.”</p> +<p>Forthwith to Rome I fled; there knelt I down<br />Above the bones +of Peter and of Paul,<br />And saw the mitred embassies from far,<br />And +saw Celestine with his head high held<br />As though it bore the Blessed +Sacrament;<br />Chief Shepherd of the Saviour’s flock on earth.<br />Tall +was the man, and swift; white-haired; with eye<br />Starlike and voice +a trumpet clear that pealed<br />God’s Benediction o’er +the city and globe;<br />Yea, and whene’er his palm he lifted, +still<br />Blessing before it ran. Upon my head<br />He laid both +hands, and “Win,” he said, “to Christ<br />One realm +the more!” Moreover, to my charge<br />Relics he gave, unnumbered, +without price;<br />And when those relics lost had been, and found,<br />And +at his feet I wept, he chided not;<br />But, smiling, said, “Thy +glorious task fulfilled,<br />House them in thy new country’s +stateliest church<br />By cresset girt of ever-burning lamps,<br />And +never-ceasing anthems.”</p> +<p> Northward +then<br />Returned I, missioned. Yet once more, but once,<br />That +old temptation proved me. When they sat,<br />The Elders, making +inquest of my life,<br />Sudden a certain brother rose, and spake,<br />“Shall +this man be a Bishop, who hath sinned?”<br />My dearest friend +was he. To him alone<br />One time had I divulged a sin by me<br />Through +ignorance wrought when fifteen years of age;<br />And after thirty years, +behold, once more,<br />That sin had found me out! He knew my +mission:<br />When in mine absence slander sought my name,<br />Mine +honour he had cleared. Yet now - yet now -<br />That hour the +iron passed into my soul:<br />Yea, well nigh all was lost. I +wept, “Not one,<br />No heart of man there is that knows my heart,<br />Or +in its anguish shares.”</p> +<p> Yet, +O my God!<br />I blame him not: from Thee that penance came:<br />Not +for man’s love should Thine Apostle strive,<br />Thyself alone +his great and sole reward.<br />Thou laid’st that hour a fiery +hand of love<br />Upon a faithless heart; and it survived.</p> +<p>At dead of night a Vision gave me peace.<br />Slowly from out the +breast of darkness shone<br />Strange characters, a writing unrevealed:<br />And +slowly thence and infinitely sad,<br />A Voice: “Ill-pleased, +this day have we beheld<br />The face of the Elect without a name.”<br />It +said not, “Thou hast grieved,” but “We have grieved;”<br />With +import plain, “O thou of little faith!<br />Am I not nearer to +thee than thy friends?<br />Am I not inlier with thee than thyself?”<br />Then +I remembered, “He that touches you<br />Doth touch the very apple +of mine eye.”<br />Serene I slept. At morn I rose and ran<br />Down +to the shore, and found a boat, and sailed.</p> +<p>That hour true life’s beginning was, O Lord,<br />Because the +work Thou gav’st into my hands<br />Prospered between them. +Yea, and from the work<br />The Power forth issued. Strength in +me was none,<br />Nor insight, till the occasion: then Thy sword<br />Flamed +in my grasp, and beams were in mine eyes<br />That showed the way before +me, and nought else.<br />Thou mad’st me know Thy Will. +As taper’s light<br />Veers with a wind man feels not, o’er +my heart<br />Hovered thenceforth some Pentecostal flame<br />That bent +before that Will. Thy Truth, not mine,<br />Lightened this People’s +mind; Thy Love inflamed<br />Their hearts; Thy Hope upbore them as on +wings.<br />Valiant that race, and simple, and to them<br />Not hard +the godlike venture of belief:<br />Conscience was theirs: tortuous +too oft in life<br />Their thoughts, when passionate most, then most +were true,<br />Heart-true. With naked hand firmly they clasped<br />The +naked Truth: in them Belief was Act.<br />A tribe from Thy far East +they called themselves:<br />Their clans were Patriarch households, +rude through war:<br />Old Pagan Rome had known them not; their Isle<br />Virgin +to Christ had come. Oh how unlike<br />Her sons to those old Roman +Senators,<br />Scorn of Germanus oft, who breathed the air<br />Fouled +by dead Faiths successively blown out,<br />Or Grecian sophist with +his world of words,<br />That, knowing all, knew nothing! Praise +to Thee,<br />Lord of the night-time as the day, Who keep’st<br />Reserved +in blind barbaric innocence,<br />Pure breed, when boastful lights corrupt +the wise,<br />With healthier fruit to bless a later age.</p> +<p> I to that people all things made myself<br />For Christ’s +sake, building still that good they lacked<br />On good already theirs. +In courts of kings<br />I stood: before mine eye their eye went down,<br />For +Thou wert with me. Gentle with the meek,<br />I suffered not the +proud to mock my face:<br />Thus by the anchors twain of Love and Fear,<br />Since +Love, not perfected, gains strength from Fear,<br />I bound to thee +This nation. Parables<br />I spake in; parables in act I wrought<br />Because +the people’s mind was in the sense.<br />At Imbher Dea they scoffed +Thy word: I raised<br />Thy staff, and smote with barrenness that flood:<br />Then +learned they that the world was Thine, not ruled<br />By Sun or Moon, +their famed “God-Elements:”<br />Yea, like Thy Fig-tree +cursed, that river banned<br />Witnessed Thy Love’s stern pureness. +From the grass<br />The little three-leaved herb, I stooped and plucked,<br />And +preached the Trinity. Thy Staff I raised,<br />And bade - not +ravening beast - but reptiles foul<br />Flee to the abyss like that +blind herd of old;<br />Then spake I: “Be not babes, but understand:<br />Thus +in your spirit lift the Cross of Christ:<br />Banish base lusts; so +God shall with you walk<br />As once with man in Eden.” +With like aim<br />Convents I reared for holy maids, then sought<br />The +marriage feast, and cried, “If God thus draws<br />Close to Himself +those virgin hearts, and yet<br />Blesses the bridal troth, and infant’s +font,<br />How white a thing should be the Christian home!”<br />Marvelling, +they learned what heritage their God<br />Possessed in them! how wide +a realm, how fair.</p> +<p>Lord, save in one thing only, I was weak -<br />I loved this people +with a mother’s love,<br />For their sake sanctified my spirit +to thee<br />In vigil, fast, and meditation long,<br />On mountain and +on moor. Thus, Lord, I wrought,<br />Trusting that so Thy lineaments +divine,<br />Deeplier upon my spirit graved, might pass<br />Thence +on that hidden burthen which my heart<br />Still from its substance +feeding, with great pangs<br />Strove to bring forth to Thee. +O loyal race!<br />Me too they loved. They waited me all night<br />On +lonely roads; and, as I preached, the day<br />To those high listeners +seemed a little hour.<br />Have I not seen ten thousand brows at once<br />Flash +in the broad light of some Truth new risen,<br />And felt like him, +that Saint who cried, flame-girt,<br />“At last do I begin to +be a Christian?”<br />Have I not seen old foes embrace? +Seen him,<br />That white-haired man who dashed him on the ground,<br />Crying +aloud, “My buried son, forgive!<br />Thy sire hath touched the +hand that shed thy blood?”<br />Fierce chiefs knelt down in penance! +Lord! how oft<br />Shook I their tear-drop sparkles from my gown!<br />’Twas +the forgiveness taught them all the debt,<br />Great-hearted penitents! +How many a youth<br />Contemned the praise of men! How many a +maid -<br />O not in narrowness, but Love’s sweet pride<br />And +love-born shyness - jealous for a mate<br />Himself not jealous - spurned +terrestrial love,<br />Glorying in heavenly Love’s fair oneness! +Race<br />High-dowered! God’s Truth seemed some remembered +thing<br />To them; God’s Kingdom smiled, their native haunt<br />Prophesied +then their daughters and their sons:<br />Each man before the face of +each upraised<br />His hand on high, and said, “The Lord hath +risen!”<br />Then, like a stream from ice released, forth fled<br />And +wafted far the tidings, flung them wide,<br />Shouted them loud from +rocky ridge o’er bands<br />Marching far down to war! The +sower sowed<br />With happier hope; the reaper bending sang,<br />“Thus +shall God’s Angels reap the field of God<br />When we are ripe +for heaven.” Lovers new-wed<br />Drank of that water changed +to wine, thenceforth<br />Breathing on earth heaven’s sweetness. +Unto such<br />More late, whate’er of brightness time or will<br />Infirm +had dimmed, shone back from infant brows<br />By baptism lit. +Each age its garland found:<br />Fair shone on trustful childhood faith +divine:<br />Eld, once a weight of wrinkles now upsoared<br />In venerable +lordship of white hairs,<br />Seer-like and sage. Healed was a +nation’s wound:<br />All men believed who willed not disbelief;<br />And +sat in that oppugnancy steel-mailed:<br />They cried, “Before +thy priests our bards shall bow,<br />And all our clans put on thy great +Clan Christ!”</p> +<p> For your sake, O my brethren, and my sons<br />These +things have I recorded. Something I wrought:<br />Strive ye in +loftier labours; strive, and win:<br />Your victory shall be mine: my +crown are ye.<br />My part is ended now. I lived for Truth:<br />I +to this people gave that truth I knew;<br />My witnesses ye are I grudged +it not:<br />Freely did I receive, freely I gave;<br />Baptising, or +confirming, or ordaining,<br />I sold not things divine. Of mine +own store<br />Ofttimes the hire of fifteen men I paid<br />For guard +where bandits lurked. When prince or chief<br />Laid on God’s +altar ring, or torque, or gold,<br />I sent them back. Too fortunate, +too beloved,<br />I said, “Can he Apostle be who bears<br />Such +scanty marks of Christ’s Apostolate,<br />Hunger, and thirst, +and scorn of men?” For this,<br />Those pains they spared +I spared not to myself,<br />The body’s daily death. I make +not boast:<br />What boast have I? If God His servant raised,<br />He +knoweth - not ye - how oft I fell; how low;<br />How oft in faithless +longings yearned my heart<br />For faces of His Saints in mine own land,<br />Remembered +fields far off. This, too, He knoweth,<br />How perilous is the +path of great attempts,<br />How oft pride meets us on the storm-vexed +height,<br />Pride, or some sting its scourge. My hope is He:<br />His +hand, my help so long, will loose me never:<br />And, thanks to God, +the sheltering grave is near.</p> +<p> How still this eve! The morn was racked with storm:<br />’Tis +past; the skylark sings; the tide at flood<br />Sighs a soft joy: alone +those lines of weed<br />Report the wrath foregone. Yon watery +plain<br />Far shines, a mingled sea of glass and fire,<br />Even as +that Beatific Sea outspread<br />Before the Throne of God. ’Tis +Paschal Tide; -<br />O sorrowful, O blissful Paschal Tide!<br />Fain +would I die on Holy Saturday;<br />For then, as now, the storm is past +- the woe;<br />And, somewhere ’mid the shades of Olivet<br />Lies +sealed the sacred cave of that Repose<br />Watched by the Holy Women. +Earth, that sing’st,<br />Since first He made thee, thy Creator’s +praise,<br />Sing, sing, thy Saviour’s! Myriad-minded sea,<br />How +that bright secret thrills thy rippling lips<br />Which shake, yet speak +not! Thou that mad’st the worlds,<br />Man, too, Thou mad’st; +within Thy Hands the life<br />Of each was shapen, and new-wov’n +ran out,<br />New-willed each moment. What makes up that life?<br />Love +infinite, and nothing else save love!<br />Help ere need came, deliverance +ere defeat;<br />At every step an angel to sustain us,<br />An angel +to retrieve! My years are gone:<br />Sweet were they with a sweetness +felt but half<br />Till now; - not half discerned. Those blessèd +years<br />I would re-live, deferring thus so long<br />The Vision of +Thy Face, if thus with gaze<br />Cast backward I might <i>see</i> that +guiding hand<br />Step after step, and kiss it.</p> +<p> Happy +isle!<br />Be true; for God hath graved on thee His Name:<br />God, +with a wondrous ring, hath wedded thee;<br />God on a throne divine +hath ’stablished thee: -<br />Light of a darkling world! +Lamp of the North!<br />My race, my realm, my great inheritance,<br />To +lesser nations leave inferior crowns;<br />Speak ye the thing that is; +be just, be kind;<br />Live ye God’s Truth, and in its strength +be free!</p> +<p>This day to Him, the Faithful and the True,<br />For Whom I toiled, +my spirit I commend.<br />That which I am, He knoweth: I know not now:<br />But +I shall know ere long. If I have loved Him<br />I seek but this +for guerdon of my love<br />With holier love to love Him to the end:<br />If +I have vanquished others to His love<br />Would God that this might +be their meed and mine<br />In witness for His love to pour our blood<br />A +glad stream forth, though vultures or wild beasts<br />Rent our unburied +bones! Thou setting sun,<br />That sink’st to rise, that +time shall come at last<br />When in thy splendours thou shalt rise +no more;<br />And, darkening with the darkening of thy face,<br />Who +worshipped thee with thee shall cease; but those<br />Who worshipped +Christ shall shine with Christ abroad,<br />Eternal beam, and Sun of +Righteousness,<br />In endless glory. For His sake alone<br />I, +bondsman in this land, re-sought this land.<br />All ye who name my +name in later times,<br />Say to this People, since vindictive rage<br />Tempts +them too often, that their Patriarch gave<br />Pattern of pardon ere +in words he preached<br />That God who pardons. Wrongs if they +endure<br />In after years, with fire of pardoning love<br />Sin-slaying, +bid them crown the head that erred:<br />For bread denied let them give +Sacraments,<br />For darkness light, and for the House of Bondage<br />The +glorious freedom of the sons of God:<br />This is my last Confession +ere I die.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>NOTES.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p><a name="footnote10a"></a><a href="#citation10a">{10a}</a> Cotton +MSS., Nero, E.’; Codex Salisburiensis; and a MS. in the Monastery +of St. Vaast.</p> +<p><a name="footnote10b"></a><a href="#citation10b">{10b}</a> The Book +of Armagh, preserved at Trinity College, Dublin, contains a Life of +St. Patrick, with his writings, and consists in chief part of a description +of all the books of the New Testament, including the Epistle of Paul +to the Laodiceans. Traces found here and there of the name of +the copyist and of the archbishop for whom the copy was made, fix its +date almost to a year as 807 or 811-812.</p> +<p><a name="footnote77"></a><a href="#citation77">{77}</a> The Isle +of Man.</p> +<p><a name="footnote101"></a><a href="#citation101">{101}</a> Now Limerick.</p> +<p><a name="footnote111"></a><a href="#citation111">{111}</a> Foynes.</p> +<p><a name="footnote116"></a><a href="#citation116">{116}</a> The Giant’s +Causeway.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK ***</p> +<pre> + +******This file should be named lgsp10h.htm or lgsp10h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, lgsp11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, lgsp10ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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