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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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