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diff --git a/old/lgsp10h.htm b/old/lgsp10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0ded784 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/lgsp10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4709 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Legends of Saint Patrick</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Legends of Saint Patrick, by Aubrey de Vere</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Legends of Saint Patrick, by Aubrey de Vere + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Legends of Saint Patrick + +Author: Aubrey de Vere + +Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7165] +[This file was first posted on March 18, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>This etext was prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK BY<br />AUBREY DE VERE, LL.D.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>CONTENTS.</p> +<p>INTRODUCTION BY HENRY MORLEY.</p> +<p>SAINT PATRICK - FROM “ENGLISH WRITERS,” BY HENRY MORLEY.</p> +<p>PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR.</p> +<p>POEMS: -<br />THE BAPTISM OF SAINT PATRICK.<br />THE DISBELIEF OF +MILCHO.<br />SAINT PATRICK AT TARA.<br />SAINT PATRICK AND THE TWO PRINCESSES.<br />SAINT +PATRICK AND THE CHILDREN OF FOCHLUT WOOD.<br />SAINT PATRICK AND KING +LAEGHAIRE.<br />SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR.<br />SAINT PATRICK AT +CASHEL.<br />SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDLESS MOTHER.<br />SAINT PATRICK +AT THE FEAST OF KNOCK CAE.<br />SAINT PATRICK AND KING EOCHAID.<br />SAINT +PATRICK AND THE FOUNDING OF ARMAGH CATHEDRAL.<br />THE ARRAIGNMENT OF +SAINT PATRICK.<br />THE STRIVING OF SAINT PATRICK ON MOUNT CRUACHAN.<br />EPILOGUE. +THE CONFESSION OF SAINT PATRICK.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>INTRODUCTION BY HENRY MORLEY.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>The gift of genius passed from Sir Aubrey to his third son, Aubrey +Thomas de Vere, who was born in 1814, and through a long life has put +into music only noble thoughts associated with the love of God and man, +and of his native land. His first work, published forty-seven +years ago, was a lyrical piece, in which he gave his sympathy to devout +and persecuted men whose ways of thought were not his own. Aubrey +de Vere’s poems have been from time to time revised by himself, +and they were in 1884 finally collected into three volumes, published +by Messrs. Kegan Paul. Left free to choose from among their various +contents, I have taken this little book of “Legends of St. Patrick,” +first published in 1872, but in so doing I have unwillingly left many +a piece that would please many a reader.</p> +<p>They are not, however, inaccessible. Of the three volumes of +collected works, each may be had separately, and is complete in itself. +The first contains “The Search after Proserpine, and other Poems +- Classical and Meditative.” The second contains the “Legends +of St. Patrick, and Legends of Ireland’s Heroic Age,” including +a version of the “Tain Bo.” The third contains two +plays, “Alexander the Great,” “St. Thomas of Canterbury,” +and other Poems.</p> +<p>For the convenience of some readers, the following extract from the +second volume of my “English Writers,” may serve as a prosaic +summary of what is actually known about St. Patrick.<br /> H. +M.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>ST. PATRICK.</p> +<p>FROM “ENGLISH WRITERS.”</p> +<p>The birth of St. Patrick, Apostle and Saint of Ireland, has been +generally placed in the latter half of the fourth century; and he is +said to have died at the age of a hundred and twenty. As he died +in the year 493 - and we may admit that he was then a very old man - +if we may say that he reached the age of eighty-eight, we place his +birth in the year 405. We may reasonably believe, therefore, that +he was born in the early part of the fifth century. His birthplace, +now known as Kilpatrick, was at the junction of the Levin with the Clyde, +in what is now the county of Dumbarton. His baptismal name was +Succath. His father was Calphurnius, a deacon, son of Potitus, +who was a priest. His mother’s name was Conchessa, whose +family may have belonged to Gaul, and who may thus have been, as it +is said she was, of the kindred of St. Martin of Tours; for there is +a tradition that she was with Calphurnius as a slave before he married +her. Since Eusebius spoke of three bishops from Britain at the +Council of Arles, Succath, known afterwards in missionary life by his +name in religion, Patricius (<i>pater civium</i>), might very reasonably +be a deacon’s son.</p> +<p>In his early years Succath was at home by the Clyde, and he speaks +of himself as not having been obedient to the teaching of the clergy. +When he was sixteen years old he, with two of his sisters and other +of his countrymen, was seized by a band of Irish pirates that made descent +on the shore of the Clyde and carried him off to slavery. His +sisters were taken to another part of the island, and he was sold to +Milcho MacCuboin in the north, whom he served for six or seven years, +so learning to speak the language of the country, while keeping his +master’s sheep by the Mountain of Slieve Miss. Thoughts +of home and of its Christian life made the youth feel the heathenism +that was about him; his exile seemed to him a punishment for boyish +indifference; and during the years when young enthusiasm looks out upon +life with new sense of a man’s power - growing for man’s +work that is to do - Succath became filled with religious zeal.</p> +<p>Three Latin pieces are ascribed to St. Patrick: a “Confession,” +which is in the Book of Armagh, and in three other manuscripts; <a name="citation10a"></a><a href="#footnote10a">{10a}</a> +a letter to Coroticus, and a few “Dieta Patricii,” which +are also in the Book of Armagh. <a name="citation10b"></a><a href="#footnote10b">{10b}</a> +There is no strong reason for questioning the authenticity of the “Confession,” +which is in unpolished Latin, the writer calling himself “indoctus, +rusticissimus, imperitus,” and it is full of a deep religious +feeling. It is concerned rather with the inner than the outer +life, but includes references to the early days of trial by which Succath’s +whole heart was turned to God. He says, “After I came into +Ireland I pastured sheep daily, and prayed many times a day. The +love and fear of God, and faith and spirit, wrought in me more and more, +so that in one day I reached to a hundred prayers, and in the night +almost as many, and stayed in the woods and on the mountains, and was +urged to prayer before the dawn, in snow, in frost, in rain, and took +no harm, nor, I think, was there any sloth in me. And there one +night I heard a voice in a dream saying to me, ‘Thou hast well +fasted; thou shalt go back soon to thine own land;’ and again +after a little while, ‘Behold! thy ship is ready.’” +In all this there is the passionate longing of an ardent mind for home +and Heaven.</p> +<p>At the age of twenty-two Succath fled from his slavery to a vessel +of which the master first refused and finally consented to take him +on board. He and the sailors were then cast by a storm upon a +desert shore of Britain, possibly upon some region laid waste by ravages +from over sea. Having at last made his way back, by a sea passage, +to his home on the Clyde, Succath was after a time captured again, but +remained captive only for two months, and went back home. Then +the zeal for his Master’s service made him feel like the Seafarer +in the Anglo-Saxon poem; and all the traditions of his home would have +accorded with the rise of the resolve to cross the sea, and to spread +Christ’s teaching in what had been the land of his captivity.</p> +<p>There were already centres of Christian work in Ireland, where devoted +men were labouring and drew a few into their fellowship. Succath +aimed at the gathering of all these scattered forces, by a movement +that should carry with it the whole people. He first prepared +himself by giving about four years to study of the Scriptures at Auxerre, +under Germanus, and then went to Rome, under the conduct of a priest, +Segetius, and probably with letters from Germanus to Pope Celestine. +Whether he received his orders from the Pope seems doubtful; but the +evidence is strong that Celestine sent him on his Irish mission. +Succath left Rome, passed through North Italy and Gaul, till he met +on his way two followers of Palladius, Augustinus and Benedictus, who +told him of their master’s failure, and of his death at Fordun. +Succath then obtained consecration from Amathus, a neighbouring bishop, +and as Patricius, went straight to Ireland. He landed near the +town of Wicklow, by the estuary of the River Varty, which had been the +landing-place of Palladius. In that region he was, like Palladius, +opposed; but he made some conversions, and advanced with his work northward +that he might reach the home of his old master, Milcho, and pay him +the purchase-money of his stolen freedom. But Milcho, it is said, +burnt himself and his goods rather than bear the shame of submission +to the growing power of his former slave.</p> +<p>St. Patrick addressed the ruling classes, who could bring with them +their followers, and he joined tact with his zeal; respecting ancient +prejudices, opposing nothing that was not directly hostile to the spirit +of Christianity, and handling skilfully the chiefs with whom he had +to deal. An early convert - Dichu MacTrighim - was a chief with +influential connections, who gave the ground for the religious house +now known as Saul. This chief satisfied so well the inquiries +of Laeghaire, son of Niall, King of Erin, concerning the stranger’s +movements, that St. Patrick took ship for the mouth of the Boyne, and +made his way straight to the king himself. The result of his energy +was that he met successfully all the opposition of those who were concerned +in the maintenance of old heathen worship, and brought King Laeghaire +to his side.</p> +<p>Then Laeghaire resolved that the old laws of the country as established +by the judges, whose order was named Brehon, should be revised, and +brought into accord with the new teaching. So the Brehon laws +of Ireland were revised, with St. Patrick’s assistance, and there +were no ancient customs broken or altered, except those that could not +be harmonised with Christian teaching. The good sense of St. Patrick +enabled this great work to be done without offence to the people. +The collection of laws thus made by the chief lawyers of the time, with +the assistance of St. Patrick, is known as the “Senchus Mor,” +and, says an old poem -</p> +<p> “Laeghaire, Corc Dairi, the brave;<br /> Patrick, +Beuen, Cairnech, the just;<br /> Rossa, +Dubtach, Fergus, the wise;<br /> These +are the nine pillars of the Senchus Mor.”</p> +<p>This body of laws, traditions, and treatises on law is found in no +manuscript of a date earlier than the fourteenth century. It includes, +therefore, much that is of later date than the fifth century.</p> +<p>St. Patrick’s greatest energies are said to have been put forth +in Ulster and Leinster. Among the churches or religious communities +founded by him in Ulster was that of Armagh. If he was born about +the year 405, when he was carried to Ireland as a prisoner at the age +of sixteen the date would have been 421. His age would have been +twenty-two when he escaped, after six or seven years of captivity, and +the date 427. A year at home, and four years with Germanus at +Auxerre, would bring him to the age of twenty-seven, and the year 432, +when he began his great endeavour to put Christianity into the main +body of the Irish people. That work filled all the rest of his +life, which was long. If we accept the statement, in which all +the old records agree, that the time of Patrick’s labour in Ireland +was not less than sixty years; sixty years bring him to the age of eighty-eight +in the year 493. And in that year he died.</p> +<p>The “Letter to Coroticus,” ascribed to St. Patrick, is +addressed to a petty king of Brittany who persecuted Christians, and +was meant for the encouragement of Christian soldiers who served under +him. It may, probably, be regarded as authentic. The mass +of legend woven into the life of the great missionary lies outside this +piece and the “Confession.” The “Confession” +only expresses heights and depths of religious feeling haunted by impressions +and dreams, through which, to the fervid nature out of which they sprang +heaven seemed to speak. St. Patrick did not attack heresies among +the Christians; he preached to those who were not Christians the Christian +faith and practice. His great influence was not that of a writer, +but of a speaker. He must have been an orator, profoundly earnest, +who could put his soul into his voice; and, when his words bred deeds, +conquered all difficulties in the way of action with right feeling and +good sense.<br /> HENRY +MORLEY.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p> TO +THE MEMORY<br /> OF<br /> WORDSWORTH.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO “THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK.”</p> +<p>The ancient records of Ireland abound in legends respecting the greatest +man and the greatest benefactor that ever trod her soil; and of these +the earlier are at once the more authentic and the nobler. Not +a few have a character of the sublime; many are pathetic; some have +a profound meaning under a strange disguise; but their predominant character +is their brightness and gladsomeness. A large tract of Irish history +is dark: but the time of Saint Patrick, and the three centuries which +succeeded it, were her time of joy. That chronicle is a song of +gratitude and hope, as befits the story of a nation’s conversion +to Christianity, and in it the bird and the brook blend their carols +with those of angels and of men. It was otherwise with the later +legends connecting Ossian with Saint Patrick. A poet once remarked, +while studying the frescoes of Michael Angelo in the Sistine Chapel, +that the Sibyls are always sad, while the Prophets alternated with them +are joyous. In the legends of the Patrician Cycle the chief-loving +old Bard is ever mournful, for his face is turned to the past glories +of his country; while the Saint is always bright, because his eyes are +set on to the glory that has no end.</p> +<p>These legends are to be found chiefly in several very ancient lives +of Saint Patrick, the most valuable of which is the “Tripartite +Life,” ascribed by Colgan to the century after the Saint’s +death, though it has not escaped later interpolations. The work +was long lost, but two copies of it were re-discovered, one of which +has been recently translated by that eminent Irish scholar, Mr. Hennessy. +Whether regarded from the religious or the philosophic point of view, +few things can be more instructive than the picture which it delineates +of human nature at a period of critical transition, and the dawning +of the Religion of Peace upon a race barbaric, but far indeed from savage. +That wild race regarded it doubtless as a notable cruelty when the new +Faith discouraged an amusement so popular as battle; but in many respects +they were in sympathy with that Faith. It was one in which the +nobler affections, as well as the passions, retained an unblunted ardour; +and where Nature is strongest and least corrupted it most feels the +need of something higher than itself, its interpreter and its supplement. +It prized the family ties, like the Germans recorded by Tacitus; and +it could not but have been drawn to Christianity, which consecrated +them. Its morals were pure, and it had not lost that simplicity +to which so much of spiritual insight belongs. Admiration and +wonder were among its chief habits; and it would not have been repelled +by Mysteries in what professed to belong to the Infinite. Lawless +as it was, it abounded also in loyalty, generosity, and self-sacrifice; +it was not, therefore, untouched by the records of martyrs, examples +of self-sacrifice, or the doctrine of a great Sacrifice. It loved +children and the poor; and Christianity made the former the exemplars +of faith, and the latter the eminent inheritors of the Kingdom. +On the other hand, all the vices of the race ranged themselves against +the new religion.</p> +<p>In the main the institutions and traditions of Ireland were favourable +to Christianity. She had preserved in a large measure the patriarchal +system of the East. Her clans were families, and her chiefs were +patriarchs who led their households to battle, and seized or recovered +the spoil. To such a people the Christian Church announced herself +as a great family - the family of man. Her genealogies went up +to the first parent, and her rule was parental rule. The kingdom +of Christ was the household of Christ; and its children in all lands +formed the tribes of a larger Israel. Its laws were living traditions; +and for traditions the Irish had ever retained the Eastern reverence.</p> +<p>In the Druids no formidable enemy was found; it was the Bards who +wielded the predominant social influence. As in Greece, where +the sacerdotal power was small, the Bards were the priests of the national +Imagination, and round them all moral influences had gathered themselves. +They were jealous of their rivals; but those rivals won them by degrees. +Secknall and Fiacc were Christian Bards, trained by St. Patrick, who +is said to have also brought a bard with him from Italy. The beautiful +legend in which the Saint loosened the tongue of the dumb child was +an apt emblem of Christianity imparting to the Irish race the highest +use of its natural faculties. The Christian clergy turned to account +the Irish traditions, as they had made use of the Pagan temples, purifying +them first. The Christian religion looked with a genuine kindness +on whatever was human, except so far as the stain was on it; and while +it resisted to the face what was unchristian in spirit, it also, in +the Apostolic sense, “made itself all things to all men.” +As legislator, Saint Patrick waged no needless war against the ancient +laws of Ireland. He purified them, and he amplified them, discarding +only what was unfit for a nation made Christian. Thus was produced +the great “Book of the Law,” or “Senchus Mohr,” +compiled A.D. 439.</p> +<p>The Irish received the Gospel gladly. The great and the learned, +in other nations the last to believe, among them commonly set the example. +With the natural disposition of the race an appropriate culture had +concurred. It was one which at least did not fail to develop the +imagination, the affections, and a great part of the moral being, and +which thus indirectly prepared ardent natures, and not less the heroic +than the tender, to seek their rest in spiritual things, rather than +in material or conventional. That culture, without removing the +barbaric, had blended it with the refined. It had created among +the people an appreciation of the beautiful, the pathetic, and the pure. +The early Irish chronicles, as well as songs, show how strong among +them that sentiment had ever been. The Borromean Tribute, for +so many ages the source of relentless wars, had been imposed in vengeance +for an insult offered to a woman; and a discourtesy shown to a poet +had overthrown an ancient dynasty. The education of an Ollambh +occupied twelve years; and in the third century, the time of Oiseen +and Fionn, the military rules of the Feinè included provisions +which the chivalry of later ages might have been proud of. It +was a wild, but not wholly an ungentle time. An unprovoked affront +was regarded as a grave moral offence; and severe punishments were ordained, +not only for detraction, but for a word, though uttered in jest, which +brought a blush on the cheek of a listener. Yet an injury a hundred +years old could meet no forgiveness, and the life of man was war! +It was not that laws were wanting; a code, minute in its justice, had +proportioned a penalty to every offence, and specified the <i>Eric</i> +which was to wipe out the bloodstain in case the injured party renounced +his claim to right his own wrong. It was not that hearts were +hard - there was at least as much pity for others as for self. +It was that anger was implacable, and that where fear was unknown, the +war field was what among us the hunting field is.</p> +<p>The rapid growth of learning as well as piety in the three centuries +succeeding the conversion of Ireland, prove that the country had not +been till then without a preparation for the gift. It had been +the special skill of Saint Patrick to build the good which was lacked +upon that which existed. Even the material arts of Ireland he +had pressed into the service of the Faith; and Irish craftsmen had assisted +him, not only in the building of his churches, but in casting his church +bells, and in the adornment of his chalices, crosiers, and ecclesiastical +vestments. Once elevated by Christianity, Ireland’s early +civilisation was a memorable thing. It sheltered a high virtue +at home, and evangelised a great part of Northern Europe; and amidst +many confusions it held its own till the true time of barbarism had +set in - those two disastrous centuries when the Danish invasions trod +down the sanctuaries, dispersed the libraries, and laid waste the colleges +to which distant kings had sent their sons.</p> +<p>Perhaps nothing human had so large an influence in the conversion +of the Irish as the personal character of her Apostle. Where others, +as Palladius, had failed, he succeeded. By nature, by grace, and +by providential training, he had been specially fitted for his task. +We can still see plainly even the finer traits of that character, while +the land of his birth is a matter of dispute, and of his early history +we know little, except that he was of noble birth, that he was carried +to Ireland by pirates at the age of sixteen, and that after five years +of bondage he escaped thence, to return A.D. 432, when about forty-five +years old; belonging thus to that great age of the Church which was +made illustrious by the most eminent of its Fathers, and tasked by the +most critical of its trials. In him a great character had been +built on the foundations of a devout childhood, and of a youth ennobled +by adversity. Everywhere we trace the might and the sweetness +which belonged to it, the versatile mind yet the simple heart, the varying +tact yet the fixed resolve, the large design taking counsel for all, +yet the minute solicitude for each, the fiery zeal yet the genial temper, +the skill in using means yet the reliance on God alone, the readiness +in action with the willingness to wait, the habitual self-possession +yet the outbursts of an inspiration which raised him above himself, +the abiding consciousness of authority - an authority in him, but not +of him - and yet the ever-present humility. Above all, there burned +in him that boundless love, which seems the main constituent of the +Apostolic character. It was love for God; but it was love for +man also, an impassioned love, and a parental compassion. It was +not for the spiritual weal alone of man that he thirsted. Wrong +and injustice to the poor he resented as an injury to God. His +vehement love for the poor is illustrated by his “Epistle to Coroticus,” +reproaching him with his cruelty, as well as by his denunciations of +slavery, which piracy had introduced into parts of Ireland. No +wonder that such a character should have exercised a talismanic power +over the ardent and sensitive race among whom he laboured, a race “easy +to be drawn, but impossible to be driven,” and drawn more by sympathy +than even by benefits. That character can only be understood by +one who studies, and in a right spirit, that account of his life which +he bequeathed to us shortly before its close - the “Confession +of Saint Patrick.” The last poem in this series embodies +its most characteristic portions, including the visions which it records.</p> +<p>The “Tripartite Life” thus ends: - “After these +great miracles, therefore, after resuscitating the dead, after healing +lepers, and the blind, and the deaf, and the lame, and all diseases; +after ordaining bishops, and priests, and deacons, and people of all +orders in the Church; after teaching the men of Erin, and after baptising +them; after founding churches and monasteries; after destroying idols +and images and Druidical arts, the hour of death of Saint Patrick approached. +He received the body of Christ from the Bishop Tassach, according to +the counsel of the Angel Victor. He resigned his spirit afterwards +to Heaven, in the one hundred and twentieth year of his age. His +body is still here in the earth, with honour and reverence. Though +great his honour here, greater honour will be to him in the Day of Judgment, +when judgment will be given on the fruit of his teaching, as of every +great Apostle, in the union of the Apostles and Disciples of Jesus; +in the union of the Nine Orders of Angels, which cannot be surpassed; +in the union of the Divinity and Humanity of the Son of God; in the +union, which is higher than all unions, of the Holy Trinity, Father, +Son, and Holy Ghost.”<br /> A. +DE VERE.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>THE BAPTISM OF ST. PATRICK.</p> +<p>“How can the babe baptiséd be<br /> Where +font is none and water none?”<br />Thus wept the nurse on bended +knee,<br /> And swayed the Infant in the sun.</p> +<p>“The blind priest took that Infant’s hand:<br /> With +that small hand, above the ground<br />He signed the Cross. At +God’s command<br /> A fountain rose with brimming bound.</p> +<p>“In that pure wave from Adam’s sin<br /> The +blind priest cleansed the Babe with awe;<br />Then, reverently, he washed +therein<br /> His old, unseeing face, and saw!</p> +<p>“He saw the earth; he saw the skies,<br /> And that +all-wondrous Child decreed<br />A pagan nation to baptise,<br /> To +give the Gentiles light indeed.”</p> +<p>Thus Secknall sang. Far off and nigh<br /> The clansmen +shouted loud and long;<br />While every mother tossed more high<br /> Her +babe, and glorying joined the song.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>THE DISBELIEF OF MILCHO,<br />OR, SAINT PATRICK’S ONE FAILURE.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Fame of St. Patrick goes ever before him, and men of<br /> goodwill +believe gladly; but Milcho, a mighty merchant,<br /> and +one given wholly to pride and greed, wills to<br /> disbelieve. +St. Patrick sends him greeting and gifts;<br /> but he, discovering +that the prophet welcomed by all<br /> had once been his +slave, hates him the more.<br /> Notwithstanding, he fears +that when that prophet<br /> arrives, he, too, may be forced +to believe, though<br /> against his will. He resolves +to set fire to his<br /> castle and all his wealth, and make +new fortunes in far<br /> lands. The doom of Milcho, +who willed to disbelieve.</i></p> +<p>When now at Imber Dea that precious bark<br />Freighted with Erin’s +future, touched the sands<br />Just where a river, through a woody vale<br />Curving, +with duskier current clave the sea,<br />Patrick, the Island’s +great inheritor,<br />His perilous voyage past, stept forth and knelt<br />And +blessed his God. The peace of those green meads<br />Cradled ’twixt +purple hills and purple deep,<br />Seemed as the peace of heaven. +The sun had set;<br />But still those summits twinned, the “Golden +Spears,”<br />Laughed with his latest beam. The hours went +by:<br />The brethren paced the shore or musing sat,<br />But still +their Patriarch knelt and still gave thanks<br />For all the marvellous +chances of his life<br />Since those his earlier years when, slave new-trapped,<br />He +comforted on hills of Dalaraide<br />His hungry heart with God, and, +cleansed by pain,<br />In exile found the spirit’s native land.<br />Eve +deepened into night, and still he prayed:<br />The clear cold stars +had crowned the azure vault;<br />And, risen at midnight from dark seas, +the moon<br />Had quenched those stars, yet Patrick still prayed on:<br />Till +from the river murmuring in the vale,<br />Far off, and from the morning +airs close by<br />That shook the alders by the river’s mouth,<br />And +from his own deep heart a voice there came,<br />“Ere yet thou +fling’st God’s bounty on this land<br />There is a debt +to cancel. Where is he,<br />Thy five years’ lord that scourged +thee for his swine?<br />Alas that wintry face! Alas that heart<br />Joyless +since earliest youth! To him reveal it!<br />To him declare that +God who Man became<br />To raise man’s fall’n estate, as +though a man,<br />All faculties of man unmerged, undimmed,<br />Had +changed to worm and died the prey of worms,<br />That so the mole might +see!”</p> +<p> Thus +Patrick mused<br />Not ignorant that from low beginnings rise<br />Oftenest +the works of greatness; yet of this<br />Unweeting, that his failure, +one and sole<br />Through all his more than mortal course, even now<br />Before +that low beginning’s threshold lay,<br />Betwixt it and that Promised +Land beyond<br />A bar of scandal stretched. Not otherwise<br />Might +whatsoe’er was mortal in his strength<br />Dying, put on the immortal.</p> +<p> With +the morn<br />Deep sleep descended on him. Waking soon,<br />He +rose a man of might, and in that might<br />Laboured; and God His servant’s +toil revered;<br />And gladly on that coast Erin to Christ<br />Paid +her firstfruits. Three days he preached his Lord:<br />The fourth +embarking, cape succeeding cape<br />They passed, and heard the lowing +herds remote<br />In hollow glens, and smelt the balmy breath<br />Of +gorse on golden hillsides; till at eve,<br />The Imber Domnand reached, +on silver sands<br />Grated their keel. Around them flocked at +dawn<br />Warriors with hunters mixed, and shepherd youths<br />And +maids with lips as red as mountain berries<br />And eyes like sloes, +or keener eyes, dark-fringed<br />And gleaming like the blue-black spear. +They came<br />With milk-pail, and with kid, and kindled fire<br />And +spread the genial board. Upon that shore<br />Full many knelt +and gave themselves to Christ,<br />Strong men, and men at midmost of +their hopes<br />By sickness felled; old chiefs, at life’s dim +close<br />That oft had asked, “Beyond the grave what hope?”<br />Worn +sailors weary of the toilsome seas,<br />And craving rest; they, too, +that sex which wears<br />The blended crowns of Chastity and Love;<br />Wondering, +they hailed the Maiden-Motherhood;<br />And listening children praised +the Babe Divine,<br />And passed Him, each to each.</p> +<p> Ere +long, once more<br />Their sails were spread. Again by grassy +marge<br />They rowed, and sylvan glades. The branching deer<br />Like +flying gleams went by them. Oft the cry<br />Of fighting clans +rang out: but oftener yet<br />Clamour of rural dance, or mart confused<br />With +many-coloured garb and movements swift,<br />Pageant sun-bright: or +on the sands a throng<br />Girdled with circle glad some bard whose +song<br />Shook the wild clan as tempest shakes the woods.<br />Still +north the wanderers sailed: at evening, mists<br />Cumbered the shore +and on them leaned the blast,<br />And fierce rain flashed mingling +with dim-lit sea.<br />All night they toiled; next day at noon they +kenned<br />A seaward stream that shone like golden tress<br />Severed +and random-thrown. That river’s mouth<br />Ere long attained +was all with lilies white<br />As April field with daisies. Entering +there<br />They reached a wood, and disembarked with joy:<br />There, +after thanks to God, silent they sat<br />In thought, and watched the +ripples, dusk yet bright,<br />That lived and died like things that +laughed at time,<br />On gliding ’neath those many-centuried boughs.<br />But, +midmost, Patrick slept. Then through the trees,<br />Shy as a +fawn half-tamed now stole, now fled<br />A boy of such bright aspect +faëry child<br />He seemed, or babe exposed of royal race:<br />At +last assured beside the Saint he stood,<br />And dropped on him a flower, +and disappeared:<br />Thus flower on flower from the great wood he brought<br />And +hid them in the bosom of the Saint.<br />The monks forbade him, saying, +“Lest thou wake<br />The master from his sleep.” But +Patrick woke,<br />And saw the boy, and said, “Forbid him not;<br />The +heir of all my kingdom is this child.”<br />Then spake the brethren, +“Wilt thou walk with us?”<br />And he, “I will:” +and so for his sweet face<br />They called his name Benignus: and the +boy<br />Thenceforth was Christ’s. Beneath his parent’s +roof<br />At night they housed. Nowhere that child would sleep<br />Except +at Patrick’s feet. Till Patrick’s death<br />Unchanged +to him he clave, and after reigned<br />The second at Ardmacha.</p> +<p> Day +by day<br />They held their course; ere long the hills of Mourne<br />Loomed +through sea-mist: Ulidian summits next<br />Before them rose: but nearer +at their left<br />Inland with westward channel wound the wave<br />Changed +to sea-lake. Nine miles with chant and hymn<br />They tracked +the gold path of the sinking sun;<br />Then southward ran ’twixt +headland and green isle<br />And landed. Dewy pastures sunset-dazed,<br />At +leisure paced by mild-eyed milk-white kine<br />Smiled them a welcome. +Onward moved in sight<br />Swiftly, with shadow far before him cast,<br />Dichu, +that region’s lord, a martial man<br />And merry, and a speaker +of the truth.<br />Pirates he deemed them first and toward them faced<br />With +wolf-hounds twain that watched their master’s eye<br />To spring, +or not to spring. The imperious face<br />Forbidding not, they +sprang; but Patrick raised<br />His hand, and stone-like crouched they +chained and still:<br />Then, Dichu onward striding fierce, the Saint<br />Between +them signed the Cross; and lo, the sword<br />Froze in his hand, and +Dichu stood like stone.<br />The amazement past, he prayed the man of +God<br />To grace his house; and, side by side, a mile<br />They clomb +the hills. Ascending, Patrick turned,<br />His heart with prescience +filled. Beneath, there lay<br />A gleaming strait; beyond, a dim +vast plain<br />With many an inlet pierced: a golden marge<br />Girdled +the water-tongues with flag and reed;<br />But, farther off, a gentle +sea-mist changed<br />The fair green flats to purple. “Night +comes on;”<br />Thus Dichu spake, and waited. Patrick then<br />Advanced +once more, and Sabhall soon was reached,<br />A castle half, half barn. +There garnered lay<br />Much grain, and sun-imbrowned: and Patrick said,<br />“Here +where the earthly grain was stored for man<br />The bread of angels +man shall eat one day.”<br />And Patrick loved that place, and +Patrick said,<br />“King Dichu, give thou to the poor that grain,<br />To +Christ, our Lord, thy barn.” The strong man stood<br />In +doubt; but prayers of little orphaned babes<br />Reared by his hand, +went up for him that hour:<br />Therefore that barn he ceded, and to +Christ<br />By Patrick was baptised. Where lay the corn<br />A +convent later rose. There dwelt he oft;<br />And ’neath +its roof more late the stranger sat,<br />Exile, or kingdom-wearied +king, or bard,<br />That haply blind in age, yet tempest-rocked<br />By +memories of departed glories, drew<br />With gradual influx into his +old heart<br />Solace of Christian hope.</p> +<p> With +Dichu bode<br />Patrick somewhile, intent from him to learn<br />The +inmost of that people. Oft they spake<br />Of Milcho. “Once +his thrall, against my will<br />In earthly things I served him: for +his soul<br />Needs therefore must I labour. Hard was he;<br />Unlike +those hearts to which God’s Truth makes way<br />Like message +from a mother in her grave:<br />Yet what I can I must. Not heaven +itself<br />Can force belief; for Faith is still good will.”<br />Dichu +laughed aloud: “Good will! Milcho’s good will<br />Neither +to others, nor himself, good will<br />Hath Milcho! Fireless sits +he, winter through,<br />The logs beside his hearth: and as on them<br />Glimmers +the rime, so glimmers on his face<br />The smile. Convert him! +Better thrice to hang him!<br />Baptise him! He will film your +font with ice!<br />The cold of Milcho’s heart has winter-nipt<br />That +glen he dwells in! From the sea it slopes<br />Unfinished, savage, +like some nightmare dream,<br />Raked by an endless east wind of its +own.<br />On wolf’s milk was he suckled not on woman’s!<br />To +Milcho speed! Of Milcho claim belief!<br />Milcho will shrivel +his small eye and say<br />He scorns to trust himself his father’s +son,<br />Nor deems his lands his own by right of race<br />But clutched +by stress of brain! Old Milcho’s God<br />Is gold. +Forbear him, sir, or ere you seek him<br />Make smooth your way with +gold.”</p> +<p> Thus +Dichu spake;<br />And Patrick, after musings long, replied:<br />“Faith +is no gift that gold begets or feeds,<br />Oftener by gold extinguished. +Unto God,<br />Unbribed, unpurchased, yearns the soul of man;<br />Yet +finds perforce in God its great reward.<br />Not less this Milcho deems +I did him wrong,<br />His slave, yet fleeing. To requite that +loss<br />Gifts will I send him first by messengers<br />Ere yet I see +his face.”</p> +<p> Then +Patrick sent<br />His messengers to Milcho, speaking thus:<br />“If +ill befell thy herds through flight of mine<br />Fourfold that loss +requite I, lest, for hate<br />Of me, thou disesteem my Master’s +Word.<br />Likewise I sue thy friendship; and I come<br />In few days’ +space, with gift of other gold<br />Than earth concedes, the Tidings +of that God<br />Who made all worlds, and late His Face hath shown,<br />Sun-like +to man. But thou, rejoice in hope!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Thus Patrick, once by man advised in part,<br />Though wont to counsel +with his God alone.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Meantime full many a rumour vague had vexed<br />Milcho much musing. +He had dealings large<br />And distant. Died a chief? He +sent and bought<br />The widow’s all; or sold on foodless shores<br />For +usury the leanest of his kine.<br />Meantime, his dark ships and the +populous quays<br />With news still murmured. First from Imber +Dea<br />Came whispers how a sage had landed late,<br />And how when +Nathi fain had barred his way,<br />Nathi that spurned Palladius from +the land,<br />That sage with levelled eyes, and kingly front<br />Had +from his presence driven him with a ban<br />Cur-like and craven; how +on bended knee<br />Sinell believed, the royal man well-loved<br />Descending +from the judgment-seat with joy:<br />And how when fishers spurned his +brethren’s quest<br />For needful food, that sage had raised his +rod,<br />And all the silver harvest of blue streams<br />Lay black +in nets and sand. His wrinkled brow<br />Wrinkling yet more, thus +Milcho answer made:<br />“Deceived are those that will to be deceived:<br />This +knave has heard of gold in river-beds,<br />And comes a deft sand-groper; +let him come!<br />He’ll toil ten years ere gold enough he finds<br />To +make a crooked torque.”</p> +<p> From +Tara next<br />The news: “Laeghaire, the King, sits close in cloud<br />Of +sullen thought, or storms from court to court,<br />Because the chiefest +of the Druid race<br />Locru, and Luchat prophesied long since<br />That +one day from the sea a Priest would come<br />With Doctrine and a Rite, +and dash to earth<br />Idols, and hurl great monarchs from their thrones;<br />And +lo! At Imber Boindi late there stept<br />A priest from roaring +waves with Creed and Rite,<br />And men before him bow.” +Then Milcho spake:<br />“Not flesh enough from thy strong bones, +Laeghaire,<br />These Druids, ravens of the woods, have plucked,<br />But +they must pluck thine eyes! Ah priestly race,<br />I loathe ye! +’Twixt the people and their King<br />Ever ye rub a sore!” +Last came a voice:<br />“This day in Eire thy saying is fulfilled,<br />Conn +of the ‘Hundred Battles,’ from thy throne<br />Leaping long +since, and crying, ‘O’er the sea<br />The Prophet cometh, +princes in his train,<br />Bearing for regal sceptres bended staffs,<br />Which +from the land’s high places, cliff and peak,<br />Shall drag the +fair flowers down!’” Scoffing he heard:<br />“Conn +of the ‘Hundred Battles!’ Had he sent<br />His hundred +thousand kernes to yonder steep<br />And rolled its boulders down, and +built a mole<br />To fence my laden ships from spring-tide surge,<br />Far +kinglier pattern had he shown, and given<br />More solace to the land.”</p> +<p> He +rose and turned<br />With sideway leer; and printing with vague step<br />Irregular +the shining sands, on strode<br />Toward his cold home, alone; and saw +by chance<br />A little bird light-perched, that, being sick,<br />Plucked +from the fissured sea-cliff grains of sand;<br />And, noting, said, +“O bird, when beak of thine<br />From base to crown hath gorged +this huge sea-wall,<br />Then shall that man of Creed and Rite make +null<br />The strong rock of my will!” Thus Milcho spake,<br />Feigning +the peace not his.</p> +<p> Next +day it chanced<br />Women he heard in converse. Thus the first:<br />“If +true the news, good speed for him, my boy!<br />Poor slaves by Milcho +scourged on earth shall wear<br />In heaven a monarch’s crown! +Good speed for her<br />His little sister, not reserved like us<br />To +bend beneath these loads.” To whom her mate:<br />“Doubt +not the Prophet’s tidings! Not in vain<br />The Power Unknown +hath shaped us! Come He must,<br />Or send, and help His people +on their way.<br />Good is He, or He ne’er had made these babes!”<br />They +passed, and Milcho said, “Through hate of me<br />All men believe!” +And straightway Milcho’s face<br />Grew bleaker than that crab-tree +stem forlorn<br />That hid him, wanner than that sea-sand wet<br />That +whitened round his foot down-pressed.</p> +<p> Time +passed.<br />One morn in bitter mockery Milcho mused:<br />“What +better laughter than when thief from thief<br />Pilfers the pilfered +goods? Our Druid thief<br />Two thousand years hath milked and +shorn this land;<br />Now comes the thief outlandish that with him<br />Would +share milk-pail and fleece! O Bacrach old,<br />To hear thee shout +‘Impostor!’” Straight he went<br />To Bacrach’s +cell hid in a skirt wind-shav’n<br />Of low-grown wood, and met, +departing thence,<br />Three sailors sea-tanned from a ship late-beached.<br />Within +a corner huddled, on the floor,<br />The Druid sat, cowering, and cold, +and mazed:<br />Sudden he rose, and cried, by conquering joy<br />Clothed +as with youth restored: “The God Unknown,<br />That God who made +the earth, hath walked the earth!<br />This hour His Prophet treads +the isle! Three men<br />Have seen him; and their speech is true. +To them<br />That Prophet spake: ‘Four hundred years ago,<br />Sinless +God’s Son on earth for sinners died:<br />Black grew the world, +and graves gave up their dead.’<br />Thus spake the Seer. +Four hundred years ago!<br />Mark well the time! Of Ulster’s +Druid race<br />What man but yearly, those four hundred years,<br />Trembled +that tale recounting which with this<br />Tallies as footprint with +the foot of man?<br />Four hundred years ago - that self-same day -<br />Connor, +the son of Nessa, Ulster’s King,<br />Sat throned, and judged +his people. As he sat,<br />Under clear skies, behold, o’er +all the earth<br />Swept a great shadow from the windless east;<br />And +darkness hung upon the air three hours;<br />Dead fell the birds, and +beasts astonied fled.<br />Then to his Chief of Druids, Connor spake<br />Whispering; +and he, his oracles explored,<br />Shivering made answer, ‘From +a land accursed,<br />O King, that shadow sweeps; therein, this hour,<br />By +sinful men sinless God’s Son is slain.’<br />Then Ulster’s +king, down-dashing sceptre and crown,<br />Rose, clamouring, ‘Sinless! +shall the sinless die?’<br />And madness fell on him; and down +that steep<br />He rushed whereon the Emanian Palace stood,<br />And +reached the grove, Lambraidhè, with two swords,<br />The sword +of battle, and the sword of state,<br />And hewed and hewed, crying, +‘Were I but there<br />Thus they should fall who slay that Sinless +One;’<br />And in that madness died. Old Erin’s sons<br />Beheld +this thing; nor ever in the land<br />Hath ceased the rumour, nor the +tear for him<br />Who, wroth at justice trampled, martyr died.<br />And +now we know that not for any dream<br />He died, but for the truth: +and whensoe’er<br />The Prophet of that Son of God who died<br />Sinless +for sinners, standeth in this place,<br />I, Bacrach, oldest Druid in +this Isle,<br />Will rise the first, and kiss his vesture’s hem.”</p> +<p>He spake; and Milcho heard, and without speech<br />Departed from +that house.</p> +<p> A +later day<br />When the wild March sunset, gone almost ere come,<br />By +glacial shower was hustled out of life,<br />Under a blighted ash tree, +near his house,<br />Thus mused the man: “Believe, or Disbelieve!<br />The +will does both; Then idiot who would be<br />For profitless belief to +sell himself?<br />Yet disbelief not less might work our bane!<br />For, +I remember, once a sickly slave<br />Ill shepherded my flock: I spake +him plain;<br />‘When next, through fault of thine, the midnight +wolf<br />Worries my sheep, on yonder tree you hang:’<br />The +blear-eyed idiot looked into my face,<br />And smiled his disbelief. +On that day week<br />Two lambs lay dead. I hanged him on a tree.<br />What +tree? this tree! Why, this is passing strange!<br />For, three +nights since, I saw him in a dream:<br />Weakling as wont he stood beside +my bed,<br />And, clutching at his wrenched and livid throat,<br />Spake +thus, ‘Belief is safest.’”</p> +<p> Ceased +the hail<br />To rattle on the ever barren boughs,<br />And friendlier +sound was heard. Beside his door<br />Wayworn the messengers of +Patrick stood,<br />And showed the gifts, and held his missive forth.<br />Then +learned that lost one all the truth. That sage<br />Confessed +by miracles, that prophet vouched<br />By warnings old, that seer by +words of might<br />Subduing all things to himself - that priest,<br />None +other was than the uncomplaining boy<br />Five years his slave and swineherd! +In him rage<br />Burst forth, with fear commixed, as when a beast<br />Strains +in the toils. “Can I alone stand firm?”<br />He mused; +and next, “Shall I, in mine old age,<br />Byword become - the +vassal of my slave?<br />Shall I not rather drive him from my door<br />With +wolf hounds and a curse?” As thus he stood<br />He marked +the gifts, and bade men bare them in,<br />And homeward signed the messengers +unfed.</p> +<p>But Milcho slept not all that night for thought,<br />And, forth +ere sunrise issuing, paced a moor<br />Stone-roughened like the graveyard +of dead hosts,<br />Till noontide. Sudden then he stopt, and thus<br />Discoursed +within: “A plot from first to last,<br />The fraudulent bondage, +flight, and late return;<br />For now I mind me of a foolish dream<br />Chance-sent, +yet drawn by him awry. One night<br />Methought that boy from +far hills drenched in rain<br />Dashed through my halls, all fire. +From hands and head,<br />From hair and mouth, forth rushed a flaming +fire<br />White, like white light, and still that mighty flame<br />Into +itself took all. With hands outstretched<br />I spurned it. +On my cradled daughters twain<br />It turned, and they were ashes. +Then in burst<br />The south wind through the portals of the house,<br />Tempest +rose-sweet, and blew those ashes forth<br />Wide as the realm. +At dawn I sought the knave;<br />He glossed my vision thus: ‘That +fire is Faith -<br />Faith in the God Triune, the God made Man,<br />Sole +light wherein I walk, and walking burn;<br />And they that walk with +me shall burn like me<br />By Faith. But thou that radiance wilt +repel,<br />Housed through ill-will, in Error’s endless night.<br />Not +less thy little daughters shall believe<br />With glory and great joy; +and, when they die,<br />Report of them, like ashes blown abroad,<br />Shall +light far lands, and health to men of Faith<br />Stream from their dust.’ +I drave the impostor forth:<br />Perjured ere long he fled, and now +returns<br />To reap a harvest from his master’s dream” +-<br />Thus mused he, while black shadow swept the moor.<br /> So +day by day darker was Milcho’s heart,<br />Till, with the endless +brooding on one thought,<br />Began a little flaw within that brain<br />Whose +strength was still his boast. Was no friend nigh?<br />Alas! what +friend had he? All men he scorned;<br />Knew truly none. +In each, the best and sweetest<br />Near him had ever pined, like stunted +growth<br />Dwarfed by some glacier nigh. The fifth day dawned:<br />And +inly thus he muttered, darkly pale:<br />“Five days; in three +the messengers returned:<br />In three - in two - the Accursèd +will be here,<br />Or blacken yonder Sleemish with his crew<br />Descending. +Then those idiots, kerne and slave -<br />The mighty flame into itself +takes all -<br />Full swarm will fly to meet him! Fool! fool! +fool!<br />The man hath snared me with those gifts he sent;<br />Else +had I barred the mountains: now ’twere late,<br />My people in +revolt. Whole weeks his horde<br />Will throng my courts, demanding +board and bed,<br />With hosts by Dichu sent to flout my pang,<br />And +sorer make my charge. My granaries sacked,<br />My larder lean +as ship six months ice-bound,<br />The man I hate will rise, and open +shake<br />The invincible banner of his mad new Faith,<br />Till all +that hear him shout, like winds or waves,<br />Belief; and I be left +sole recusant;<br />Or else perhaps that Fury who prevails<br />At times +o’er knee-joints of reluctant men,<br />By magic imped, may crumble +into dust<br />By force my disbelief.”</p> +<p> He +raised his head,<br />And lo, before him lay the sea far ebbed<br />Sad +with a sunset all but gone: the reeds<br />Sighed in the wind, and sighed +a sweeter voice<br />Oft heard in childhood - now the last time heard:<br />“Believe!” +it whispered. Vain the voice! That hour,<br />Stirred from +the abyss, the sins of all his life<br />Around him rose like night +- not one, but all -<br />That earliest sin which, like a dagger, pierced<br />His +mother’s heart; that worst, when summer drouth<br />Parched the +brown vales, and infants thirsting died,<br />While from full pail he +gorged his swine with milk<br />And flung the rest away. Sin-walled +he stood:<br />God’s Angels could not pierce that cincture dread,<br />Nor +he look through it. Yet he dreamed he saw:<br />His life he saw; +its labours, and its gains<br />Hard won, long-waited, wonder of his +foes;<br />The manifold conquests of a Will oft tried;<br />Victory, +Defeat, Retrieval; last, that scene<br />Around him spread: the wan +sea and grey rocks;<br />And he was ’ware that on that self-same +ledge<br />He, Milcho, thirty years gone by, had stood,<br />While pirates +pushed to sea, leaving forlorn<br />On that wild shore a scared and +weeping boy,<br />(His price two yearling kids and half a sheep)<br />Thenceforth +his slave.</p> +<p> Not +sole he mused that hour.<br />The Demon of his House beside him stood<br />Upon +that iron coast, and whispered thus:<br />“Masterful man art thou +for wit and strength;<br />Yet girl-like standst thou brooding! +Weave a snare!<br />He comes for gold, this prophet. All thou +hast<br />Heap in thy house; then fire it! In far lands<br />Build +thee new fortunes. Frustrate thus shall he<br />Stare but on stones, +his destined vassal scaped.”</p> +<p>So fell the whisper; and as one who hears<br />And does, the stiff-necked +man obsequious bent<br />His strong will to a stronger, and returned,<br />And +gave command to heap within his house<br />His stored up wealth - yea, +all things that were his -<br />Borne from his ships and granaries. +It was done.<br />Then filled he his huge hall with resinous beams<br />Seasoned +for far sea-voyage, and the ribs<br />Of ocean-sundering vessels deep +in sea;<br />Which ended, to his topmost tower he clomb,<br />And therein +sat two days, with face to south,<br />Clutching a brand; and oft through +clenched teeth hissed,<br />Hissed long, “Because I will to disbelieve.”<br /> But +ere the second sunset two brief hours,<br />Where comfortless leaned +forth that western ridge<br />Long patched with whiteness by half melted +snows,<br />There crept a gradual shadow. Soon the man<br />Discerned +its import. There they hung - he saw them -<br />That company +detested; hung as when<br />Storm-boding cloud on mountain hangs half +way<br />Scarce moving, and in fear the shepherd cries,<br />“Would +that the worse were come!” So dread to him<br />Those Heralds +of fair Peace! He gazed upon them<br />With blood-shot eyes; a +moment passed: he stood<br />Sole in his never festal hall, and flung<br />His +lighted brand into that pile far forth,<br />And smiled that smile men +feared to see, and turned,<br />And issuing faced the circle of his +serfs<br />That wondering gathered round in thickening mass,<br />Eyeing +that unloved House.</p> +<p> His +place he chose<br />Beside that blighted ash, fronting those towers<br />Palled +with red smoke, and muttered low, “So be it!<br />Worse to be +vassal to the man I hate,”<br />With hueless lips. His whole +white face that hour<br />Was scorched; and blistered was the dead tree’s +bark;<br />Yet there he stood; and in that fiery light<br />His life, +no more triumphant, passed once more<br />In underthought before him, +while on spread<br />The swift, contagious madness of that fire,<br />And +muttered thus, not knowing it, the man,<br />“The mighty flame +into itself takes all,”<br />Mechanic iteration. Not alone<br />Stood +he that hour. The Demon of his House<br />By him once more and +closer than of old,<br />Stood, whispering thus, “Thy game is +now played out;<br />Henceforth a byword art thou - rich in youth -<br />Self-beggared +in old age.” And as the wind<br />Of that shrill whisper +cut his listening soul,<br />The blazing roof fell in on all his wealth,<br />Hard-won, +long-waited, wonder of his foes;<br />And, loud as laughter from ten +thousand fiends,<br />Up rushed the fire. With arms outstretched +he stood;<br />Stood firm; then forward with a wild beast’s cry<br />He +dashed himself into that terrible flame,<br />And vanished as a leaf.</p> +<p> Upon +a spur<br />Of Sleemish, eastward on its northern slope,<br />Stood +Patrick and his brethren, travel-worn,<br />When distant o’er +the brown and billowy moor<br />Rose the white smoke, that changed ere +long to flame,<br />From site unknown; for by the seaward crest<br />That +keep lay hidden. Hands to forehead raised,<br />Wondering they +watched it. One to other spake:<br />“The huge Dalriad forest +is afire<br />Ere melted are the winter’s snows!” +Another,<br />“In vengeance o’er the ocean Creithe or Pict,<br />Favoured +by magic, or by mist, have crossed,<br />And fired old Milcho’s +ships.” But Patrick leaned<br />Upon his crosier, pale as +the ashes wan<br />Left by a burned out city. Long he stood<br />Silent, +till, sudden, fiercelier soared the flame<br />Reddening the edges of +a cloud low hung;<br />And, after pause, vibration slow and stern<br />Troubling +the burthened bosom of the air,<br />Upon a long surge of the northern +wind<br />Came up - a murmur as of wintry seas<br />Far borne at night. +All heard that sound; all felt it;<br />One only know its import. +Patrick turned;<br />“The deed is done: the man I would have saved<br />Is +dead, because he willed to disbelieve.”</p> +<p>Yet Patrick grieved for Milcho, nor that hour<br />Passed further +north. Three days on Sleemish hill<br />He dwelt in prayer. +To Tara’s royal halls<br />Then turned he, and subdued the royal +house<br />And host to Christ, save Erin’s king, Laeghaire.<br />But +Milcho’s daughters twain to Christ were born<br />In baptism, +and each Emeria named:<br />Like rose-trees in the garden of the Lord<br />Grew +they and flourished. Dying young, one grave<br />Received them +at Cluanbrain. Healing thence<br />To many from their relics passed; +to more<br />The spirit’s happier healing, Love and Faith.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AT TARA.</p> +<p>The King is wroth with a greater wrath<br /> Than the +wrath of Nial or the wrath of Conn!<br />From his heart to his brow +the blood makes path,<br /> And hangs there, a red cloud, +beneath his crown.</p> +<p>Is there any who knows not, from south to north,<br /> That +Laeghaire to-morrow his birthday keeps?<br />No fire may be lit upon +hill or hearth<br />Till the King’s strong fire in its kingly +mirth<br /> Up rushes from Tara’s palace steeps!</p> +<p>Yet Patrick has lighted his Paschal fire<br /> At Slane +- it is holy Saturday -<br />And blessed his font ’mid the chaunting +choir!<br /> From hill to hill the flame makes way;<br />While +the king looks on it his eyes with ire<br /> Flash red, like +Mars, under tresses grey.</p> +<p>The chiefs and the captains with drawn swords rose:<br /> To +avenge their Lord and the Realm they swore;<br /> The Druids +rose and their garments tore;<br />“The strangers to us and our +Gods are foes!”<br />Then the king to Patrick a herald sent,<br /> Who +spake, ‘Come up at noon and show<br />Who lit thy fire and with +what intent:<br /> These things the great king Laeghaire +would know.”</p> +<p>But Laeghaire had hid twelve men by the way,<br />Who swore by the +sun the Saint to slay.</p> +<p>When the waters of Boyne began to bask<br /> And fields +to flash in the rising sun<br />The Apostle Evangelist kept his Pasch,<br /> And +Erin her grace baptismal won:<br />Her birthday it was: his font the +rock,<br />He blessed the land, and he blessed his flock.</p> +<p>Then forth to Tara he fared full lowly:<br /> The Staff +of Jesus was in his hand:<br />Twelve priests paced after him chaunting +slowly,<br /> Printing their steps on the dewy land.<br />It +was the Resurrection morn;<br />The lark sang loud o’er the springing +corn;<br />The dove was heard, and the hunter’s horn.</p> +<p>The murderers twelve stood by on the way;<br />Yet they saw nought +save the lambs at play.</p> +<p>A trouble lurked in the monarch’s eye<br />When the guest he +counted for dead drew nigh:<br />He sat in state at his palace gate;<br /> His +chiefs and nobles were ranged around;<br />The Druids like ravens smelt +some far fate;<br /> Their eyes were gloomily bent on the +ground.<br />Then spake Laeghaire: “He comes - beware!<br />Let +none salute him, or rise from his chair!”</p> +<p>Like some still vision men see by night,<br /> Mitred, +with eyes of serene command,<br />Saint Patrick moved onward in ghostly +white:<br /> The Staff of Jesus was in his hand;<br />Twelve +priests paced after him unafraid,<br />And the boy, Benignus, more like +a maid;<br />Like a maid just wedded he walked and smiled,<br />To Christ +new plighted, that priestly child.</p> +<p>They entered the circle; their anthem ceased;<br /> The +Druids their eyes bent earthward still:<br />On Patrick’s brow +the glory increased<br /> As a sunrise brightening some sea-beat +hill.<br />The warriors sat silent: strange awe they felt:<br />The +chief bard, Dubtach, rose and knelt:</p> +<p>Then Patrick discoursed of the things to be<br />When time gives +way to eternity,<br />Of kingdoms that fall, which are dreams not things,<br />And +the Kingdom built by the King of kings.<br />Of Him he spake who reigns +from the Cross;<br />Of the death which is life, and the life which +is loss;<br />How all things were made by the Infant Lord,<br />And +the small hand the Magian kings adored.<br />His voice sounded on like +a throbbing flood<br />That swells all night from some far-off wood,<br />And +when it ended - that wondrous strain -<br />Invisible myriads breathed +“Amen!”</p> +<p>While he spake, men say that the refluent tide<br /> On +the shore by Colpa ceased to sink:<br />They say that the white stag +by Mulla’s side<br /> O’er the green marge bending +forbore to drink:<br />That the Brandon eagle forgat to soar;<br /> That +no leaf stirred in the wood by Lee:<br />Such stupor hung the island +o’er,<br /> For none might guess what the end would +be.</p> +<p>Then whispered the king to a chief close by,<br />“It were +better for me to believe than die!”</p> +<p>Yet the king believed not; but ordinance gave<br /> That +whoso would might believe that word:<br />So the meek believed, and +the wise, and brave,<br /> And Mary’s Son as their +God adored.<br />And the Druids, because they could answer nought,<br />Bowed +down to the Faith the stranger brought.<br />That day on Erin God poured +His Spirit:<br />Yet none like the chief of the bards had merit,<br />Dubtach! +He rose and believed the first,<br />Ere the great light yet on the +rest had burst.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND THE TWO PRINCESSES.</p> +<p><i>FEDELM “THE RED ROSE,” AND ETHNA “THE FAIR.”</i></p> +<p>Like two sister fawns that leap,<br /> Borne, as though +on viewless wings,<br />Down bosky glade and ferny steep<br /> To +quench their thirst at silver springs,<br />From Cruachan palace through +gorse and heather,<br />Raced the Royal Maids together.<br />Since childhood +thus the twain had rushed<br /> Each morn to Clebach’s +fountain-cell<br />Ere earliest dawn the East had flushed<br /> To +bathe them in its well:<br />Each morn with joy their young hearts tingled;<br /> Each +morn as, conquering cloud or mist,<br />The first beam with the wavelet +mingled,<br /> Mouth to mouth they kissed!</p> +<p>They stand by the fount with their unlooped hair -<br />A hand each +raises - what see they there?<br />A white Form seated on Clebach stone;<br /> A +kinglike presence: the monks stood nigh:<br />Fronting the dawn he sat +alone;<br /> On the star of morning he fixed his eye:<br />That +crozier he grasped shone bright; but brighter<br />The sunrise flashed +from Saint Patrick’s mitre!<br />They gazed without fear. +To a kingdom dear<br /> From the day of their birth those +Maids had been;<br />Of wrong they had heard; but it came not near;<br /> They +hoped they were dear to the Power unseen.<br />They knelt when that +Vision of Peace they saw;<br />Knelt, not in fear, but in loving awe:<br />The +“Red Rose” bloomed like that East afar;<br />The “Fair +One” shone like that morning star.</p> +<p>Then Patrick rose: no word he said,<br /> But thrice he +made the sacred Sign:<br />At the first, men say that the demons fled;<br /> At +the third flocked round them the Powers divine<br />Unseen. Like +children devout and good,<br />Hands crossed on their bosoms, the maidens +stood.</p> +<p>“Blessed and holy! This land is Eire:<br />Whence come +ye to her, and the king our sire?”</p> +<p>“We come from a Kingdom far off yet near<br />Which the wise +love well, and the wicked fear:<br />We come with blessing and come +with ban,<br />We come from the Kingdom of God with man.”</p> +<p>“Whose is that Kingdom? And say, therein<br /> Are +the chiefs all brave, and the maids all fair?<br />Is it clean from +reptiles, and that thing, sin?<br /> Is it like this kingdom +of King Laeghaire?”</p> +<p>“The chiefs of that kingdom wage war on wrong,<br />And the +clash of their swords is sweet as song;<br />Fair are the maids, and +so pure from taint<br />The flash of their eyes turns sinner to saint;<br />There +reptile is none, nor the ravening beast;<br />There light has no shadow, +no end the feast.”</p> +<p>“But say, at that feast hath the poor man place?<br /> Is +reverence there for the old head hoar?<br />For the cripple that never +might join the race?<br /> For the maimed that fought, and +can fight no more?”</p> +<p>“Reverence is there for the poor and meek;<br />And the great +King kisses the worn, pale cheek;<br />And the King’s Son waits +on the pilgrim guest;<br />And the Queen takes the little blind child +to her breast:<br />There with a crown is the just man crowned;<br />But +the false and the vengeful are branded and bound<br />In knots of serpents, +and flung without pity<br />From the bastions and walls of the saintly +City.”</p> +<p>Then the eyes of the Maidens grew dark, as though<br /> That +judgment of God had before them passed:<br />And the two sweet faces +grew dim with woe;<br /> But the rose and the radiance returned +at last.</p> +<p>“Are gardens there? Are there streams like ours?<br /> Is +God white-headed, or youthful and strong?<br />Hang there the rainbows +o’er happy bowers?<br /> Are there sun and moon and +the thrush’s song?”</p> +<p>“They have gardens there without noise or strife,<br />And +there is the Tree of immortal Life:<br />Four rivers circle that blissful +bound;<br />And Spirits float o’er it, and Spirits go round:<br />There, +set in the midst, is the golden throne;<br />And the Maker of all things +sits thereon:<br />A rainbow o’er-hangs him; and lo! therein<br />The +beams are His Holy Ones washed from sin.”</p> +<p>As he spake, the hearts of the Maids beat time<br /> To +music in heaven of peace and love;<br />And the deeper sense of that +lore sublime<br /> Came out from within them, and down from +above;<br />By degrees came down; by degrees came out:<br />Who loveth, +and hopeth, not long shall doubt.</p> +<p>“Who is your God? Is love on His brow?<br />Oh how shall +we love Him and find Him? How?”<br />The pure cheek flamed +like the dawn-touched dew:<br />There was silence: then Patrick began +anew.<br />The princes who ride in your father’s train<br />Have +courted your love, but sued in vain; -<br />Look up, O Maidens; make +answer free:<br />What boon desire you, and what would you be?”</p> +<p>“Pure we would be as yon wreath of foam,<br /> Or +the ripple which now yon sunbeams smite:<br />And joy we would have, +and a songful home;<br /> And one to rule us, and Love’s +delight.”</p> +<p>“In love God fashioned whatever is,<br /> The hills, +and the seas, and the skiey fires;<br />For love He made them, and endless +blis<br /> Sustains, enkindles, uplifts, inspires:<br />That +God is Father, and Son, and Spirit;<br />And the true and spotless His +peace inherit:<br />And God made man, with his great sad heart,<br />That +hungers when held from God apart.<br />Your sire is a King on earth: +but I<br />Would mate you to One who is Lord on high:<br />There bride +is maid: and her joy shall stand,<br />For the King’s Son hath +laid on her head His hand.”<br />As he spake, the eyes of that +lovely twain<br /> Grew large with a tearful but glorious +light,<br />Like skies of summer late cleared by rain,<br /> When +the full-orbed moon will be soon in sight.</p> +<p>“That Son of the King - is He fairest of men?<br /> That +mate whom He crowns - is she bright and blest?<br />Does she chase the +red deer at His side through the glen?<br /> Does she charm +Him with song to His noontide rest?”</p> +<p>“That King’s Son strove in a long, long war:<br />His +people He freed; yet they wounded Him sore;<br />And still in His hands, +and His feet, and His side,<br />The scars of His sorrow are ’graved, +deep-dyed.”</p> +<p>Then the breasts of the Maidens began to heave<br /> Like +harbour waves when beyond the bar<br />The great waves gather, and wet +winds grieve,<br /> And the roll of the tempest is heard +afar.</p> +<p>“We will kiss, we will kiss those bleeding feet;<br /> On +the bleeding hands our tears shall fall;<br />And whatever on earth +is dear or sweet,<br /> For that wounded heart we renounce +them all.</p> +<p>“Show us the way to His palace-gate:” -<br />“That +way is thorny, and steep, and straight;<br />By none can His palace-gate +be seen,<br />Save those who have washed in the waters clean.”</p> +<p>They knelt; on their heads the wave he poured<br />Thrice in the +name of the Triune Lord:<br />And he signed their brows with the Sign +adored.<br />On Fedelm the “Red Rose,” on Ethna “The +Fair,”<br />God’s dew shone bright in that morning air:<br />Some +say that Saint Agnes, ’twixt sister and sister,<br />As the Cross +touched each, bent over and kissed her.</p> +<p>Then sang God’s new-born Creatures, “Behold!<br /> We +see God’s City from heaven draw nigh:<br />But we thirst for the +fountains divine and cold:<br /> We must see the great King’s +Son, or die!<br />Come, Thou that com’st! Our wish is this,<br /> That +the body might die, and the soul, set free,<br />Swell out, like an +infant’s lips, to the kiss<br /> Of the Lover who filleth +infinity!”</p> +<p>“The City of God, by the water’s grace,<br />Ye see: +alone, they behold His Face,<br />Who have washed in the baths of Death +their eyes,<br />And tasted His Eucharist Sacrifice.”</p> +<p>“Give us the Sacrifice!” Each bright head<br /> Bent +toward it as sunflowers bend to the sun:<br />They ate; and the blood +from the warm cheek fled:<br /> The exile was over: the home +was won:<br />A starry darkness o’erflowed their brain:<br /> Far +waters beat on some heavenly shore:<br />Like the dying away of a low, +sweet strain,<br /> The young life ebbed, and they breathed +no more:<br />In death they smiled, as though on the breast<br />Of +the Mother Maid they had found their rest.</p> +<p>The rumour spread: beside the bier<br /> The King stood +mute, and his chiefs and court:<br />The Druids dark-robed drew surlily +near,<br /> And the Bards storm-hearted, and humbler sort:<br />The +“Staff of Jesus” Saint Patrick raised:<br /> Angelic +anthems above them swept:<br />There were that muttered; there were +that praised:<br /> But none who looked on that marvel wept.</p> +<p>For they lay on one bed, like Brides new-wed,<br /> By +Clebach well; and, the dirge days over,<br />On their smiling faces +a veil was spread,<br /> And a green mound raised that bed +to cover.<br />Such were the ways of those ancient days -<br /> To +Patrick for aye that grave was given;<br />And above it he built a church +in their praise;<br /> For in them had Eire been spoused +to heaven.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDREN OF FOCHLUT WOOD.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Saint Patrick makes way into Fochlut wood by the sea, the<br /> oldest +of Erin’s forests, whence there had been borne<br /> unto +him, then in a distant land, the Children’s Wail<br /> from +Erin. He meets there two young Virgins, who sing<br /> a +dirge of man’s sorrowful condition. Afterwards they<br /> lead +him to the fortress of the king, their father.<br /> There +are sung two songs, a song of Vengeance and a<br /> song +of Lament; which ended, Saint Patrick makes<br /> proclamation +of the Advent and of the Resurrection.<br /> The king and +all his chiefs believe with full<br /> contentment.</i></p> +<p>One day as Patrick sat upon a stone<br />Judging his people, Pagan +babes flocked round,<br />All light and laughter, angel-like of mien,<br />Sueing +for bread. He gave it, and they ate:<br />Then said he, “Kneel;” +and taught them prayer: but lo!<br />Sudden the stag hounds’ music +dinned the wind;<br />They heard; they sprang; they chased it. +Patrick spake;<br />“It was the cry of children that I heard<br />Borne +from the black wood o’er the midnight seas:<br />Where are those +children? What avails though Kings<br />Have bowed before my Gospel, +and in awe<br />Nations knelt low, unless I set mine eyes<br />On Fochlut +Wood?” Thus speaking, he arose,<br />And, journeying with +the brethren toward the West,<br />Fronted the confine of that forest +old.</p> +<p>Then entered they that darkness; and the wood<br />Closed as a cavern +round them. O’er its roof<br />Leaned roof of cloud, and +hissing ran the wind,<br />And moaned the trunks for centuries hollowed +out<br />Yet stalwart still. There, rooted in the rock,<br />Stood +the huge growths, by us unnamed, that frowned<br />Perhaps on Partholan, +the parricide,<br />When that first Pagan settler fugitive<br />Landed, +a man foredoomed. Between the stems<br />The ravening beast now +glared, now fled. Red leaves,<br />The last year’s phantoms, +rattled here and there.<br />The oldest wood that ever grew in Eire<br />Was +Fochlut Wood, and gloomiest. Spirits of Ill<br />Made it their +palace, and its labyrinths sowed<br />With poisons. Many a cave, +with horrors thronged<br />Within it yawned, and many a chasm unseen<br />Waited +the unwary treader. Cry of wolf<br />Pierced the cold air, and +gibbering ghosts were heard;<br />And o’er the black marsh passed +those wandering lights<br />That lure lost feet. A thousand pathways +wound<br />From gloom to gloom. One only led to light:<br />That +path was sharp with flints.</p> +<p> Then +Patrick mused,<br />“O life of man, how dark a wood art thou!<br />Erring +how many track thee till Despair,<br />Sad host, receives them in his +crypt-like porch<br />At nightfall.” Mute he paced. +The brethren feared;<br />And fearing, knelt to God. Made strong +by prayer<br />Westward once more they trod that dark, sharp way<br />Till +deeper gloom announced the night, then slept<br />Guarded by angels. +But the Saint all night<br />Watched, strong in prayer. The second +day still on<br />They fared, like mariners o’er strange seas +borne,<br />That keep in mist their soundings when the rocks<br />Vex +the dark strait, and breakers roar unseen.<br />At last Benignus cried, +“To God be praise!<br />He sends us better omens. See! the +moss<br />Brightens the crag!” Ere long another spake:<br />“The +worst is past! This freshness in the air<br />Wafts us a welcome +from the great salt sea;<br />Fair spreads the fern: green buds are +on the spray,<br />And violets throng the grass.”</p> +<p> A +few steps more<br />Brought them to where, with peaceful gleam, there +spread<br />A forest pool that mirrored yew trees twain<br />With beads +like blood-drops hung. A sunset flash<br />Kindled a glory in +the osiers brown<br />Encircling that still water. From the reeds<br />A +sable bird, gold-circled, slowly rose;<br />But when the towering tree-tops +he outsoared,<br />Eastward a great wind swept him as a leaf.<br />Serenely +as he rose a music soft<br />Swelled from afar; but, as that storm o’ertook +him,<br />The music changed to one on-rushing note<br />O’ertaken +by a second; both, ere long,<br />Blended in wail unending. Patrick’s +brow,<br />Listening that wail, was altered, and he spake:<br />“These +were the Voices that I heard when stood<br />By night beside me in that +southern land<br />God’s angel, girt for speed. Letters +he bare<br />Unnumbered, full of woes. He gave me one,<br />Inscribed, +‘The Wailing of the Irish Race;’<br />And as I read that +legend on mine ear<br />Forth from a mighty wood on Erin’s coast<br />There +rang the cry of children, ‘Walk once more<br />Among us; bring +us help!’” Thus Patrick spake:<br />Then towards that +wailing paced with forward head.</p> +<p>Ere long they came to where a river broad,<br />Swiftly amid the +dense trees winding, brimmed<br />The flower-enamelled marge, and onward +bore<br />Green branches ’mid its eddies. On the bank<br />Two +virgins stood. Whiter than earliest streak<br />Of matin pearl +dividing dusky clouds<br />Their raiment; and, as oft in silent woods<br />White +beds of wind-flower lean along the earth-breeze,<br />So on the river-breeze +that raiment wan<br />Shivered, back blown. Slender they stood +and tall,<br />Their brows with violets bound; while shone, beneath,<br />The +dark blue of their never-tearless eyes.<br />Then Patrick, “For +the sake of Him who lays<br />His blessing on the mourners, O ye maids,<br />Reveal +to me your grief - if yours late sent,<br />Or sped in careless childhood.” +And the maids:<br />“Happy whose careless childhood ’scaped +the wound:”<br />Then she that seemed the saddest added thus:<br />“Stranger! +this forest is no roof of joy,<br />Nor we the only mourners; neither +fall<br />Bitterer the widow’s nor the orphan’s tears<br />Now +than of old; nor sharper than long since<br />That loss which maketh +maiden widowhood.<br />In childhood first our sorrow came. One +eve<br />Within our foster-parents’ low-roofed house<br />The +winter sunset from our bed had waned:<br />I slept, and sleeping dreamed. +Beside the bed<br />There stood a lovely Lady crowned with stars;<br />A +sword went through her heart. Down from that sword<br />Blood +trickled on the bed, and on the ground.<br />Sorely I wept. The +Lady spake: ‘My child,<br />Weep not for me, but for thy country +weep;<br />Her wound is deeper far than mine. Cry loud!<br />The +cry of grief is Prayer.’ I woke, all tears;<br />And lo! +my little sister, stiff and cold,<br />Sat with wide eyes upon the bed +upright:<br />That starry Lady with the bleeding heart<br />She, too, +had seen, and heard her. Clamour vast<br />Rang out; and all the +wall was fiery red;<br />And flame was on the sea. A hostile clan<br />Landing +in mist, had fired our ships and town,<br />Our clansmen absent on a +foray far,<br />And stricken many an old man, many a boy<br />To bondage +dragged. Oh night with blood redeemed!<br />Upon the third day +o’er the green waves rushed<br />The vengeance winged, with axe +and torch, to quit<br />Wrong with new wrong, and many a time since +then.<br />That night sad women on the sea sands toiled,<br />Drawing +from wreck and ruin, beam or plank<br />To shield their babes. +Our foster-parents slain,<br />Unheeded we, the children of the chief,<br />Roamed +the great forest. There we told our dream<br />To children likewise +orphaned. Sudden fear<br />Smote them as though themselves had +dreamed that dream,<br />And back from them redoubled upon us;<br />Until +at last from us and them rang out -<br />The dark wood heard it, and +the midnight sea -<br />A great and bitter cry.”</p> +<p> “That +cry went up,<br />O children, to the heart of God; and He<br />Down +sent it, pitying, to a far-off land,<br />And on into my heart. +By that first pang<br />Which left the eternal pallor in your cheeks,<br />O +maids, I pray you, sing once more that song<br />Ye sang but late. +I heard its long last note:<br />Fain would I hear the song that such +death died.”</p> +<p>They sang: not scathless those that sing such song!<br />Grief, their +instructress, of the Muses chief<br />To hearts by grief unvanquished, +to their hearts<br />Had taught a melody that neither spared<br />Singer +nor listener. Pale when they began,<br />Paler it left them. +He not less was pale<br />Who, out of trance awaking, thanked them thus:<br />“Now +know I of that sorrow in you fixed;<br />What, and how great it is, +and bless that Power<br />Who called me forth from nothing for your +sakes,<br />And sent me to this wood. Maidens, lead on!<br />A +chieftain’s daughters ye; and he, your sire,<br />And with him +she who gave you your sweet looks<br />(Sadder perchance than you in +songless age)<br />They, too, must hear my tidings. Once a Prince<br />Went +solitary from His golden throne,<br />Tracking the illimitable wastes, +to find<br />One wildered sheep, the meanest of the flock,<br />And +on His shoulders bore it to that House<br />Where dwelt His Sire. +‘Good Shepherd’ was His Name.<br />My tidings these: heralds +are we, footsore,<br />That bring the heart-sore comfort.”</p> +<p> On +they paced,<br />On by the rushing river without words.<br />Beside +the elder sister Patrick walked,<br />Benignus by the younger. +Fair her face;<br />Majestic his, though young. Her looks were +sad<br />And awe-struck; his, fulfilled with secret joy,<br />Sent forth +a gleam as when a morn-touched bay<br />Through ambush shines of woodlands. +Soon they stood<br />Where sea and river met, and trod a path<br />Wet +with salt spray, and drank the clement breeze,<br />And saw the quivering +of the green gold wave,<br />And, far beyond, that fierce aggressor’s +bourn,<br />Fair haunt for savage race, a purple ridge<br />By rainy +sunbeam gemmed from glen to glen,<br />Dim waste of wandering lights. +The sun, half risen,<br />Lay half sea-couched. A neighbouring +height sent forth<br />Welcome of baying hounds; and, close at hand,<br />They +reached the chieftain’s keep.</p> +<p> A +white-haired man<br />And long since blind, there sat he in his hall,<br />Untamed +by age. At times a fiery gleam<br />Flashed from his sightless +eyes; and oft the red<br />Burned on his forehead, while with splenetic +speech<br />Stirred by ill news or memory stung, he banned<br />Foes +and false friend. Pleased by his daughters’ tale,<br />At +once he stretched his huge yet aimless hands<br />In welcome towards +his guests. Beside him stood<br />His mate of forty years by that +strong arm<br />From countless suitors won. Pensive her face:<br />With +parted youth the confidence of youth<br />Had left her. Beauty, +too, though with remorse,<br />Its seat had half relinquished on a cheek<br />Long +time its boast, and on that willowy form,<br />So yielding now, where +once in strength upsoared<br />The queenly presence. Tenderest +grace not less<br />Haunted her life’s dim twilight - meekness, +love -<br />That humble love, all-giving, that seeks nought,<br />Self-reverent +calm, and modesty in age.<br />She turned an anxious eye on him she +loved;<br />And, bending, kissed at times that wrinkled hand,<br />By +years and sorrows made his wife far more<br />Than in her nuptial bloom. +These two had lost<br />Five sons, their hope, in war.</p> +<p> That +eve it chanced<br />High feast was holden in the chieftain’s tower<br />To +solemnise his birthday. In they flocked,<br />Each after each, +the warriors of the clan,<br />Not without pomp heraldic and fair state<br />Barbaric, +yet beseeming. Unto each<br />Seat was assigned for deeds or lineage +old,<br />And to the chiefs allied. Where each had place<br />Above +him waved his banner. Not for this<br />Unhonoured were the pilgrim +guests. They sat<br />Where, fed by pinewood and the seeded cone,<br />The +loud hearth blazed. Bathed were the wearied feet<br />By maidens +of the place and nurses grey,<br />And dried in linen fragrant still +with flowers<br />Of years when those old nurses too were fair.<br />And +now the board was spread, and carved the meat,<br />And jests ran round, +and many a tale was told,<br />Some rude, but none opprobrious. +Banquet done,<br />Page-led the harper entered, old, and blind:<br />The +noblest ranged his chair, and spread the mat;<br />The loveliest raised +his wine cup, one light hand<br />Laid on his shoulder, while the golden +hair<br />Commingled with the silver. “Sing,” they +cried,<br />“The death of Deirdrè; or that desolate sire<br />That +slew his son, unweeting; or that Queen<br />Who from her palace pacing +with fixed eyes<br />Stared at those heads in dreadful circle ranged,<br />The +heads of traitor-friends that slew her lord<br />Then mocked the friend +they murdered. Leal and true,<br />The Bard who wrought that vengeance!” +Thus he sang:</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p> THE +LAY OF THE HEADS.</p> +<p> The Bard returns to a stricken house:<br /> What +shape is that he rears on high?<br /> A +withe of the Willow, set round with Heads:<br /> They +blot that evening sky.</p> +<p> A Widow meets him at the gates:<br /> What +fixes thus that Widow’s eye?<br /> She +names the name; but she sees not the man,<br /> Nor +beyond him that reddening sky.</p> +<p> “Bard of the Brand, thou Foster-Sire<br /> Of +him they slew - their friend - my lord -<br /> What +Head is that - the first - that frowns<br /> Like +a traitor self-abhorred?”</p> +<p> “Daughter of Orgill wounded sore,<br /> Thou +of the fateful eye serene,<br /> Fergus +is he. The feast he made<br /> That +snared thy Cuchullene.”</p> +<p> “What Head is that - the next +- half-hid<br /> In curls full +lustrous to behold?<br /> They mind me +of a hand that once<br /> I +saw amid their gold.”</p> +<p> “’Tis Manadh. He +that by the shore<br /> Held +rule, and named the waves his steeds:<br /> ’Twas +he that struck the stroke accursed -<br /> Headless +this day he bleeds.”</p> +<p> “What Head is that close by - +so still,<br /> With half-closed +lids, and lips that smile?<br /> Methinks +I know their voice: methinks<br /> <i>His</i> +wine they quaffed erewhile!”</p> +<p> “’Twas he raised high that +severed head:<br /> Thy head +he raised, my Foster-Child!<br /> That +was the latest stroke I struck:<br /> I +struck that stroke, and smiled.”</p> +<p> “What Heads are those - that +twain, so like,<br /> Flushed +as with blood by yon red sky?”<br /> “Each +unto each, <i>his</i> Head they rolled;<br /> Red +on that grass they lie.”</p> +<p> “That paler twain, which face +the East?”<br /> “Laegar +is one; the other Hilt;<br /> Silent they +watched the sport! they share<br /> The +doom, that shared the guilt.”</p> +<p> “Bard of the Vengeance! well +thou knew’st<br /> Blood +cries for blood! O kind, and true,<br /> How +many, kith and kin, have died<br /> That +mocked the man they slew?”</p> +<p> “O Woman of the fateful eye,<br /> The +untrembling voice, the marble mould,<br /> Seven +hundred men, in house or field,<br /> For +the man they mocked, lie cold.”</p> +<p> “Their wives, thou Bard? their +wives? their wives?<br /> Far +off, or nigh, through Inisfail,<br /> This +hour what are they? Stand they mute<br /> Like +me; or make their wail?”</p> +<p> “O Eimer! women weep and smile;<br /> The +young have hope, the young that mourn;<br /> But +I am old; my hope was he:<br /> He +that can ne’er return!</p> +<p> “O Conal! lay me in his grave:<br /> Oh! +lay me by my husband’s side:<br /> Oh! +lay my lips to his in death;”<br /> She +spake, and, standing, died.</p> +<p> She fell at last - in death she fell +-<br /> She lay, a black shade, +on the ground;<br /> And all her women +o’er her wailed<br /> Like +sea-birds o’er the drowned.</p> +<p> Thus to the blind chief sang that harper blind,<br />Hymning +the vengeance; and the great hall roared<br />With wrath of those wild +listeners. Many a heel<br />Smote the rough stone in scorn of +them that died<br />Not three days past, so seemed it! Direful +hands,<br />Together dashed, thundered the Avenger’s praise.<br />At +last the tide of that fierce tumult ebbed<br />O’er shores of +silence. From her lowly seat<br />Beside her husband’s spake +the gentle Queen:<br />“My daughters, from your childhood ye were +still<br />A voice of music in your father’s house -<br />Not +wrathful music. Sing that song ye made<br />Or found long since, +and yet in forest sing,<br />If haply Power Unknown may hear and help.”<br />She +spake, and at her word her daughters sang.</p> +<p>“Lost, lost, all lost! O tell us what is lost?<br />Behold, +this too is hidden! Let him speak,<br />If any knows. The +wounded deer can turn<br />And see the shaft that quivers in its flank;<br />The +bird looks back upon its broken wing;<br />But we, the forest children, +only know<br />Our grief is infinite, and hath no name.<br />What woman-prophet, +shrouded in dark veil,<br />Whispered a Hope sadder than Fear? +Long since,<br />What Father lost His children in the wood?<br />Some +God? And can a God forsake? Perchance<br />His face is turned +to nobler worlds new-made;<br />Perchance his palace owns some later +bride<br />That hates the dead Queen’s children, and with charm<br />Prevails +that they are exiled from his eyes,<br />The exile’s winter theirs +- the exile’s song.</p> +<p>“Blood, ever blood! The sword goes raging on<br />O’er +hill and moor; and with it, iron-willed,<br />Drags on the hand that +holds it and the man<br />To slake its ceaseless thirst for blood of +men;<br />Fire takes the little cot beside the mere,<br />And leaps +upon the upland village: fire<br />Up clambers to the castle on the +crag;<br />And whom the fire has spared the hunger kills;<br />And earth +draws all into her thousand graves.</p> +<p>“Ah me! the little linnet knows the branch<br />Whereon to +build; the honey-pasturing bee<br />Knows the wild heath, and how to +shape its cell;<br />Upon the poisonous berry no bird feeds;<br />So +well their mother, Nature, helps her own.<br />Mothers forsake not; +- can a Father hate?<br />Who knows but that He yearns - that Sire Unseen +-<br />To clasp His children? All is sweet and sane,<br />All, +all save man! Sweet is the summer flower,<br />The day-long sunset +of the autumnal woods;<br />Fair is the winter frost; in spring the +heart<br />Shakes to the bleating lamb. O then what thing<br />Might +be the life secure of man with man,<br />The infant’s smile, the +mother’s kiss, the love<br />Of lovers, and the untroubled wedded +home?<br />This might have been man’s lot. Who sent the +woe?<br />Who formed man first? Who taught him first the ill way?<br />One +creature, only, sins; and he the highest!</p> +<p>“O Higher than the highest! Thou Whose hand<br />Made +us - Who shaped’st that hand Thou wilt not clasp,<br />The eye +Thou open’st not, the sealed-up ear!<br />Be mightier than man’s +sin: for lo, how man<br />Seeks Thee, and ceases not: through noontide +cave<br />And dark air of the dawn-unlighted peak<br />To Thee how long +he strains the weak, worn eye<br />If haply he might see Thy vesture’s +hem<br />On farthest winds receding! Yea, how oft<br />Against +the blind and tremulous wall of cliff<br />Tormented by sea surge, he +leans his ear<br />If haply o’er it name of Thine might creep;<br />Or +bends above the torrent-cloven abyss,<br />If falling flood might lisp +it! Power unknown!<br />He hears it not: Thou hear’st his +beating heart<br />That cries to Thee for ever! From the veil<br />That +shrouds Thee, from the wood, the cloud, the void,<br />O, by the anguish +of all lands evoked,<br />Look forth! Though, seeing Thee, man’s +race should die,<br />One moment let him see Thee! Let him lay<br />At +least his forehead on Thy foot in death!”</p> +<p> So sang the maidens: but the warriors frowned;<br />And +thus the blind king muttered, “Bootless weed<br />Is plaint where +help is none!” But wives and maids<br />And the thick-crowding +poor, that many a time<br />Had wailed on war-fields o’er their +brethren slain,<br />Went down before that strain as river reeds<br />Before +strong wind, went down when o’er them passed<br />Its last word, +“Death;” and grief’s infection spread<br />From least +to first; and weeping filled the hall.<br />Then on Saint Patrick fell +compassion great;<br />He rose amid that concourse, and with voice<br />And +words now lost, alas, or all but lost,<br />Such that the chief of sight +amerced, beheld<br />The imagined man before him crowned with light,<br />Proclaimed +that God who hideth not His face,<br />His people’s King and Father; +open flung<br />The portals of His realm, that inward rolled,<br />With +music of a million singing spheres<br />Commanded all to enter. +Who was He<br />Who called the worlds from nought? His name is +Love!<br />In love He made those worlds. They have not lost,<br />The +sun his splendour, nor the moon her light:<br /><i>That</i> miracle +survives. Alas for thee!<br />Thou better miracle, fair human +love,<br />That splendour shouldst have been of home and hearth,<br />Now +quenched by mortal hate! Whence come our woes<br />But from our +lusts? O desecrated law<br />By God’s own finger on our +hearts engraved,<br />How well art thou avenged! No dream it was,<br />That +primal greatness, and that primal peace:<br />Man in God’s image +at the first was made,<br />A God to rule below!</p> +<p> He +told it all -<br />Creation, and that Sin which marred its face;<br />And +how the great Creator, creature made,<br />God - God for man incarnate +- died for man:<br />Dead, with His Cross he thundered on the gates<br />Of +Death’s blind Hades. Then, with hands outstretched<br />His +Holy Ones that, in their penance prison<br />From hope in Him had ceased +not, to the light<br />Flashed from His bleeding hands and branded brow<br />Through +darkness soared: they reign with Him in heaven:<br />Their brethren +we, the children of one Sire.<br />Long time he spake. The winds +forbore their wail;<br />The woods were hushed. That wondrous +tale complete,<br />Not sudden fell the silence; for, as when<br />A +huge wave forth from ocean toiling mounts<br />High-arched, in solid +bulk, the beach rock-strewn,<br />Burying his hoar head under echoing +cliffs,<br />And, after pause, refluent to sea returns<br />Not all +at once is stillness, countless rills<br />Or devious winding down the +steep, or borne<br />In crystal leap from sea-shelf to sea-well,<br />And +sparry grot replying; gradual thus<br />With lessening cadence sank +that great discourse,<br />While round him gazed Saint Patrick, now +the old<br />Regarding, now the young, and flung on each<br />In turn +his boundless heart, and gazing longed<br />As only Apostolic heart +can long<br />To help the helpless.</p> +<p> “Fair, +O friends, the bourn<br />We dwell in! Holy King makes happy land:<br />Our +King is in our midst. He gave us gifts;<br />Laws that are Love, +the sovereignty of Truth.<br />What, sirs, ye knew Him not! But +ye by signs<br />Foresaw His coming, as, when buds are red<br />Ye say, +‘The spring is nigh us.’ Him, unknown,<br />Each loved +who loved his brother! Shepherd youths,<br />Who spread the pasture +green beneath your lambs<br />And freshened it with snow-fed stream +and mist?<br />Who but that Love unseen? Grey mariners,<br />Who +lulled the rough seas round your midnight nets,<br />And sent the landward +breeze? Pale sufferers wan,<br />Rejoice! His are ye; yea, +and His the most!<br />Have ye not watched the eagle that upstirs<br />Her +nest, then undersails her falling brood<br />And stays them on her plumes, +and bears them up<br />Till, taught by proof, they learn their unguessed +powers<br />And breast the storm? Thus God stirs up His people;<br />Thus +proves by pain. Ye too, O hearths well-loved!<br />How oft your +sin-stained sanctities ye mourned!<br />Wives! from the cradle reigns +the Bethelem Babe!<br />Maidens! henceforth the Virgin Mother spreads<br />Her +shining veil above you!</p> +<p> “Speak +aloud,<br />Chieftains world-famed! I hear the ancient blood<br />That +leaps against your hearts! What? Warriors ye!<br />Danger +your birthright, and your pastime death!<br />Behold your foes! +They stand before you plain:<br />Ill passions, base ambitions, falsehood, +hate:<br />Wage war on these! A King is in your host!<br />His +hands no roses plucked but on the Cross:<br />He came not hand of man +in woman’s tasks<br />To mesh. In woman’s hand, in +childhood’s hand,<br />Much more in man’s, He lodged His +conquering sword;<br />Them too His soldiers named, and vowed to war.<br />Rise, +clan of Kings, rise, champions of man’s race,<br />Heaven’s +sun-clad army militant on earth,<br />One victory gained, the realm +decreed is ours.<br />The bridal bells ring out, for Low with High<br />Is +wed in endless nuptials. It is past,<br />The sin, the exile, +and the grief. O man,<br />Take thou, renewed, thy sister-mate +by hand;<br />Know well thy dignity, and hers: return,<br />And meet +once more Thy Maker, for He walks<br />Once more within thy garden, +in the cool<br />Of the world’s eve!”</p> +<p> The +words that Patrick spake<br />Were words of power, not futile did they +fall:<br />But, probing, healed a sorrowing people’s wound.<br />Round +him they stood, as oft in Grecian days,<br />Some haughty city sieged, +her penitent sons<br />Thronging green Pnyx or templed Forum hushed<br />Hung +listening on that People’s one true Voice,<br />The man that ne’er +had flattered, ne’er deceived,<br />Nursed no false hope. +It was the time of Faith;<br />Open was then man’s ear, open his +heart:<br />Pride spurned not then that chiefest strength of man<br />The +power, by Truth confronted, to believe.<br />Not savage was that wild, +barbaric race:<br />Spirit was in them. On their knees they sank,<br />With +foreheads lowly bent; and when they rose<br />Such sound went forth +as when late anchored fleet<br />Touched by dawn breeze, shakes out +its canvas broad<br />And sweeps into new waters. Man with man<br />Clasped +hands; and each in each a something saw<br />Till then unseen. +As though flesh-bound no more,<br />Their souls had touched. One +Truth, the Spirit’s life,<br />Lived in them all, a vast and common +joy.<br />And yet as when, that Pentecostal morn,<br />Each heard the +Apostle in his native tongue,<br />So now, on each, that Truth, that +Joy, that Life<br />Shone forth with beam diverse. Deep peace +to one<br />Those tidings seemed, a still vale after storm;<br />To +one a sacred rule, steadying the world;<br />A third exulting saw his +youthful hope<br />Written in stars; a fourth triumphant hailed<br />The +just cause, long oppressed. Some laughed, some wept:<br />But +she, that aged chieftain’s mournful wife<br />Clasped to her boding +breast his hoary head<br />Loud clamouring, “Death is dead; and +not for long<br />That dreadful grave can part us.” Last +of all,<br />He too believed. That hoary head had shaped<br />Full +many a crafty scheme: - behind them all<br />Nature held fast her own.</p> +<p> O +happy night!<br />Back through the gloom of centuries sin-defaced<br />With +what a saintly radiance thou dost shine!<br />They slept not, on the +loud-resounding shore<br />In glory roaming. Many a feud that +night<br />Lay down in holy grave, or, mockery made,<br />Was quenched +in its own shame. Far shone the fires<br />Crowning dark hills +with gladness: soared the song;<br />And heralds sped from coast to +coast to tell<br />How He the Lord of all, no Power Unknown<br />But +like a man rejoicing in his house,<br />Ruled the glad earth. +That demon-haunted wood,<br />Sad Erin’s saddest region, yet, +men say,<br />Tenderest for all its sadness, rang at last<br />With +hymns of men and angels. Onward sailed<br />High o’er the +long, unbreaking, azure waves<br />A mighty moon, full-faced, as though +on winds<br />Of rapture borne. With earliest red of dawn<br />Northward +once more the wingèd war-ships rushed<br />Swift as of old to +that long hated shore -<br />Not now with axe and torch. His Name +they bare<br />Who linked in one the nations.</p> +<p> On +a cliff<br />Where Fochlut’s Wood blackened the northern sea<br />A +convent rose. Therein those sisters twain<br />Whose cry had summoned +Patrick o’er the deep,<br />Abode, no longer weepers. Pallid +still,<br />In radiance now their faces shone; and sweet<br />Their +psalms amid the clangour of rough brine.<br />Ten years in praise to +God and good to men<br />That happy precinct housed them. In their +morn<br />Grief had for them her great work perfected;<br />Their eve +was bright as childhood. When the hour<br />Came for their blissful +transit, from their lips<br />Pealed forth ere death that great triumphant +chant<br />Sung by the Virgin Mother. Ages passed;<br />And, year +by year, on wintry nights, <i>that</i> song<br />Alone the sailors heard +- a cry of joy.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND KING LAEGHAIRE.</p> +<p>“Thou son of Calphurn, in peace go forth!<br /> This +hand shall slay them whoe’er shall slay thee!<br />The carles +shall stand to their necks in earth<br /> Till they die of +thirst who mock or stay thee!</p> +<p>“But my father, Nial, who is dead long since,<br /> Permits +not me to believe thy word;<br />For the servants of Jesus, thy heavenly +Prince,<br /> Once dead, lie flat as in sleep, interred:<br />But +we are as men that through dark floods wade;<br />We stand in our black +graves undismayed;<br />Our faces are turned to the race abhorred,<br />And +at each hand by us stand spear or sword,<br />Ready to strike at the +last great day,<br />Ready to trample them back into clay!</p> +<p>“This is my realm, and men call it Eire,<br /> Wherein +I have lived and live in hate<br />Like Nial before me and Erc his sire,<br /> Of +the race Lagenian, ill-named the Great!”</p> +<p>Thus spake Laeghaire, and his host rushed on,<br /> A +river of blood as yet unshed: -<br />At noon they fought: and at set +of sun<br /> That king lay captive, that host lay dead!</p> +<p>The Lagenian loosed him, but bade him swear<br /> He would +never demand of them Tribute more:<br /> So Laeghaire by +the dread “God-Elements” swore,<br />By the moon divine +and the earth and air;<br />He swore by the wind and the broad sunshine<br /> That +circle for ever both land and sea,<br />By the long-backed rivers, and +mighty wine,<br /> By the cloud far-seeing, by herb and tree,<br />By +the boon spring shower, and by autumn’s fan,<br />By woman’s +breast, and the head of man,<br />By Night and the noonday Demon he +swore<br />He would claim the Boarian Tribute no more.</p> +<p>But with time wrath waxed; and he brake his faith:<br />Then the +dread “God-Elements” wrought his death;<br />For the Wind +and Sun-Strength by Cassi’s side<br />Came down and smote on his +head that he died.<br />Death-sick three days on his throne he sate;<br />Then +died, as his father died, great in hate.</p> +<p>They buried their king upon Tara’s hill,<br />In his grave +upright - there stands he still:<br />Upright there stands he as men +that wade<br />By night through a castle-moat, undismayed;<br />On his +head is the crown, the spear in his hand;<br />And he looks to the hated +Lagenian land.</p> +<p>Such rites in the time of wrath and wrong<br /> Were Eire’s: +baptised, they were hers no longer:<br />For Patrick had taught her +his sweet new song,<br /> “Though hate is strong, yet +love is stronger.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR;</p> +<p>OR, MAC KYLE OF MAN.</p> +<p><i>Mac Kyle, a child of death, dwells in a forest with other<br /> men +like unto himself, that slay whom they will.<br /> Saint +Patrick coming to that wood, a certain Impostor<br /> devises +how he may be deceived and killed; but God<br /> smites +the Impostor through his own snare, and he<br /> dies. +Mac Kyle believes, and demanding penance is<br /> baptised. +Afterwards he preaches in Manann <a name="citation77"></a><a href="#footnote77">{77}</a> +Isle,<br /> and becomes a great Saint.</i></p> +<p>In Uladh, near Magh Inis, lived a chief,<br />Fierce man and fell. +From orphaned childhood he<br />Through lawless youth to blood-stained +middle age<br />Had rushed as stormy morn to stormier noon,<br />Working, +except that still he spared the poor,<br />All wrongs with iron will; +a child of death.<br />Thus spake he to his followers, while the woods<br />Snow-cumbered +creaked, their scales of icy mail<br />Angered by winter winds: “At +last he comes,<br />He that deceives the people with great signs,<br />And +for the tinkling of a little gold<br />Preaches new Gods. Where +rises yonder smoke<br />Beyond the pinewood, camps this Lord of Dupes:<br />How +say ye? Shall he track o’er Uladh’s plains,<br />As +o’er the land beside, his venomous way?<br />Forth with your swords! +and if that God he serves<br />Can save him, let him prove it!”</p> +<p> Dark +with wrath<br />Thus spake Mac Kyle; and all his men approved,<br />Shouting, +while downward fell the snows hard-caked Loosened by shock of forest-echoed +hands,<br />Save Garban. Crafty he, and full of lies,<br />That +thing which Patrick hated. Sideway first<br />Glancing, as though +some secret foe were nigh,<br />He spake: “Mac Kyle! a counsel +for thine ear!<br />A man of counsel I, as thou of war!<br />The people +love this stranger. Patrick slain,<br />Their wrath will blaze +against us, and demand<br />An <i>eric</i> for his head. Let us +by craft<br />Unravel first <i>his</i> craft: then safe our choice;<br />We +slay a traitor, or great ransom take:<br />Impostors lack not gold. +Lay me as dead<br />Upon a bier: above me spread yon cloth,<br />And +make your wail: and when the seer draws nigh<br />Worship him, crying, +‘Lo, our friend is dead!<br />Kneel, prophet, kneel, and pray +that God thou serv’st<br />To raise him.’ If he kneels, +no prophet he,<br />But like the race of mortals. Sweep the cloth<br />Straight +from my face; then, laughing, I will rise.”</p> +<p>Thus counselled Garban; and the counsel pleased;<br />Yet pleased +not God. Upon a bier, branch-strewn,<br />They laid their man, +and o’er him spread a cloth;<br />Then, moving towards that smoke +behind the pines,<br />They found the Saint and brought him to that +bier,<br />And made their moan - and Garban ’neath that cloth<br />Smiled +as he heard it - “Lo, our friend is dead!<br />Great prophet kneel; +and pray the God thou serv’st<br />To raise him from the dead.”</p> +<p> The +man of God<br />Upon them fixed a sentence-speaking eye:<br />“Yea! +he is dead. In this ye have not lied:<br />Behold, this day shall +Garban’s covering be<br />The covering of the dead. Remove +that cloth.”</p> +<p>Then drew they from his face the cloth; and lo!<br />Beneath it Garban +lay, a corpse stone-cold.</p> +<p>Amazement fell upon that bandit throng,<br />Contemplating that corpse, +and on Mac Kyle<br />Grief for his friend, remorse, and strong belief,<br />A +threefold power: for she that at his birth,<br />Her brief life faithful +to that Law she knew,<br />Had died, in region where desires are crowned<br />That +hour was strong in prayer. “From God he came,”<br />Thus +cried they; “and we worked a work accursed,<br />Tempting God’s +prophet.” Patrick heard, and spake;<br />“Not me ye +tempted, but the God I serve.”<br />At last Mac Kyle made answer: +“I have sinned;<br />I, and this people, whom I made to sin:<br />Now +therefore to thy God we yield ourselves<br />Liegemen henceforth, his +thralls as slave to Lord,<br />Or horse to master. That which +thou command’st<br />That will we do.” And Patrick +said, “Believe;<br />Confess your sins; and be baptised to God,<br />The +Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit,<br />And live true life.” +Then Patrick where he stood<br />Above the dead, with hands uplifted +preached<br />To these in anguish and in terror bowed<br />The tidings +of great joy from Bethlehem’s Crib<br />To Calvary’s Cross. +Sudden upon his knees,<br />Heart-pierced, as though he saw that Head +thorn-pierced,<br />Fell that wild chief, and was baptised to God;<br />And, +lifting up his great strong hands, while still<br />The waters streamed +adown his matted locks,<br />He cried, “Alas, my master, and my +sire!<br />I sinned a mighty sin; for in my heart<br />Fixed was my +purpose, soon as thou hadst knelt,<br />To slay thee with my sword. +Therefore judge thou<br />What <i>eric</i> I must pay to quit my sin?”<br />Him +Patrick answered, “God shall be thy Judge:<br />Arise, and to +the seaside flee, as one<br />That flies his foe. There shalt +thou find a boat<br />Made of one hide: eat nought, and nothing take<br />Except +one cloak alone: but in that boat<br />Sit thou, and bear the sin-mark +on thy brow,<br />Facing the waves, oarless and rudderless;<br />And +bind the boat chain thrice around thy feet,<br />And fling the key with +strength into the main,<br />Far as thou canst: and wheresoe’er +the breath<br />Of God shall waft thee, there till death abide<br />Working +the Will Divine.” Then spake that chief,<br />“I, +that commanded others, can obey;<br />Such lore alone is mine: but for +this man<br />That sinned my sin, alas, to see him thus!”<br />To +whom the Saint, “For him, when thou art gone,<br />My prayer shall +rise. If God will raise the dead<br />He knows: not I.”</p> +<p> Then +rose that chief, and rushed<br />Down to the shore, as one that flies +his foe;<br />Nor ate, nor drank, nor spake to wife or child,<br />But +loosed a little boat, of one hide made,<br />And sat therein, and round +his ankles wound<br />The boat chain thrice; and flung the key far forth<br />Above +the ridged sea foam. The Lord of all<br />Gave ordinance to the +wind, and, as a leaf<br />Swift rushed that boat, oarless and rudderless,<br />Over +the on-shouldering, broad-backed, glaucous wave<br />Slow-rising like +the rising of a world,<br />And purple wastes beyond, with funeral plume<br />Crested, +a pallid pomp. All night the chief<br />Under the roaring tempest +heard the voice<br />That preached the Son of Man; and when the morn<br />Shone +out, his coracle drew near the surge<br />Reboant on Manann’s +Isle. Not unbeheld<br />Rose it, and fell; not unregarded danced<br />A +black spot on the inrolling ridge, then hung<br />Suspense upon the +mile-long cataract<br />That, overtoppling, changed grass-green to light,<br />And +drowned the shores in foam. Upon the sands<br />Two white-haired +Elders in the salt air knelt,<br />Offering to God their early orisons,<br />Coninri +and Romael. Sixty years<br />These two unto a hard and stubborn +race<br />Had preached the Word; and gaining by their toil<br />But +thirty souls, had daily prayed their God<br />To send ere yet they died +some ampler arm,<br />And reap the ill-grown harvest of their youth.<br />Ten +years they prayed, not doubting, and from God,<br />Who hastens not, +this answer had received,<br />“Ye shall not die until ye see +his face.”<br />Therefore, each morning, peered they o’er +the waves,<br />Long-watching. These through breakers dragged +the man,<br />Their wished-for prize, half-frozen, and nigh to death,<br />And +bare him to their cell, and warmed and fed him,<br />And heaped his +couch with skins. Deep sleep he slept<br />Till evening lay upon +the level sea<br />With roses strewn like bridal chamber’s floor;<br />Within +it one star shone. Rested, he woke<br />And sought the shore. +From earth, and sea, and sky,<br />Then passed into his spirit the Spirit +of Love;<br />And there he vowed his vow, fierce chief no more,<br />But +soldier of the cross.</p> +<p> The +weeks ran on,<br />And daily those grey Elders ministered<br />God’s +teaching to that chief, demanding still,<br />“Son, understandst +thou? Gird thee like a man<br />To clasp, and hold, the total +Faith of Christ,<br />And give us leave to die.” The months +fled fast:<br />Ere violets bloomed, he knew the creed; and when<br />Far +heathery hills purpled the autumnal air,<br />He sang the psalter whole. +That tale he told<br />Had power, and Patrick’s name. His +strenous arm<br />Labouring with theirs, reaped harvest heavy and sound,<br />Till +wondering gazed their wearied eyes on barns<br />Knee-deep in grain. +At last an eve there fell,<br />When, on the shore in commune, with +such might<br />Discoursed that pilgrim of the things of God,<br />Such +insight calm, and wisdom reverence-born,<br />Each on the other gazing +in their hearts<br />Received once more an answer from the Lord,<br />“Now +is your task completed: ye shall die.”</p> +<p>Then on the red sand knelt those Elders twain<br />With hands upraised, +and all their hoary hair<br />Tinged like the foam-wreaths by that setting +sun,<br />And sang their “Nunc Dimittis.” At its close<br />High +on the sandhills, ’mid the tall hard grass<br />That sighed eternal +o’er the unbounded waste<br />With ceaseless yearnings like their +own for death<br />They found the place where first, that bark descried,<br />Their +sighs were changed to songs. That spot they marked,<br />And said, +“Our resurrection place is here:”<br />And, on the third +day dying, in that place<br />The man who loved them laid them, at their +heads<br />Planting one cross because their hearts were one<br />And +one their lives. The snowy-breasted bird<br />Of ocean o’er +their undivided graves<br />Oft flew with wailing note; but they rejoiced<br />’Mid +God’s high realm glittering in endless youth.</p> +<p>These two with Christ, on him, their son in Christ<br />Their mantle +fell; and strength to him was given.<br />Long time he toiled alone; +then round him flocked<br />Helpers from far. At last, by voice +of all<br />He gat the Island’s great episcopate,<br />And king-like +ruled the region. This is he,<br />Mac Kyle of Uladh, bishop, +and Penitent,<br />Saint Patrick’s missioner in Manann’s +Isle,<br />Sinner one time, and, after sinner, Saint<br />World-famous. +May his prayer for sinners plead!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AT CASHEL;</p> +<p>OR, THE BAPTISM OF AENGUS.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Saint Patrick goes to Cashel of the Rings to celebrate<br /> the +Feast of the Annunciation. Aengus, who reigns<br /> there, +receives him with all honour. He and his<br /> people +believe, and by Baptism are added unto the<br /> Church. +Aengus desires to resign his sovereignty, and<br /> become +a monk. The Saint suffers not this, because<br /> he +had discovered by two notable signs, both at the<br /> baptism +of Aengus and before it, that the Prince is of<br /> those +who are called by God to rule men.</i></p> +<p>When Patrick now o’er Ulster’s forest bound,<br />And +Connact, echoing to the western wave,<br />And Leinster, fair with hill-suspended +woods,<br />Had raised the cross, and where the deep night ruled,<br />Splendour +had sent of everlasting light,<br />Sole peace of warring hearts, to +Munster next,<br />Thomond and Desmond, Heber’s portion old,<br />He +turned; and, fired by love that mocks at rest<br />Pushed on through +raging storm the whole night long,<br />Intent to hold the Annunciation +Feast<br />At Cashel of the Kings. The royal keep<br />High-seated +on its Rock, as morning broke<br />Faced them at last; and at the selfsame +hour<br />Aengus, in his father’s absence lord,<br />Rising from +happy sleep and heaven-sent dreams<br />Went forth on duteous tasks. +With sudden start<br />The prince stept back; for, o’er the fortress +court<br />Like grove storm-levelled lay the idols huge,<br />False +gods and foul that long had awed the land,<br />Prone, without hand +of man. O’er-awed he gazed;<br />Then on the air there rang +a sound of hymns,<br />And by the eastern gate Saint Patrick stood,<br />The +brethren round him. On their shaggy garb<br />Auroral mist, struck +by the rising sun,<br />Glittered, that diamond-panoplied they seemed,<br />And +as a heavenly vision. At that sight<br />The youth, descending +with a wildered joy,<br />Welcomed his guests: and, ere an hour, the +streets<br />Sparkled far down like flowering meads in spring,<br />So +thronged the folk in holiday attire<br />To see the man far-famed. +“Who spurns our gods?”<br />Once they had cried in wrath: +but, year by year,<br />Tidings of some deliverance great and strange,<br />Some +life more noble, some sublimer hope,<br />Some regal race enthroned +beyond the grave,<br />Had reached them from afar. The best believed,<br />Great +hearts for whom nor earthly love sufficed<br />Nor earthly fame. +The meaner scoffed: yet all<br />Desired the man. Delay had edged +their thirst.</p> +<p>Then Patrick, standing up among them, spake,<br />And God was with +him. Not as when loose tongue<br />Babbles vain rumour, or the +Sophist spins<br />Thought’s air-hung cobwebs gay with Fancy’s +dews,<br />Spake he, but words of might, as when a man<br />Bears witness +to the things which he has seen,<br />And tells of that he knows: and +as the harp<br />Attested is by rapture of the ear,<br />And sunlight +by consenting of the eye<br />That, seeing, knows it sees, and neither +craves<br />Inferior demonstration, so his words<br />Self-proved, went +forth and conquered: for man’s mind,<br />Created in His image +who is Truth,<br />Challenged by truth, with recognising voice<br />Cries +out “Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,”<br />And cleaves +thereto. In all that listening host<br />One vast, dilating heart +yearned to its God.<br />Then burst the bond of years. No haunting +doubt<br />They knew. God dropped on them the robe of Truth<br />Sun-like: +down fell the many-coloured weed<br />Of error; and, reclothed ere yet +unclothed,<br />They walked a new-born earth. The blinded Past<br />Fled, +vanquished. Glorious more than strange it seemed<br />That He +who fashioned man should come to man,<br />And raise by ruling. +They, His trumpet heard,<br />In glory spurned demons misdeemed for +gods:<br />The great chief had returned: the clan enthralled<br />Trod +down the usurping foe.</p> +<p> Then +rose the cry,<br />“Join us to Christ!” His strong +eyes on them set,<br />Patrick replied, “Know ye what thing ye +seek<br />Ye that would fain be house-mates with my King?<br />Ye seek +His cross!” He paused, then added slow:<br />“If ye +be liegeful, sirs, decree the day,<br />His baptism shall be yours.”</p> +<p> That +eve, while shone<br />The sunset on the green-touched woods, that, grazed<br />By +onward flight of unalighting spring,<br />Caught warmth yet scarcely +flamed, Aengus stood<br />With Patrick in a westward-facing tower<br />Which +overlooked far regions town-besprent,<br />And lit with winding waters. +Thus he spake:<br />“My Father! what is sovereignty of man?<br />Say, +can I shield yon host from death, from sin,<br />Taking them up into +my breast, like God?<br />I trow not so! Mine be the lowliest +place<br />Following thy King who left his Father’s throne<br />To +walk the lowliest!” Patrick answered thus:<br />“Best +lot thou choosest, son. If thine that lot<br />Thou know’st +not yet; nor I. The Lord, thy God,<br />Will teach us.”</p> +<p> When +the day decreed had dawned<br />Loud rang the bull-horn; and on every +breeze<br />Floated the banners, saffron, green, and blue;<br />While +issuing from the horizon’s utmost verge<br />The full-voiced People +flocked. So swarmed of old<br />Some migratory nation, instinct-urged<br />To +fly their native wastes sad winter’s realm;<br />So thronged on +southern slopes when, far below,<br />Shone out the plains of promise. +Bright they came!<br />No summer sea could wear a blithsomer sheen<br />Though +every dancing crest and milky plume<br />Ran on with rainbows braided. +Minstrel songs<br />Wafted like winds those onward hosts, or swayed<br />Or +stayed them; while among them heralds passed<br />Lifting white wands +of office. Foremost rode<br />Aileel, the younger brother of the +prince:<br />He ruled a milk-white horse. Fluttered, breeze-borne<br />His +mantle green, while all his golden hair<br />Streamed back redundant +from the ring of gold<br />Circling his head uncovered. Loveliest +light<br />Of innocence and joy was on that face:<br />Full well the +young maids marked it! Brighter yet<br />Beamed he, his brother +noting. On the verge<br />Of Cashel’s Rock that hour Aengus +stood,<br />By Patrick’s side. That concourse nearer now<br />He +gazed upon it, crying, with clasped hands,<br />“My Father, fair +is sunrise, fair the sea,<br />The hills, the plains, the wind-stirred +wood, the maid;<br />But what is like a People onward borne<br />In +gladness? When I see that sight, my heart<br />Expands like palace-gates +wide open flung<br />That say to all men, ‘Enter.’” +Then the Saint<br />Laid on that royal head a hand of might,<br />And +said, “The Will of God decrees thee King!<br />Son of this People +art thou: Sire one day<br />Thou shalt be! Son and Sire in one +are King.<br />Shepherd for God thy flock, thou Shepherd true!”<br />He +spake: that word was ratified in Heaven.</p> +<p> Meantime that multitude innumerable<br />Had reached +the Rock, and, now the winding road<br />In pomp ascending, faced those +fair-wrought gates<br />Which, by the warders at the prince’s +sign<br />Drawn back, to all gave entrance. In they streamed,<br />Filling +the central courtway. Patrick stood<br />High stationed on a prostrate +idol’s base,<br />In vestments of the Vigil of that Feast<br />The +Annunciation, which with annual boon<br />Whispers, while melting snows +dilate those streams<br />Purer than snows, to universal earth<br />That +Maiden Mother’s joy. The Apostle watched<br />The advancing +throng, and gave them welcome thus;<br />“As though into the great +Triumphant Church,<br />O guests of God, ye flock! Her place is +Heaven:<br />Sirs! we this day are militant below:<br />Not less, advance +in faith. Behold your crowns -<br />Obedience and Endurance.”</p> +<p> There +and then<br />The Rite began: his people’s Chief and Head<br />Beside +the font Aengus stood; his face<br />Sweet as a child’s, yet grave +as front of eld:<br />For reverence he had laid his crown aside,<br />And +from the deep hair to the unsandalled feet<br />Was raimented in white. +With mitred head<br />And massive book, forward Saint Patrick leaned,<br />Stayed +by the gem-wrought crosier. Prayer on prayer<br />Went up to God; +while gift on gift from God,<br />All Angel-like, invisibly to man,<br />Descended. +Thrice above that princely brow<br />Patrick the cleansing waters poured, +and traced<br />Three times thereon the Venerable Sign,<br />Naming +the Name Triune. The Rite complete,<br />Awestruck that concourse +downward gazed. At last<br />Lifting their eyes, they marked the +prince’s face<br />That pale it was though bright, anguished and +pale,<br />While from his naked foot a blood-stream gushed<br />And +o’er the pavement welled. The crosier’s point,<br />Weighted +with weight of all that priestly form,<br />Had pierced it through. +“Why suffer’dst thou so long<br />The pain in silence?” +Patrick spake, heart-grieved:<br />Smiling, Aengus answered, “O +my Sire,<br />I thought, thus called to follow Him whose feet<br />Were +pierced with nails, haply the blissful Rite<br />Bore witness to their +sorrows.”</p> +<p> At +that word<br />The large eyes of the Apostolic man<br />Grew larger; +and within them lived that light<br />Not fed by moon or sun, a visible +flash<br />Of that invisible lightning which from God<br />Vibrates +ethereal through the world of souls,<br />Vivific strength of Saints. +The mitred brow<br />Uptowered sublime: the strong, yet wrinkled hands,<br />Ascending, +ceased not, till the crosier’s head<br />Glittered above the concourse +like a star.<br />At last his hands disparting, down he drew<br />From +Heaven the Royal Blessing, speaking thus:<br />“For this cause +may the blessing, Sire of kings,<br />Cleave to thy seed forever! +Spear and sword<br />Before them fall! In glory may the race<br />Of +Nafrach’s sons, Aengus, and Aileel,<br />Hold sway on Cashel’s +summit! Be their kings<br />Great-hearted men, potent to rule +and guard<br />Their people; just to judge them; warriors strong;<br />Sage +counsellors; faithful shepherds; men of God,<br />That so through them +the everlasting King<br />May flood their land with blessing.” +Thus he spake;<br />And round him all that nation said, “Amen.”</p> +<p> Thus held they feast in Cashel of the Kings<br />That +day till all that land was clothed with Christ:<br />And when the parting +came from Cashel’s steep<br />Patrick the People’s Blessing +thus forth sent:<br />“The Blessing fall upon the pasture broad,<br />On +fruitful mead, and every corn-clad hill,<br />And woodland rich with +flowers that children love:<br />Unnumbered be the homesteads, and the +hearths: -<br />A blessing on the women, and the men,<br />On youth, +and maiden, and the suckling babe:<br />A blessing on the fruit-bestowing +tree,<br />And foodful river tide. Be true; be pure,<br />Not +living from below, but from above,<br />As men that over-top the world. +And raise<br />Here, on this rock, high place of idols once,<br />A +kingly church to God. The same shall stand<br />For aye, or, wrecked, +from ruin rise restored,<br />His witness till He cometh. Over +Eire<br />The Blessing speed till time shall be no more<br />From Cashel +of the Kings.”</p> +<p> The +Saint fared forth:<br />The People bare him through their kingdom broad<br />With +banner and with song; but o’er its bound<br />The women of that +People followed still<br />A half day’s journey with lamenting +voice;<br />Then silent knelt, lifting their babes on high;<br />And, +crowned with two-fold blessing, home returned.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDLESS MOTHER.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Saint Patrick finds an aged Pagan woman making great<br /> lamentation +above a tomb which she believes to be that<br /> of +her son. He kneels beside her in prayer, while<br /> around +them a wondrous tempest sweeps. After a long<br /> time, +he declares unto her the Death of Christ, and<br /> how, +through that Death, the Dead are blessed.<br /> Lastly, +he dissuades her from her rage of grief, and<br /> admonishes +her to pray for her son on a tomb hard by,<br /> which +is his indeed. The woman believes, and, being<br /> consoled +by a Sign of Heaven, departs in peace.</i></p> +<p>Across his breast one hundred times each day<br />Saint Patrick drew +the Venerable Sign,<br />And sixty times by night: and whensoe’er<br />In +travel Cross was seen far off or nigh<br />On lonely moor, or rock, +or heathy hill,<br />For Erin then was sown with Christian seed,<br />He +sought it, and before it knelt. Yet once,<br />While cold in winter +shone the star of eve<br />Upon their board, thus spake a youthful monk:<br />“Three +times this day, my father, didst thou pass<br />The Cross of Christ +unmarked. At morn thou saw’st<br />A last year’s lamb +that by it sheltered lay,<br />At noon a dove that near it sat and mourned,<br />At +eve a little child that round it raced,<br />Well pleased with each; +yet saw’st thou not that Cross,<br />Nor mad’st thou any +reverence!” At that word<br />Wondering, the Saint arose, +and left the meat,<br />And, wondering, went to venerate that Cross.</p> +<p> Dark was the earth and dank ere yet he reached<br />That +spot; and lo! where lamb had lain, and dove<br />Had mourned, and child +had raced, there stood indeed<br />High-raised, the Cross of Christ. +Before it long<br />He prayed, and kneeling, marked that on a tomb<br />That +Cross was raised. Then, inly moved by God,<br />The Saint demanded, +“Who, of them that walked<br />The sun-warmed earth lies here +in darkness hid?”<br />And answer made a lamentable Voice:<br />“Pagan +I lived, my own soul’s bane: - when dead,<br />Men buried here +my body.” Patrick then:<br />“How stands the Cross +of Christ on Pagan grave?”<br />And answered thus the lamentable +Voice:<br />“A woman’s work. She had been absent long;<br />Her +son had died; near mine his grave was made;<br />Half blind was she +through fleeting of her tears,<br />And, erring, raised the Cross upon +my tomb,<br />Misdeeming it for his. Nightly she comes,<br />Wailing +as only Pagan mothers wail;<br />So wailed my mother once, while pain +tenfold<br />Ran through my bodiless being. For her sake,<br />If +pity dwells on earth or highest heaven,<br />May it this mourner comfort! +Christian she,<br />And capable of pity.”</p> +<p> Then +the Saint<br />Cried loud, “O God, Thou seest this Pagan’s +heart,<br />That love within it dwells: therefore not his<br />That +doom of Souls all hate, and self-exiled<br />To whom Thy Presence were +a woe twice told.<br />Eternal Pity! pity Thou Thy work; -<br />Sole +Peace of them that love Thee, grant him peace.”<br />Thus Patrick +prayed; and in the heaven of heavens<br />God heard his servant’s +prayer. Then Patrick mused<br />“Now know I why I passed +that Cross unmarked;<br />It was not that it seemed.”</p> +<p> As +thus he knelt,<br />Behold, upon the cold and bitter wind<br />Rang +wail on wail; and o’er the moor there moved<br />What seemed a +woman’s if a human form.<br />That miserable phantom onward came<br />With +cry succeeding cry that sank or swelled<br />As dipped or rose the moor. +Arrived at last,<br />She heeded not the Saint, but on that grave<br />Dashed +herself down. Long time that woman wailed;<br />And Patrick, long, +for reverence of her woe<br />Forbore. At last he spake low-toned +as when<br />Best listener knows not when the strain begins.<br />“Daughter! +the sparrow falls not to the ground<br />Without his Maker. He +that made thy son<br />Hath sent His Son to bear all woes of men,<br />And +vanquish every foe - the latest, Death.”<br />Then rolled that +woman on the Saint an eye<br />As when the last survivor of a host<br />Glares +on some pitying conqueror. “Ho! the man<br />That treads +upon my grief! He ne’er had sons;<br />And thou, O son of +mine, hast left no sons,<br />Though oft I said, ‘When I am old, +his babes<br />Shall climb my knees.’ My boast was mine +in youth;<br />But now mine age is made a barren stock<br />And as a +blighted briar.” In grief she turned;<br />And as on blackening +tarn gust follows gust,<br />Again came wail on wail. On strode +the night:<br />The jagged forehead of that forest old<br />Alone was +seen: all else was gloom. At last<br />With voice, though kind, +upbraiding, Patrick spake:<br />“Daughter, thy grief is wilful +and it errs;<br />Errs like those sad and tear-bewildered eyes<br />That +for a Christian’s take a Pagan’s grave,<br />And for a son’s +a stranger’s. Ah! poor child,<br />Thy pride it was to raise, +where lay thy son,<br />A Cross, his memory’s honour. By +thee close<br />All dewed and glimmering in yon rising moon,<br />Low +lies a grave unhonoured, and unknown:<br />No cross stands on it; yet +upon its breast<br />Graved shalt thou find what Christian tomb ne’er +lacks,<br />The Cross of Christ. Woman, there lies thy son.”</p> +<p> She rose; she found that other tomb; she knelt;<br />And +o’er it went her wandering palms, as though<br />Some stone-blind +mother o’er an infant’s face<br />Should spread an agonising +hand, intent<br />To choose betwixt her own and counterfeit;<br />She +found that cross deep-grav’n, and further sign<br />Close by, +to her well known. One piercing shriek -<br />Another moment, +and her body lay<br />Along that grave with kisses, and wild hands<br />As +when some forest beast tears up the ground,<br />Seeking its prey there +hidden. Then once more<br />Rang the wild wail above that lonely +heath,<br />While roared far off the vast invisible woods,<br />And +with them strove the blast, in eddies dire<br />Whirling both branch +and bough. Through hurrying clouds<br />The scared moon rushed +like ship that naked glares<br />One moment, lightning-lighted in the +storm,<br />Anon in wild waves drowned. An hour went by:<br />Still +wailed that woman, and the tempest roared;<br />While in the heart of +ruin Patrick prayed.<br />He loved that woman. Unto Patrick dear,<br />Dear +as God’s Church was still the single Soul,<br />Dearest the suffering +Soul. He gave her time;<br />He let the floods of anguish spend +themselves:<br />But when her wail sank low; when woods were mute,<br />And +where the skiey madness late had raged<br />Shone the blue heaven, he +spake with voice in strength<br />Gentle like that which calmed the +Syrian lake,<br />“My sister, God hath shown me of thy wound,<br />And +wherefore with the blind old Pagan’s cry<br />Hopeless thou mourn’st. +Returned from far, thou found’st<br />Thy son had Christian died, +and saw’st the Cross<br />On Christian graves: and ill thy heart +endured<br />That tomb so dear should lack its reverence meet.<br />To +him thou gav’st the Cross, albeit that Cross<br />Inly thou know’st +not yet. That knowledge thine,<br />Thou hadst not left thy son +amerced of prayer,<br />And given him tears, not succour.” +“Yea,” she said,<br />“Of this new Faith I little +understand,<br />Being an aged woman and in woe:<br />But since my son +was Christian, such am I;<br />And since the Christian tomb is decked +with Cross<br />He shall not lack his right.”</p> +<p> Then +Patrick spake:<br />“O woman, hearken, for through me thy son<br />Invokes +thee. All night long for thee, unknown,<br />My hands have risen: +but thou hast raised no prayer<br />For him, thy dearest; nor from founts +of God,<br />Though brimful, hast thou drawn for lips that thirst.<br />Arise, +and kneel, and hear thy loved one’s cry:<br />Too long he waiteth. +Blessed are the dead:<br />They rest in God’s high Will. +But more than peace,<br />The rapturous vision of the Face of God,<br />Won +by the Cross of Christ - for that they thirst<br />As thou, if viewless +stood thy son close by,<br />Wouldst thirst to see his countenance. +Eyes sin-sealed<br />Not yet can see their God. Prayer speeds +the time:<br />The living help the dead; all praise to Him<br />Who +blends His children in a league of help,<br />Making all good one good. +Eternal Love!<br />Not thine the will that love should cease with life,<br />Or, +living, cease from service, barren made,<br />A stagnant gall eating +the mourner’s heart<br />That hour when love should stretch a +hand of might<br />Up o’er the grave to heaven. O great +in love,<br />Perfect love’s work: for well, sad heart, I know,<br />Hadst +thou not trained thy son in virtuous ways,<br />Christian he ne’er +had been.”</p> +<p> Those +later words<br />That solitary mourner understood,<br />The earlier +but in part, and answered thus:<br />“A loftier Cross, and farther +seen, shall rise<br />Upon this grave new-found! No hireling hands +-<br />Mine own shall raise it; yea, though thirty years<br />Should +sweat beneath the task.” And Patrick said:<br />“What +means the Cross? That lore thou lack’st now learn.”</p> +<p> Then that which Kings desired to know, and seers<br />And +prophets vigil-blind - that Crown of Truths,<br />Scandal of fools, +yet conqueror of the world,<br />To her, that midnight mourner, he divulged,<br />Record +authentic: how in sorrow and sin<br />The earth had groaned; how pity, +like a sword,<br />Had pierced the great Paternal Heart in heaven;<br />How +He, the Light of Light, and God of God,<br />Had man become, and died +upon the Cross,<br />Vanquishing thus both sorrow and sin, and risen,<br />The +might of death o’erthrown; and how the gates<br />Of heaven rolled +inwards as the Anointed King<br />Resurgent and ascending through them +passed<br />In triumph with His Holy Dead; and how<br />The just, thenceforth +death-freed, the selfsame gates<br />Entering, shall share the everlasting +throne.<br />Thus Patrick spake, and many a stately theme<br />Rehearsed +beside, higher than heaven, and yet<br />Near as the farthest can alone +be near.<br />Then in that grief-worn creature’s bosom old<br />Contentions +rose, and fiercer fires than burn<br />In sultry breasts of youth: and +all her past,<br />Both good and evil, woke, in sleep long sealed;<br />And +all the powers and forces of her soul<br />Rushed every way through +darkness seeking light,<br />Like winds or tides. Beside her Patrick +prayed,<br />And mightier than his preaching was his prayer,<br />Sheltering +that crisis dread. At last beneath<br />The great Life-Giver’s +breath that Human Soul,<br />An inner world vaster than planet worlds,<br />In +undulation swayed, as when of old<br />The Spirit of God above the waters +moved<br />Creative, while the blind and shapeless void<br />Yearned +into form, and form grew meet for life,<br />And downward through the +abysses Law ran forth<br />With touch soul-soft, and seas from lands +retired,<br />And light from dark, and wondering Nature passed<br />Through +storm to calm, and all things found their home.</p> +<p>Silence long time endured; at last, clear-voiced,<br />Her head not +turning, thus the woman spake:<br />“That God who Man became - +who died, and lives, -<br />Say, died He for my son?” And +Patrick said,<br />“Yea, for thy son He died. Kneel, woman, +kneel!<br />Nor doubt, for mighty is a mother’s prayer,<br />That +He who in the eternal light is throned,<br />Lifting the roseate and +the nail-pierced palm,<br />Will make in heaven the Venerable Sign,<br />For +He it is prays in us, and that Soul<br />Thou lov’st pass on to +glory.”</p> +<p> At +his word<br />She knelt, and unto God, with help of God,<br />Uprushed +the strength of prayer, as when the cloud<br />Uprushes past some beetling +mountain wall<br />From billowy deeps unseen. Long time she prayed;<br />While +heaven and earth grew silent as that night<br />When rose the Saviour. +Sudden ceased the prayer:<br />And rang upon the night her jubilant +cry,<br />“I saw a Sign in Heaven. Far inward rolled<br />The +gates; and glory flashed from God; and he<br />I love his entrance won.” +Then, fair and tall,<br />That woman stood with hands upraised to heaven<br />The +dusky shadow of her youth renewed,<br />And instant Patrick spake, “Give +thanks to God,<br />And speed thee home, and sleep; and since thy son<br />No +children left, take to thee orphans twain<br />And rear them, in his +honour, unto Christ;<br />And yearly, when the death-day of thy son<br />Returns, +his birth-day name it; call thy friends;<br />Give alms; and range the +poor around thy door,<br />So shall they feast, and pray. Woman, +farewell:<br />All night the dark upon thy face hath lain;<br />Yet +shall we know each other, met in heaven.”</p> +<p>Then blithe of foot that Mother crossed the moor;<br />And when she +reached her door a zone of white<br />Loosening along a cloud that walled +the east<br />Revealed the coming dawn. That dawn ere long<br />Lay, +unawaking, on a face serene,<br />On tearless lids, and quiet, open +palms,<br />On stormless couch and raiment calm that hid<br />A breast +if faded now, yet happier far<br />Than when in prime its youthful wave +first heaved<br />Rocking a sleeping Infant.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AT THE FEAST OF KNOCK CAE;<br />OR, THE FOUNDING OF +MUNGRET.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Saint Patrick, being bidden to a feast, discourses<br /> on +the way against the pride of the Bards, for whom<br /> Fiacc +pleads. Derball, a scoffer, requires the Saint<br /> to +remove a mountain. He kneels down and prays, and<br /> Derball +avers that the mountain moved.<br /> Notwithstanding, +Derball believes not, but departs.<br /> The Saint +declares that he saw not whether the<br /> mountain +moved. He places Nessan over his convent at<br /> Mungret +because he had given a little wether to the<br /> hungry. +Nessan’s mother grudged the gift; and Saint<br /> Patrick +prophesies that her grave shall not be in her<br /> son’s +church.</i></p> +<p>In Limneach, <a name="citation101"></a><a href="#footnote101">{101}</a> +ere he reached it, fame there ran<br />Of Patrick’s words and +works. Before his foot<br />Aileel had fallen, loud wailing, with +his wife,<br />And cried, “Our child is slain by savage beasts;<br />But +thou, O prophet, if that God thou serv’st<br />Be God indeed, +restore him!” Patrick turned<br />To Malach, praised of +all men. “Brother, kneel,<br />And raise yon child.” +But Malach answered, “Nay,<br />Lest, tempting God, His service +I should shame.”<br />Then Patrick, “Answer of the base +is thine;<br />And base shall be that house thou build’st on earth,<br />Little, +and low. A man may fail in prayer:<br />What then? Thank +God! the fault is ours not His,<br />And ours alone the shame.” +The Apostle turned<br />To Ibar, and to Ailbè, bishops twain,<br />And +bade them raise the child. They heard and knelt:<br />And Patrick +knelt between them; and these three<br />Upheaved a wondrous strength +of prayer; and lo!<br />All pale, yet shining, rose the child, and sat,<br />Lifting +small hands, and preached to those around,<br />And straightway they +believed, and were baptized.</p> +<p>Thus with loud rumour all the land was full,<br />And some believed; +some doubted; and a chief,<br />Lonan, the son of Eire, that half believed,<br />Willing +to draw from Patrick wonder and sign,<br />By messengers besought him, +saying, “Come,<br />For in thy reverence waits thy servant’s +feast<br />Spread on Knock Cae.” That pleasant hill ascends<br />Westward +of Ara, girt by rivers twain,<br />Maigue, lily-lighted, and the “Morning +Star”<br />Once “Samhair” named, that eastward through +the woods<br />Winding, upon its rapids earliest meets<br />The morn, +and flings it far o’er mead and plain.</p> +<p>From Limneach therefore Patrick, while the dawn<br />Still dusk, +its joyous secret kept, went forth,<br />O’er dustless road soon +lost in dewy fields,<br />And groves that, touched by wakening winds, +began<br />To load damp airs with scent. That time it was<br />When +beech leaves lose their silken gloss, and maids<br />From whitest brows +depose the hawthorn white,<br />Red rose in turn enthroning. Earliest +gleams<br />Glimmered on leaves that shook like wings of birds:<br />Saint +Patrick marked them well. He turned to Fiacc -<br />“God +might have changed to Pentecostal tongues<br />The leaves of all the +forests in the world,<br />And bade them sing His love! He wrought +not thus:<br />A little hint He gives us and no more.<br />Alone the +willing see. Thus they sin less<br />Who, if they saw, seeing +would disbelieve.<br />Hark to that note! O foolish woodland choirs!<br />Ye +sing but idle loves; and, idler far,<br />The bards sing war - war only!”</p> +<p> Answered +thus<br />The monk bard-loving: “Sing it! Ay, and make<br />The +keys of all the tempests hang on zones<br />Of those cloud-spirits! +They, too, can ‘bind and loose:’<br />A bard incensed hath +proved a kingdom’s doom!<br />Such Aidan. Upon cakes of +meal his host,<br />King Aileach, fed him in a fireless hall:<br />The +bard complained not - ay, but issuing forth,<br />Sang in dark wood +a keen and venomed song<br />That raised on the king’s countenance +plague-spots three;<br />Who saw him named them Scorn, Dishonour, Shame,<br />And +blighted those three oak trees nigh his door.<br />What next? +Before a month that realm lay drowned<br />In blood; and fire went o’er +the opprobrious house!”<br />Thus spake the youth, and blushed +at his own zeal<br />For bardic fame; then added, “Strange the +power<br />Of song! My father, do I vainly dream<br />Oft thinking +that the bards, perchance the birds,<br />Sing something vaster than +they think or know?<br />Some fire immortal lives within their strings:<br />Therefore +the people love them. War divine,<br />God’s war on sin +- true love-song best and sweetest -<br />Perforce they chaunt in spirit, +not wars of clans:<br />Yea, one day, conscious, they shall sing that +song;<br />One day by river clear of south or north,<br />Pagan no more, +the laurelled head shall rise,<br />And chaunt the Warfare of the Realm +of Souls,<br />The anguish and the cleansing, last the crown -<br />Prelude +of songs celestial!”</p> +<p> Patrick +smiled:<br />“Still, as at first, a lover of the bards!<br />Hard +task was mine to win thee to the cowl!<br />Dubtach, thy master, sole +in Tara’s hall<br />Who made me reverence, mocked my quest. +He said,<br />‘Fiacc thou wouldst? - my Fiacc? Few days +gone by<br />I sent the boy with poems to the kings;<br />He loves me: +hardly will he leave the songs<br />To wear thy tonsure!’ +As he spake, behold,<br />Thou enter’dst. Sudden hands on +Dubtach’s head<br />I laid, as though to gird with tonsure crown:<br />Then +rose thy clamour, ‘Erin’s chief of bards<br />A tonsured +man! Me, father, take, not him!<br />Far less the loss to Erin +and the songs!’<br />Down knelt’st thou; and, ere long, +old Dubtach’s floor<br />Shone with thy vernal locks, like forest +paths<br />Made gold by leaves of autumn!”</p> +<p> As +he spake,<br />The sun, new-risen, flashed on a breast of wood<br />That +answered from a thousand jubilant throats:<br />Then Fiacc, with all +their music in his face,<br />Resumed: “My father, upon Tara’s +steep<br />Patient thou sat’st whole months, sifting with care<br />The +laws of Eire, recasting for all time,<br />Ill laws from good dissevering, +as that Day<br />Shall sever tares from wheat. I see thee still,<br />As +then we saw - thy clenched hand lost in beard<br />Propping thy chin; +thy forehead wrinkle-trenched<br />Above that wondrous tome, the ‘Senchus +Mohr,’<br />Like his, that Hebrew lawgiver’s, who sat<br />Throned +on the clouded Mount, while far below<br />The Tribes waited in awe. +Now answer make!<br />Three bishops, and three brehons, and three kings.<br />Ye +toiled - who helped thee best?” “Dubtach, the bard,”<br />Patrick +replied - “Yea, wise was he, and knew<br />Man’s heart like +his own strings.” “All bards are wise,”<br />Shouted +the youth, “except when war they wage<br />On thee, the wisest. +In their music bath<br />They cleanse man’s heart, not less, and +thus prepare,<br />Though hating thee, thy way. The bards are +wise<br />For all except themselves. Shall God not save them,<br />He +who would save the worst? Such grace were hard<br />Unless, death +past, their souls to birds might change,<br />And in the darksomest +grove of Paradise<br />Lament, amerced, their error, yet rejoice<br />In +souls that walked obedient!” “Darksomest grove,”<br />Patrick +made answer; “darksome is their life;<br />Darksome their pride, +their love, their joys, their hopes;<br />Darksome, though gleams of +happier lore they have,<br />Their light! Seest thou yon forest +floor, and o’er it,<br />The ivy’s flash - earth-light? +Such light is theirs:<br />By such can no man walk.”</p> +<p> Thus, +gay or grave,<br />Conversed they, while the Brethren paced behind;<br />Till +now the morn crowded each cottage door<br />With clustered heads. +They reached ere long in woods<br />A hamlet small. Here on the +weedy thatch<br />White fruit-bloom fell: through shadow, there, went +round<br />The swinging mill-wheel tagged with silver fringe;<br />Here +rang the mallet; there was heard remote<br />The one note of the love-contented +bird.<br />Though warm the sun, in shade the young spring morn<br />Was +edged with winter yet, and icy film<br />Glazed the deep ruts. +The swarthy smith worked hard,<br />And working sang; the wheelwright +toiled close by;<br />An armourer next to these: through flaming smoke<br />Glared +the fierce hands that on the anvil fell<br />In thunder down. +A sorcerer stood apart<br />Kneading Death’s messenger, that missile +ball,<br />The <i>Lia Laimbhè</i>. To his heart he clasped +it,<br />And o’er it muttered spells with flatteries mixed:<br />“Hail, +little daughter mine! ’Twixt hand and heart<br />I knead +thee! From the Red Sea came that sand<br />Which, blent with viper’s +poison, makes thy flesh!<br />Be thou no shadow wandering on the air!<br />Rush +through the battle gloom as red-combed snake<br />Cleaves the blind +waters! On! like Witch’s glance,<br />Or forkèd flash, +or shaft of summer pest,<br />And woe to him that meets thee! +Mouth blood-red<br />My daughter hath: - not healing be her kiss!”<br />Thus +he. In shade he stood, and phrensy-fired;<br />And yet he marked +who watched him. Without word<br />Him Patrick passed; but spake +to all the rest<br />With voice so kindly reverent, “Is not this,”<br />Men +asked, “the preacher of the ‘Tidings Good?’”<br />“What +tidings? Has he found a mine?” “He speaks<br />To +princes as to brothers; to the hind<br />As we to princes’ children! +Yea, when mute,<br />Saith not his face ‘Rejoice’?”</p> +<p> At +times the Saint<br />Laid on the head of age his strong right hand,<br />Gentle +as touch of soft-accosting eyes;<br />And once before an open door he +stopped,<br />Silent. Within, all glowing like a rose,<br />A +mother stood for pleasure of her babes<br />That - in them still the +warmth of couch late left -<br />Around her gambolled. On his +face, as hers,<br />Their sport regarding, long time lay the smile;<br />Then +crept a shadow o’er it, and he spake<br />In sadness: “Woman! +when a hundred years<br />Have passed, with opening flower and falling +snow,<br />Where then will be thy children?” Like a cloud<br />Fear +and great wrath fell on her. From the wall<br />She snatched a +battle-axe and raised it high<br />In both hands, clamouring, “Wouldst +thou slay my babes?”<br />He answered, “I would save them. +Woman, hear!<br />Seest thou yon floating shape? It died a worm;<br />It +lives, the blue-winged angel of spring meads.<br />Thy children, likewise, +if they serve my King,<br />Death past, shall find them wings.” +Then to her cheek<br />The bloom returned, and splendour to her eye;<br />And +catching to her breast, that larger swelled,<br />A child, she wept, +“Oh, would that he might live<br />For ever! Prophet, speak! +thy words are good!<br />Their father, too, must hear thee.” +Patrick said,<br />“Not so; nor falls this seed on every road;”<br />Then +added thus: “You child, by all the rest<br />Cherished as though +he were some infant God,<br />Is none of thine.” She answered, +“None of ours;<br />A great chief sent him here for fosterage.”<br />Then +he: “All men on earth the children are<br />Of One who keeps them +here in fosterage:<br />They see not yet His face; but He sees them,<br />Yea, +and decrees their seasons and their times:<br />Like infants, they must +learn Him first by touch,<br />Through nature, and her gifts - by hearing +next,<br />The hearing of the ear, and that is Faith -<br />By Vision +last. Woman, these things are hard;<br />But thou to Limneach +come in three days’ time,<br />Likewise thy husband; there, by +Sangul’s Well,<br />Thou shalt know all.”</p> +<p> The +Saint had reached ere long<br />That festal mount. Thousands with +bannered line<br />Scaled it light-hearted. Never favourite lamb<br />In +ribands decked shone brighter than that hour<br />The fair flank of +Knock Cae. Heath-scented airs<br />Lightened the clambering toil. +At times the Saint<br />Stayed on their course the crowds, and towards +the Truth<br />Drew them by parable, or record old,<br />Oftener by +question sage. Not all believed:<br />Of such was Derball. +Man of wealth and wit,<br />Nor wise, nor warlike, toward the Saint +he strode<br />With bubble-seething brain, and head high tossed,<br />And +cried, “Great Seer! remove yon mountain blue,<br />Cenn Abhrat, +by thy prayer! That done, to thee<br />Fealty I pledge.” +Saint Patrick knelt in prayer:<br />Soon Derball cried, “The central +ridge descends; -<br />Southward, beyond it, Longa’s lake shines +out<br />In sunlight flashing!” At his word drew near<br />The +men of Erin. Derball homeward turned,<br />Mocking: “Believe +who will, believe not I!<br />Me more imports it o’er my foodful +fields<br />To draw the Maigue’s rich waters than to stare<br />At +moving hills.” But certain of that throng,<br />Light men, +obsequious unto Derball’s laugh,<br />Questioned of Patrick if +the mountain moved.<br />He answered, “On the ground mine eyes +were fixed;<br />Nought saw I. Haply, through defect of mine,<br />It +moved not. Derball said the mountain moved;<br />Yet kept he not +his pledge, but disbelieved.<br />‘Faith can move mountains.’ +Never said my King<br />That mountains moved could move reluctant faith<br />In +unbelieving heart.” With sad, calm voice<br />He spake; +and Derball’s laughter frustrate died.</p> +<p> Meantime, high up on that thyme-scented hill<br />By +shadows swept, and lights, and rapturous winds,<br />Lonan prepared +the feast, and, with that chief,<br />Mantan, a deacon. Tables +fair were spread;<br />And tents with branches gay. Beside those +tents<br />Stood the sweet-breathing, mournful, slow-eyed kine<br />With +hazel-shielded horns, and gave their milk<br />Gravely to merry maidens. +Low the sun<br />Had fallen, when, Patrick near the summit now,<br />There +burst on him a wandering troop, wild-eyed,<br />With scant and quaint +array. O’er sunburnt brows<br />They wore sere wreaths; +their piebald vests were stained,<br />And lean their looks, and sad: +some piped, some sang,<br />Some tossed the juggler’s ball. +“From far we came,”<br />They cried; “we faint with +hunger; give as food!”<br />Upon them Patrick bent a pitying eye,<br />And +said, “Where Lonan and where Mantan toil<br />Go ye, and pray +them, for mine honour’s sake,<br />To gladden you with meat.” +But Lonan said,<br />And Mantan, “Nay, but when the feast is o’er,<br />The +fragments shall be yours.” With darkening brow<br />The +Saint of that denial heard, and cried,<br />“He cometh from the +North, even now he cometh,<br />For whom the Blessing is reserved; he +cometh<br />Bearing a little wether at his back:”<br />And, straightway, +through the thicket evening-dazed<br />A shepherd - by him walked his +mother - pushed,<br />Bearing a little wether. Patrick said,<br />“Give +them to eat. They hunger.” Gladly then<br />That shepherd +youth gave them the wether small:<br />With both his hands outstretched, +and liberal smile,<br />He gave it, though, with angry eye askance<br />His +mother grudged it sore. The wether theirs,<br />As though earth-swallowed, +vanished that wild tribe,<br />Fearing that mother’s eye.</p> +<p> Then +Patrick spake<br />To Lonan, “Zealous is thy service, friend;<br />Yet +of thy house no king shall sit on throne,<br />No bishop bless the people.” +Turning then<br />To Mantan, thus he spake, “Careful art thou<br />Of +many things; not less that church thou raisest<br />Shall not be of +the honoured in the land;<br />And in its chancel waste the mountain +kine<br />Shall couch above thy grave.” To Nessan last<br />Thus +spake he: “Thou that didst the hungry feed,<br />The poor of Christ, +that know not yet His name,<br />And, helping them that cried to me +for help,<br />Cherish mine honour, like a palm, one day,<br />Shall +rise thy greatness.” Nessan’s mother old<br />For +pardon knelt. He blessed her hoary head,<br />Yet added, mournful, +“Not within the Church<br />That Nessan serves shall lie his mother’s +grave.”<br />Then Nessan he baptized, and on him bound<br />Ere +long the deacon’s grade, and placed him, later,<br />Priest o’er +his church at Mungret. Centuries ten<br />It stood, a convent +round it as a star<br />Forth sending beams of glory and of grace<br />O’er +woods Teutonic and the Tyrrhene Sea.<br />Yet Nessan’s mother +in her son’s great church<br />Slept not; nor where the mass bell +tinkled low:<br />West of the church her grave, to his - her son’s +-<br />Neighbouring, yet severed by the chancel wall.</p> +<p>Thus from the morning star to evening star<br />Went by that day. +In Erin many such<br />Saint Patrick lived, using well pleased the chance,<br />Or +great or small, since all things come from God:<br />And well the people +loved him, being one<br />Who sat amid their marriage feasts, and saw,<br />Where +sin was not, in all things beauty and love.<br />But, ere he passed +from Munster, longing fell<br />On Patrick’s heart to view in +all its breadth<br />Her river-flood, and bless its western waves;<br />Therefore, +forth journeying, to that hill he went,<br />Highest among the wave-girt, +heathy hills,<br />That still sustains his name, and saw the flood<br />At +widest stretched, and that green Isle <a name="citation111"></a><a href="#footnote111">{111}</a> +hard by,<br />And northern Thomond. From its coasts her sons<br />Rushed +countless forth in skiff and coracle<br />Smiting blue wave to white, +till Sheenan’s sound<br />Ceased, in their clamour lost. +That hour from God<br />Power fell on Patrick; and in spirit he saw,<br />Invisible +to flesh, the western coasts,<br />And the ocean way, and, far beyond, +that land<br />The Future’s heritage, and prophesied<br />Of Brendan +who ere long in wicker boat<br />Should over-ride the mountains of the +deep,<br />Shielded by God, and tread - no fable then -<br />Fabled +Hesperia. Last of all he saw<br />More near, thy hermit home, +Senanus; - ‘Hail,<br />Isle of blue ocean and the river’s +mouth!<br />The People’s Lamp, their Counsel’s Head, is +thine!”<br />That hour shone out through cloud the westering sun<br />And +paved the wave with fire: that hour not less<br />Strong in his God, +westward his face he set,<br />Westward and north, and spread his arms +abroad,<br />And drew the blessing down, and flung it far:<br />“A +blessing on the warriors, and the clans,<br />A blessing on high field, +and golden vales,<br />On sea-like plain and on the showery ridge,<br />On +river-ripple, cliff, and murmuring deep,<br />On seaward peaks, harbours, +and towns, and ports;<br />A blessing on the sand beneath the ships:<br />On +all descend the Blessing!” Thus he prayed,<br />Great-hearted; +and from all the populous hills<br />And waters came the People’s +vast “Amen!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND KING EOCHAID.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>King Eochaid submits himself to the Christian Law because<br /> Saint +Patrick has delivered his son from bonds, yet<br /> only +after making a pact that he is not, like the<br /> meaner +sort, to be baptized. In this stubbornness he<br /> persists, +though otherwise a kindly king; and after<br /> many +years, he dies. Saint Patrick had refused to<br /> see +his living face; yet after death he prays by the<br /> death-bed. +Life returns to the dead; and sitting up,<br /> like +one sore amazed, he demands baptism. The Saint<br /> baptizes +him, and offers him a choice either to reign<br /> over +all Erin for fifteen years, or to die. Eochaid<br /> chooses +to die, and so departs.</i></p> +<p>Eochaid, son of Crimther, reigned, a King<br />Northward in Clochar. +Dearer to his heart<br />Than kingdom or than people or than life<br />Was +he, the boy long wished for. Dear was she,<br />Keinè, +his daughter. Babyhood’s white star,<br />Beauteous in childhood, +now in maiden dawn<br />She witched the world with beauty. From +her eyes<br />A light went forth like morning o’er the sea;<br />Sweeter +her voice than wind on harp; her smile<br />Could stay men’s breath. +With wingèd feet she trod<br />The yearning earth that, if it +could, like waves<br />Had swelled to meet their pressure. Ah, +the pang!<br />Beauty, the immortal promise, like a cheat<br />If unwed +glides into the shadow land,<br />Childless and twice defeated. +Beauty wed<br />To mate unworthy, suffers worse eclipse -<br />“Ill +choice between two ills!” thus spleenfull cried<br />Eochaid; +but not his the pensive grief:<br />He would have kept his daughter +in his house<br />For ever; yet, since better might not be,<br />Himself +he chose her out a mate, and frowned,<br />And said, “The dog +must have her.” But the maid<br />Wished not for marriage. +Tender was her heart;<br />Yet though her twentieth year had o’er +her flown,<br />And though her tears had dewed a mother’s grave,<br />In +her there lurked, not flower of womanhood,<br />But flower of angel +texture. All around<br />To her was love. The crown of earthly +love<br />Seemed but its crown of mockery. Love Divine -<br />For +that she yearned, and yet she knew it not;<br />Knew less that love +she feared.</p> +<p> She +walked in woods<br />While all the green leaves, drenched by sunset’s +gold,<br />Upon a shower-bespangled sycamore<br />Shivered, and birds +among them choir on choir<br />Chanted her praise - or spring’s. +“Ill sung,” she laughed,<br />“My dainty minstrels! +Grant to me your wings,<br />And I for them will teach you song of mine:<br />Listen!” +A carol from her lip there gushed<br />That, ere its time, might well +have called the spring<br />From winter’s coldest cave. +It ceased; she turned.<br />Beside her Patrick stood. His hand +he raised<br />To bless her. Awed, though glad, upon her knees<br />The +maiden sank. His eye, as if through air,<br />Saw through that +stainless soul, and, crystal-shrined<br />Therein, its inmate, Truth. +That other Truth<br />Instant to her he preached - the Truth Divine +-<br />(For whence is caution needful, save from sin?)<br />And those +two Truths, each gazing upon each,<br />Embraced like sisters, thenceforth +one. For her<br />No arduous thing was Faith, ere yet she heard<br />In +heart believing: and, as when a babe<br />Marks some bright shape, if +near or far, it knows not,<br />And stretches forth a witless hand to +clasp<br />Phantom or form, even so with wild surmise<br />And guesses +erring first, and questions apt,<br />She chased the flying light, and +round it closed<br />At last, and found it substance. “This +is He.”<br />Then cried she, “This, whom every maid should +love,<br />Conqueror self-sacrificed of sin and death:<br />How shall +we find, how please Him, how be nigh?”<br />Patrick made answer: +“They that do His will<br />Are nigh Him.” And the +virgin: “Of the nigh,<br />Say, who is nighest?” Thus, +that wingèd heart<br />Rushed to its rest. He answered: +“Nighest they<br />Who offer most to Him in sacrifice,<br />As +when the wedded leaves her father’s house<br />And cleaveth to +her husband. Nighest they<br />Who neither father’s house +nor husband’s house<br />Desire, but live with Him in endless +prayer,<br />And tend Him in His poor.” Aloud she cried,<br />“The +nearest to the Highest, that is love; -<br />I choose that bridal lot!” +He answered, “Child,<br />The choice is God’s. For +each, that lot is best<br />To which He calls us.” Lifting +then pure hands,<br />Thus wept the maiden: “Call me, Virgin-born!<br />Will +not the Mother-Maid permit a maid<br />To sit beside those nail-pierced +feet, and wipe,<br />With hair untouched by wreaths of mortal love,<br />The +dolorous blood-stains from them? Stranger guest,<br />Come to +my father’s tower! Against my will,<br />Against his own, +in bridal bonds he binds me:<br />My suit he might resist: he cannot +thine!”</p> +<p> She spake; and by her Patrick paced with feet<br />To +hers accordant. Soon they reached that fort:<br />Central within +a circling rath earth-built<br />It stood; the western tower of stone; +the rest,<br />Not high, but spreading wide, of wood compact;<br />For +thither many a forest hill had sent<br />His wind-swept daughter brood, +relinquishing<br />Converse with cloud and beam and rain forever<br />To +echo back the revels of a Prince.<br />Mosaic was the work, beam laced +with beam<br />In quaint device: high up, o’er many a door<br />Shone +blazon rich of vermeil, or of green,<br />Or shield of bronze, glittering +with veinèd boss,<br />Chalcedony or agate, or whate’er<br />The +wave-lipped marge of Neagh’s broad lake might boast,<br />Or ocean’s +shore, northward from Brandon’s Head<br />To where the myriad-pillared +cliffs hang forth<br />Their stony organs o’er the lonely main.<br />And +trembles yet the pilgrim, noting at eve<br />The pride Fomorian, and +that Giant Way <a name="citation116"></a><a href="#footnote116">{116}</a><br />Trending +toward eastern Alba. From his throne<br />Above the semicirque +of grassy seats<br />Whereon by Brehons and by Ollambs girt<br />Daily +be judged his people, rose the king<br />And bade the stranger welcome.</p> +<p> Day +to day<br />And night to night succeeded. In fit time,<br />For +Patrick, sometimes sudden, oft was slow,<br />He spoke his Master’s +message. At the close,<br />As though in trance, the warriors +circling stood<br />With hands outstretched; the Druids downward frowned,<br />Silent; +and like a strong man awed for once,<br />Eochaid round him stared. +A little while,<br />And from him passed the amazement. Buoyant +once more,<br />And bright like trees fresher for thunder-shower,<br />With +all his wonted aspect, bold and keen,<br />He answered: “O my +prophet, words, words, words!<br />We too have Prophets. Better +thrice our Bards;<br />Yet, being no better these than trumpet’s +blast,<br />The trumpet more I prize. Had words been work,<br />Myself +in youth had led the loud-voiced clan!<br />Deeds I preferred. +What profit e’er had I<br />From windy marvels? Once with +me in war<br />A seer there camped that, bending back his head,<br />Fit +rites performed, and upward gazing, blew<br />With rounded lips into +the heaven of heavens<br />Druidic breath. That heaven was changed +to cloud,<br />Cloud that on borne to Clairè’s hated bound<br />Down +fell, a rain of blood! To me what gain?<br />Within three weeks +my son was trapped and snared<br />By Aodh of Hy Brinin, king whose +hosts<br />Number my warriors fourfold. Three long years<br />Beyond +those purple mountains in the west<br />Hostage he lies.” +Lightly Eochaid spake,<br />And turned: but shaken chin betrayed that +grief<br />Which lived beneath his lightness.</p> +<p> Sudden +thronged<br />High on the neighbouring hills a jubilant troop,<br />Their +banners waving, while the midway vale<br />With harp and horn resounded. +Patrick spake:<br />“Rejoice! thy son returns! not sole he comes,<br />But +in his hand a princess, fair and good,<br />A kingdom for her dowry. +Aodh’s realm,<br />By me late left, welcomed <i>my</i> King with +joy:<br />All fire the mountains shone. ‘The God I serve,’<br />Thus +spake I, Aodh pointing to those fires,<br />‘In mountains of rejoicing +hath no joy<br />While sad beyond them sits a childless man,<br />His +only son thy captive. Captive groaned<br />Creation; Bethlehem’s +Babe set free the slave.<br />For His sake loose thy thrall!’ +A sweeter voice<br />Pleaded with mine, his daughter’s ’mid +her tears.<br />‘Aodh,’ I said, ‘these two each other +love!<br />What think’st thou? He who shaped the linnet’s +nest,<br />Indifferent unto Him are human loves?<br />Arise! thy work +make perfect! Righteous deeds<br />Are easier whole than half.’ +In thought awhile<br />Old Aodh sat; then to his daughter turned,<br />And +thus, imperious even in kindness, spake:<br />‘Well fought the +youth ere captured, like the son<br />Of kings, and worthy to be sire +of kings:<br />Wed him this hour: and in three days, at eve,<br />Restore +him to his father!’ King, this hour<br />Thou know’st +if Christ’s strong Faith be empty words,<br />Or truth, and armed +with power.”</p> +<p> That +night was passed<br />In feasting and in revel, high and low<br />Rich +with a common gladness. Many a torch<br />Flared in the hand of +servitors hill-sent,<br />That standing, each behind a guest, retained<br />Beneath +that roof clouded by banquet steam<br />Their mountain wildness. +Here, the splendour glanced<br />On goblet jewel-chased and dark with +wine,<br />Swift circling; there, on walls with antlers spread,<br />And +rich with yew-wood carvings, flower or bud,<br />Or clustered grape +pendent in russet gleam<br />As though from nature’s hand. +A hall hard by<br />Echoed the harp that now nor kindled rage,<br />Nor +grief condoled, nor sealed with slumber’s balm<br />Tempestuous +spirits, triumphs three of song,<br />But raised to rapture, mirth. +Far shone that hall<br />Glowing with hangings steeped in every tinct<br />The +boast of Erin’s dyeing-vats, now plain,<br />Now pranked with +bird or beast or fish, whate’er<br />Fast-flying shuttle from +the craftsman’s thought<br />Catching, on bore through glimmering +warp and woof,<br />A marvellous work; now traced by broiderer’s +hand<br />With legends of Ferdìadh and of Meave,<br />Even to +the golden fringe. The warriors paced<br />Exulting. Oft +they showed their merit’s prize,<br />Poniard or cup, tribute +ordained of tribes<br />From age to age, Eochaid’s right, on them<br />With +equal right devolving. Slow they moved<br />In mantle now of crimson, +now of blue,<br />Clasped with huge torque of silver or of gold<br />Just +where across the snowy shirt there strayed<br />Tendril of purple thread. +With jewelled fronts<br />Beauteous in pride ’mid light of winsome +smiles,<br />Over the rushes green with slender foot<br />In silver +slipper hid, the ladies passed,<br />Answering with eyes not lips the +whispered praise,<br />Or loud the bride extolling - “When was +seen<br />Such sweetness and such grace?”</p> +<p> Meantime +the king<br />Conversed with Patrick. Vexed he heard announced<br />His +daughter’s high resolve: but still his looks<br />Went wandering +to his son. “My boy! Behold him!<br />His valour and +his gifts are all from me:<br />My first-born!” From the +dancing throng apart<br />His daughter stood the while, serene and pale,<br />Down-gazing +on that lily in her hand<br />With face of one who notes not shapes +around,<br />But dreams some happy dream. The king drew nigh,<br />And +on her golden head the sceptre staff<br />Leaning, but not to hurt her, +thus began:<br />“Your prophets of the day, I trust them not!<br />If +sent from God, why came they not long since?<br />Our Druids came before +them, and, belike,<br />Shall after them abide! With these new +seers<br />I count not Patrick. Things that Patrick says<br />I +ofttimes thought. His lineage too is old -<br />Wide-browed, grey-eyed, +with downward lessening face,<br />Not like your baser breeds, with +questing eyes<br />And jaw of dog. But for thy Heavenly Spouse,<br />I +like not Him! At least, wed Cormac first!<br />If rude his ways, +yet noble is his name,<br />And being but poor the man will bide with +me:<br />He’s brave, and likeliest soon in fight may fall!<br />When +Cormac dies, wed next - “ a music clash<br />Forth bursting drowned +his words.</p> +<p> Three +days passed by:<br />To Patrick, then preparing to depart,<br />Thus +spake Eochaid in the ears of all:<br />“Herald Heaven-missioned +of the Tidings Good!<br />Those tidings I have pondered. They +are true:<br />I for that truth’s sake, and in honour bound<br />By +reason of my son set free, resolve<br />The same, upon conditions, to +believe,<br />And suffer all my people to believe,<br />Just terms exacted. +Briefly these they are:<br />First, after death, I claim admittance +frank<br />Into thy Heavenly Kingdom: next, till death<br />For me exemption +from that Baptism Rite,<br />Imposed on kerne and hind. Experience-taught,<br />I +love not rigid bond and written pledge:<br />’Tis well to brand +your mark on sheep or lamb:<br />Kings are of lion breed; and of my +house<br />’Tis known there never yet was king baptized.<br />This +pact concluded, preach within my realm<br />Thy Faith; and wed my daughter +to thy God.<br />Not scholarly am I to know what joy<br />A maid can +find in psalm, and cell, and spouse<br />Unseen: yet ever thus my sentence +stood,<br />‘Choose each his way.’ My son restored, +her loss<br />To me is loss the less.” Thus spake the king.</p> +<p>Then Patrick, on whose face the princess bent<br />The supplication +softly strong of eyes<br />Like planets seen through mist, Eochaid’s +heart<br />Knowing, which miracle had hardened more,<br />Made answer, +“King, a man of jests art thou,<br />Claiming free range in heaven, +and yet its gate<br />Thyself close barring! In thy daughter’s +prayers<br />Belike thou trustest, that where others creep<br />Thou +shalt its golden bastions over-fly.<br />Far otherwise than in that +way thou ween’st,<br />That daughter’s prayers shall speed +thee. With thy word<br />I close, that word to frustrate. +God be with thee!<br />Thou living, I return not. Fare thee well.”</p> +<p> Thus speaking, by the hand he took the maid,<br />And +led her through the concourse. At her feet<br />The poor fell +low, kissing her garment’s hem,<br />And many brought their gifts, +and all their prayers,<br />And old men wept. A maiden train snow-garbed,<br />Her +steps attending, whitened plain and field,<br />As when at times dark +glebe, new-turned, is changed<br />To white by flock of ocean birds +alit,<br />Or inland blown by storm, or hunger-urged<br />To filch the +late-sown grain. Her convent home<br />Ere long received her. +There Ethembria ruled,<br />Green Erin’s earliest nun. Of +princely race,<br />She in past years before the font of Christ<br />Had +knelt at Patrick’s feet. Once more she sought him:<br />Over +the lovely, lovelier change had passed,<br />As when on childish girlhood, +’mid a shower<br />Of lilies earthward wafted, maidenhood<br />In +peacefuller state assumes her spotless throne;<br />So, from that maiden, +vestal now had risen: -<br />Lowlier she seemed, more tender, soft, +and grave,<br />Yet loftier; hushed in quiet more divine,<br />Yet wonder-awed. +Again she knelt, and o’er<br />The bending queenly head, till +then unbent,<br />He flung that veil which woman bars from man<br />To +make her more than woman. Nigh to death<br />The Saint forgat +not her. With her remained<br />Keinè; but Patrick dwelt +far off at Saul.</p> +<p> Years came and went: yet neither chance nor change,<br />Nor +war, nor peace, nor warnings from the priests,<br />Nor whispers ’mid +the omen-mongering crowd,<br />Might from Eochaid charm his wayward +will,<br />Nor reasonings of the wise that still preferred<br />Safe +port to victory’s pride. He reasoned too,<br />For confident +in his reasonings was the king,<br />Reckoning on pointed fingers every +link<br />That clenched his mail of proof. “On Patrick’s +word<br />Ye tell me Baptism is the gate of Heaven:<br />Attend, Sirs! +I have Patrick’s word no less<br />That I shall enter Heaven. +What need I more?<br />If, Death, truth-speaker, shows that Patrick +lied,<br />Plain is my right against him! Heaven not won,<br />Patrick +bare hence my daughter through a fraud:<br />He must restore her fourfold +- daughters four,<br />As fair and good. If not, the prophet’s +pledge<br />For honour’s sake his Master must redeem,<br />And +unbaptized receive me. Dupes are ye!<br />Doomed ’mid the +common flock, with branded fleece<br />Bleating to enter Heaven!”</p> +<p> The +years went by;<br />And weakness came. No more his small light +form<br />To reverent eyes seemed taller than it was:<br />No more the +shepherd watched him from the hill<br />Heading his hounds, and hoped +to catch his smile,<br />Yet feared his questions keen. The end +drew near.<br />Some wept, some railed; restless the warriors tramped;<br />The +Druids conned their late discountenanced spells;<br />The bard his lying +harpstrings spurned, so long<br />Healing, unhelpful now. But +far away,<br />Within that lonely convent tower from her<br />Who prayed +for ever, mightier rose the prayer.</p> +<p>Within the palace, now by usage old<br />To all flung open, all were +sore amazed,<br />All save the king. The leech beside the bed<br />Sobbed +where he stood, yet sware, “The fit will pass:<br />Ten years +the King may live.” Eochaid frowned:<br />“Shall I, +to patch thy fame, live ten years more,<br />My death-time come? +My seventy years are sped:<br />My sire and grandsire died at sixty-nine.<br />Like +Aodh, shall I lengthen out my days<br />Toothless, nor fit to vindicate +my clan,<br />Some losel’s song? The kingdom is my son’s!<br />Strike +from my little milk-white horse the shoes,<br />And loose him where +the freshets make the mead<br />Greenest in springtide. He must +die ere long;<br />And not to him did Patrick open Heaven.<br />Praise +be to Patrick’s God! May He my sins,<br />Known and unknown, +forgive!”</p> +<p> Backward +he sank<br />Upon his bed, and lay with eyes half closed,<br />Murmuring +at times one prayer, five words or six;<br />And twice or thrice he +spake of trivial things;<br />Then like an infant slumbered till the +sun,<br />Sinking beneath a great cloud’s fiery skirt,<br />Smote +his old eyelids. Waking, in his ears<br />The ripening cornfields +whispered ’neath the breeze,<br />For wide were all the casements +that the soul<br />By death delivered hindrance none might find<br />(Careful +of this the king); and thus he spake:<br />“Nought ever raised +my heart to God like fields<br />Of harvest, waving wide from hill to +hill,<br />All bread-full for my people. Hale me forth:<br />When +I have looked once more upon that sight<br />My blessing I will give +them, and depart.”</p> +<p>Then in the fields they laid him, and he spake.<br />“May He +that to my people sends the bread,<br />Send grace to all who eat it!” +With that word<br />His hands down-falling, back once more he sank,<br />And +lay as dead; yet, sudden, rising not,<br />Nor moving, nor his eyes +unclosing, said,<br />“My body in the tomb of ancient kings<br />Inter +not till beside it Patrick stands<br />And looks upon my brow.” +He spake, then sighed<br />A little sigh, and died.</p> +<p> Three +days, as when<br />Black thunder cloud clings fast to mountain brows,<br />So +to the nation clung the grief: three days<br />The lamentation sounded +on the hills<br />And rang around the pale blue meres, and rose<br />Shrill +from the bleeding heart of vale and glen,<br />And rocky isle, and ocean’s +moaning shore;<br />While by the bier the yellow tapers stood,<br />And +on the right side knelt Eochaid’s son,<br />Behind him all the +chieftains cloaked in black;<br />And on his left his daughter knelt, +the nun,<br />Behind her all her sisterhood, white-veiled,<br />Like +tombstones after snowstorm. Far away,<br />At “Saul of Patrick,” +dwelt the Saint when first<br />The king had sickened. Message +sent he none<br />Though knowing all; and when the end was nigh,<br />And +heralds now besought him day by day,<br />He made no answer till o’er +eastern seas<br />Advanced the third fair morning. Then he rose,<br />And +took the Staff of Jesus, and at eve<br />Beside the dead king standing, +on his brow<br />Fixed a sad eye. Aloud the people wept;<br />The +kneeling warriors eyed their lord askance;<br />The nuns intoned their +hymn. Above that hymn<br />A cry rang out: it was the daughter’s +prayer;<br />And after that was silence. By the dead<br />Still +stood the Saint, nor e’er removed his gaze.<br />Then - seen of +all - behold, the dead king’s hands<br />Rose slowly, as the weed +on wave upheaved<br />Without its will; and all the strengthless shape<br />In +cerements wrapped, as though by mastering voice<br />From the white +void evoked and realm of death,<br />Without its will, a gradual bulk +half rose,<br />The hoar head gazing forth. Upon the face<br />Had +passed a change, the greatest earth may know;<br />For what the majesty +of death began<br />The majesties of worlds unseen, and life<br />Resurgent +ere its time, had perfected,<br />All accidents of flesh and sorrowful +years<br />Cancelled and quelled. Yet horror from his eyes<br />Looked +out as though some vision once endured<br />Must cling to them for ever. +Patrick spake:<br />“Soul from the dead sent back once more to +earth<br />What seek’st thou from God’s Church?” +He answer made,<br />“Baptism.” Then Patrick o’er +him poured the might<br />Of healing waters in the Name Triune,<br />The +Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit;<br />And from his eyes the horror +passed, and light<br />Went from them, as the light of eyes that rest<br />On +the everlasting glory, while he spake:<br />“Tempest of darkness +drave me past the gates<br />Celestial, and, a moment’s space, +within<br />I heard the hymning of the hosts of God<br />That feed for +ever on the Bread of Life<br />As feed the nations on the harvest wheat.<br />Tempest +of darkness drave me to the gates<br />Of Anguish: then a cry came up +from earth,<br />Cry like my daughter’s when her mother died,<br />That +stayed the on-rushing whirlwind; yet mine eyes<br />Perforce looked +in, and, many a thousand years,<br />Branded upon them lay that woful +sight<br />Now washed from them for ever.” Patrick spake:<br />“This +day a twofold choice I give thee, son;<br />For fifteen years the rule +o’er Erin’s land,<br />Rule absolute, Ard-Righ o’er +lesser kings;<br />Or instant else to die, and hear once more<br />That +hymn celestial, and that Vision see<br />They see who sing that anthem.” +Light from God<br />Over that late dead countenance streamed amain,<br />Like +to his daughter’s now - more beauteous thrice -<br />Yet awful, +more than beauteous. “Rule o’er earth,<br />Rule without +end, were nought to that great hymn<br />Heard but a single moment. +I would die.”</p> +<p>Then Patrick, on him gazing, answered, “Die!”<br />And +died the king once more, and no man wept;<br />But on her childless +breast the nun sustained<br />Softly her father’s head.</p> +<p> That +night discourse<br />Through hall and court circled in whispers low.<br />First +one, “Was that indeed our king? But where<br />The sword-scar +and the wrinkles?” “Where,” rejoined,<br />Wide-eyed, +the next, “his little cranks and girds<br />The wisdom, and the +whim?” Then Patrick spake:<br />“Sirs, till this day +ye never saw your king;<br />The man ye doted on was but his mask,<br />His +picture - yea, his phantom. Ye have seen<br />At last the man +himself.” That night nigh sped,<br />While slowly o’er +the darkling woods went down,<br />Warned by the cold breath of the +up-creeping morn<br />Invisible yet nigh, the August moon,<br />Two +vestals, gliding past like moonlight gleams,<br />Conversed: one said, +“His daughter’s prayer prevailed!”<br />The second, +“Who may know the ways of God?<br />For this, may many a heart +one day rejoice<br />In hope! For this, the gift to many a man<br />Exceed +the promise; Faith’s invisible germ<br />Quickened with parting +breath; and Baptism given,<br />It may be, by an angel’s hand +unseen!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>SAINT PATRICK AND THE FOUNDING OF ARMAGH CATHEDRAL.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Saint Patrick repairs to Ardmacha, there to found the<br /> chief +church of Erin. For that purpose he demands of<br /> Dairè, +the king, a certain woody hill. The king<br /> refuses +it, and afterwards treats him with alternate<br /> scorn +and reverence; while the Saint, in each event<br /> alike, +makes the same answer, “Deo Gratias.” At last<br /> the +king concedes to him the hill; and on the<br /> summit +of it Saint Patrick finds a little white fawn<br /> asleep. +The men of Erin would have slain that fawn;<br /> but +the Saint carries it on his shoulder, and restores<br /> it +to its dam. Where the fawn lay, he places the<br /> altar +of his cathedral.</i></p> +<p>At Cluain Cain, in Ross, unbent yet old,<br />Dwelt Patrick long. +Its sweet and flowery sward<br />He to the rock had delved, with fixed +resolve<br />To build thereon Christ’s chiefest church in Eire.<br />Then +by him stood God’s angel, speaking thus:<br />“Not here, +but northward.” He replied, “O, would<br />This spot +might favour find with God! Behold!<br />Fair is it, and as meet +to clasp a church<br />As is a true heart in a virgin breast<br />To +clasp the Faith of Christ. The hinds around<br />Name it ‘the +beauteous meadow.’” “Fair it is,”<br />The +angel answered, “nor shall lack its crown.<br />Another’s +is its beauty. Here, one day<br />A pilgrim from the Britons sent +shall build,<br />And, later, what he builds shall pass to thine;<br />But +thou to Macha get thee.”</p> +<p> Patrick +then,<br />Obedient as that Patriarch Sire who faced<br />At God’s +command the desert, northward went<br />In holy silence. Soon +to him was lost<br />That green and purple meadow-sea, embayed<br />’Twixt +two descending woody promontories,<br />Its outlet girt with isles of +rock, its shores<br />Cream-white with meadow-sweet. Not once +he turned,<br />Climbing the uplands rough, or crossing streams<br />Swoll’n +by the melted snows. The Brethren paced<br />Behind; Benignus +first, his psalmist; next<br />Secknall, his bishop; next his brehon +Erc;<br />Mochta, his priest; and Sinell of the Bells;<br />Rodan, his +shepherd; Essa, Bite, and Tassach,<br />Workers of might in iron and +in stone,<br />God-taught to build the churches of the Faith<br />With +wisdom and with heart-delighting craft;<br />Mac Cairthen last, the +giant meek that oft<br />On shoulders broad bare Patrick through the +floods:<br />His rest was nigh. That hour they crossed a stream;<br />’Twas +deep, and, ’neath his load, the giant sighed.<br />Saint Patrick +said, “Thou wert not wont to sigh!”<br />He answered, “Old +I grow. Of them my mates<br />How many hast thou left in churches +housed<br />Wherein they rule and rest!” The Saint replied,<br />“Thee +also will I leave within a church<br />For rule and rest; not to mine +own too near<br />For rarely then should we be seen apart,<br />Nor +yet remote, lest we should meet no more.”<br />At Clochar soon +he placed him. There, long years<br />Mac Cairthen sat, its bishop.</p> +<p> As +they went,<br />Oft through the woodlands rang the battle-shout;<br />And +twice there rose above the distant hill<br />The smoke of hamlet fired. +Yet, none the less,<br />Spring-touched, the blackbird sang; the cowslip +changed<br />Green lawn to green and golden; and grey rock<br />And +river’s marge with primroses were starred;<br />Here shook the +windflower; there the blue-bells gleamed,<br />As though a patch of +sky had fallen on earth.</p> +<p>Then to Benignus spake the Saint: “My son,<br />If grief were +lawful in a world redeemed<br />The blood-stains on a land so strong +in faith,<br />So slack in love, might cloud the holiest brow,<br />Yea, +his whose head lay on the breast of Christ.<br />Clan wars with clan: +no injury is forgiven;<br />Like to the joy in stag-hunts is the war:<br />Alas! +for such what hope!” Benignus answered<br />“O Father, +cease not for this race to hope,<br />Lest they should hope no longer! +Hope they have;<br />Still say they, ‘God will snare us in the +end<br />Though wild.’” And Patrick, “Spirits +twain are theirs:<br />The stranger, and the poor, at every door<br />They +meet, and bid him in. The youngest child<br />Officious is in +service; maids prepare<br />The bath; men brim the wine-cup. Then, +forth borne,<br />Cities they fire and rich in spoil depart,<br />Greed +mixed with rage - an industry of blood!”<br />He spake, and thus +the younger made reply:<br />“Father, the stranger is the brother-man<br />To +them; the poor is neighbour. Septs remote<br />To them are alien +worlds. They know not yet<br />That rival clans are men.”</p> +<p> “That +know they shall,”<br />Patrick made answer, “when a race +far off<br />Tramples their race to clay! God sends abroad<br />His +plague of war that men on earth may know<br />Brother from foe, and +anguish work remorse.”<br />He spake, and after musings added +thus:<br />“Base of God’s kingdom is Humility -<br />I have +not spared to thunder o’er their pride;<br />Great kings have +I rebuked and signs sent forth,<br />And banned for their sake fruitful +plain, and bay;<br />Yet still the widow’s cry is on the air,<br />The +orphan’s wail!” Benignus answered mild,<br />“O +Father, not alone with sign and ban<br />Hast thou rebuked their madness. +Oftener far<br />Thy sweetness hath reproved them. Once in woods<br />Northward +of Tara as we tracked our way<br />Round us there gathered slaves who +felled the pines<br />For ship-masts. Scarred their hands, and +red with blood,<br />Because their master, Trian, thus had sworn,<br />‘Let +no man sharpen axe!’ Upon those hands<br />Gazing, they +wept soon as thy voice they heard,<br />Because that voice was soft. +Thou heard’st their tale;<br />Straight to that chieftain’s +castle went’st thou up,<br />And bound’st him with thy fast, +beside his gate<br />Sitting in silence till his heart should melt;<br />And +since he willed it not to melt, he died.<br />Then, in her arms two +babes, came forth the queen<br />Black-robed, and freed her slaves, +and gave them hire;<br />And, we returning after many years,<br />Filled +was that wood with homesteads; plots of corn<br />Rustled around them; +here were orchards; there<br />In trench or tank they steeped the bright +blue flax;<br />The saw-mill turned to use the wanton brook;<br />Murmured +the bee-hive; murmured household wheel;<br />Soft eyes looked o’er +it through the dusk; at work<br />The labourers carolled; matrons glad +and maids<br />Bare us the pail head-steadied, children flowers:<br />Last, +from her castle paced the queen, and led<br />In either hand her sons +whom thou hadst blest,<br />Thenceforth to stand thy priests. +The land believed;<br />And not through ban, or word, sharp-edged or +soft,<br />But silence and thy fast the ill custom died.”</p> +<p>He answered, “Christ, in Christ-like life expressed,<br />This, +this, not words, subdues a land to Christ;<br />And in this best Apostolate +all have part.<br />Ah me! that flower thou hold’st is strong +to preach<br />Creative Love, because itself is lovely;<br />But we, +the heralds of Redeeming Love,<br />Because we are unlovely in our lives,<br />Preach +to deaf ears! Yet theirs, theirs too, the sin.”<br />Benignus +made reply: “The race is old;<br />Not less their hearts are young. +Have patience with them!<br />For see, in spring the grave old oaks +push forth<br />Impatient sprays, wine-red: their strength matured,<br />These +sober down to verdure.” Patrick paused,<br />Then, brooding, +spake, as one who thinks, not speaks:<br />“A priest there walked +with me ten years and more;<br />Warrior in youth was he. One +day we heard<br />The shock of warring clans - I hear it still:<br />Within +him, as in darkening vase you note<br />The ascending wine, I watched +the passion mount: -<br />Sudden he dashed him down into the fight,<br />Nor +e’er to Christ returned.” Benignus answered;<br />“I +saw above a dusky forest roof<br />The glad spring run, leaving a track +sea-green:<br />Not straight she ran; and yet she reached her goal:<br />Later +I saw above green copse of thorn<br />The glad spring run, leaving a +track foam-white:<br />Not straight she ran; yet soon she conquered +all!<br />O Father, is it sinful to be glad<br />Here amid sin and sorrow? +Joy is strong,<br />Strongest in spring-tide! Mourners I have +known<br />That, homeward wending from the new-dug grave,<br />Against +their will, where sang the happy birds<br />Have felt the aggressive +gladness stir their hearts,<br />And smiled amid their tears.” +So babbled he,<br />Shamed at his spring-tide raptures.</p> +<p> As +they went,<br />Far on their left there stretched a mighty land<br />Of +forest-girdled hills, mother of streams:<br />Beyond it sank the day; +while round the west<br />Like giants thronged the great cloud-phantoms +towered.<br />Advancing, din they heard, and found in woods<br />A hamlet +and a field by war unscathed,<br />And boys on all sides running. +Placid sat<br />The village Elders; neither lacked that hour<br />The +harp that gently tranquillises age,<br />Yet wakes young hearts with +musical unrest,<br />Forerunner oft of love’s unrest. Ere +long<br />The measure changed to livelier: maid with maid<br />Danced +’mid the dancing shadows of the trees,<br />And youth with youth; +till now, the strangers near,<br />Those Elders welcomed them with act +benign;<br />And soon was slain the fatted kid, and soon<br />The lamb; +nor any asked till hunger’s rage<br />Was quelled, “Who +art thou?” Patrick made reply,<br />“A Priest of God.” +Then prayed they, “Offer thou<br />To Him our sacrifice! +Belike ’tis He<br />Who saves from war this hamlet hid in woods:<br />Unblest +be he who finds it!” Thus they spake,<br />The matrons, +not the youths. In friendly talk<br />The hours went by with laughter +winged and tale;<br />But when the moon, on rolling through the heavens,<br />Showered +through the leaves a dew of sprinkled light<br />O’er the dark +ground, the maidens garments brought<br />Woven in their quiet homes +when nights were long,<br />Red cloak and kirtle green, and laid them +soft,<br />Still with the wearers’ blameless beauty warm,<br />For +coverlet upon the warm dry grass,<br />Honouring the stranger guests. +For these they deemed<br />Their low-roofed cots too mean. Glad-hearted +rose<br />The Christian hymn, not timid: far it rang<br />Above the +woods. Ere long, their blissful rites<br />Fulfilled, the wanderers +laid them down and slept.</p> +<p>At midnight by the side of Patrick stood<br />Victor, God’s +Angel, saying, “Lo! thy work<br />Hath favour found and thou ere +long shalt die:<br />Thus therefore saith the Lord, ‘So long as +sea<br />Girdeth this isle, so long thy name shall hang<br />In splendour +o’er it, like the stars of God.’”<br />Then Patrick +said, “A boon! I crave a boon!”<br />The angel answered, +“Speak;” and Patrick said,<br />“Let them that with +me toiled, or in the years<br />To come shall toil, building o’er +all this land<br />The Fortress-Temple and great House of Christ,<br />Equalled +with me my name in Erin share.”<br />And Victor answered, “Half +thy prayer is thine;<br />With thee shall they partake. Not less, +thy name<br />Higher than theirs shall rise, and wider spread,<br />Since +thus more plainly shall His glory shine<br />Whose glory is His justice.”</p> +<p> With +the morn<br />Those pilgrims rose, and, prime entoned and lauds,<br />Poured +out their blessing on that woodland clan<br />Which, round them pressing, +kissed them, robe and knee;<br />Then on they journeyed till at set +of sun<br />Shone out the roofs of Macha, and that tower<br />Where +Dairè dwelt, its lord.</p> +<p> Saint +Patrick sent<br />To Dairè embassage, vouchsafing prayer<br />As +sire might pray of son; “Give thou yon hill<br />To Christ, that +we may build His church thereon.”<br />And Dairè answered +with a brow of storms<br />Bent forward darkly, and long, sneering lips,<br />“Your +master is a mighty man, we know.<br />Garban, that lied to God, he slew +through prayer,<br />And banned full many a lake, and many a plain,<br />For +trespass there committed! Let it be!<br />A Chief of souls he +is! No signs we work,<br />Rulers earth-born: yet somewhat are +we here -<br />Depart! By others answer we will send.”</p> +<p> So Dairè sent to Patrick men of might,<br />Fierce +men, the battle’s nurslings. Thus they spake:<br />“High +region for high heads! If build ye must,<br />Build on the plain: +the hill is Dairè’s right:<br />Church site he grants you, +and the field around.”<br />And Patrick, glancing from his Office +Book,<br />Made answer, “Deo Gratias,” and no more.</p> +<p>Upon that plain he built a little church<br />Ere long, a convent +likewise, girt with mound<br />Banked from the meadow loam, and deftly +set<br />With stone, and fence, and woody palisade,<br />That neither +warring clans, far heard by day,<br />Might hurt his cloistered charge, +nor wolves by night,<br />Howling in woods; and there he served the +Lord.</p> +<p>But Dairè scorned the Saint, and grudged his gift,<br />Though +small; and half in spleen, and half in greed,<br />Sent down two stately +coursers all night long<br />To graze the deep sweet pasture round the +church:<br />Ill deed: - and so, for guerdon of that sin,<br />Dead +lay the coursers twain at the break of dawn.</p> +<p>Then fled the servants back, and told their lord,<br />Fearing for +negligence rebuke and scath,<br />“Thy Christian slew the coursers!” +and the king<br />Gave word to slay or bind him. But from God<br />A +sickness fell on Dairè nigh to death<br />That day and night. +When morning brake, the queen,<br />A woman leal with kind barbaric +heart,<br />Her bosom from the sick man’s head withdrew<br />A +moment while he slept; and, round her gazing,<br />Closed with both +hands upon a liegeman’s arm,<br />And sped him to the Saint for +pardon and peace.<br />Then Patrick, dipping in the inviolate fount<br />A +chalice, blessed the water, with command<br />“Sprinkle the stately +coursers and the king; “<br />And straightway as from death the +king arose,<br />And rose from death the coursers.</p> +<p> Dairè +then,<br />His tall frame boastful with that life renewed,<br />Took +with him men, and down the stone-paved hill<br />Rode from his tower, +and through the woodlands green,<br />And bare with him an offering +of those days,<br />A brazen cauldron vast. Embossed it shone<br />With +sculptured shapes. On one side hunters rode:<br />Low stretched +their steeds: the dogs pulled down the stag<br />Unseen, except the +branching horns that rose<br />Like hands in protest. Feasters, +on the other,<br />Raised high the cup pledging the safe return.<br />This +offering Dairè brought, and, entering, spake:<br />“A gift +for guerdon and for grace, O Priest!”<br />And Patrick, upward +glancing from his book,<br />Made answer, “Deo Gratias!” +and no more.</p> +<p>King Dairè, homeward riding with knit brow<br />Muttered, +“Churl’s welcome for a kingly boon!”<br />And, drinking +late that night the stormy breath<br />Of others’ anger blent +with his, commanded,<br />“Ride forth at morn and bring me back +my gift!<br />Spurn it he shall not, though he prize it not.”<br />They +heard him, and obeyed. At noon the king<br />Demanded thus, “What +answer made the Saint?”<br />They said, “His eyes he raised +not from his book,<br />But answered, ‘Deo Gratias!’ and +no more.”</p> +<p>Then Dairè stamped his foot, like war-horse stung<br />By +gadfly: musing next, and mute he sat<br />A space, and lastly roared +great laughter peals<br />Till roared in mockery back the raftered roof,<br />And +clashed his hands together shouting thus:<br />“A gift, and ‘Deo +Gratias!’ - gift withdrawn,<br />And ‘Deo Gratias!’ +Sooth, the word is good!<br />Madman is this, or man of God? We’ll +know!”<br />So from his frowning fortress once again<br />Adown +the resonant road o’er street and bridge<br />Rode Dairè, +at his right the queen in fear,<br />With dumbly pleading countenance; +close behind,<br />With tangled locks and loose-hung battle-axe<br />Ran +the wild kerne; and loud the bull-horn blew.<br />The convent reached, +King Dairè from his horse<br />Flung his great limbs, and at +the doorway towered<br />In gazing stern: the queen beside him stood,<br />Her +lustrous violet eyes all lost in tears:<br />One hand on Dairè’s +garment lay like light<br />Wandering on dusky ripple; one, upraised,<br />Held +in the high-necked horse that champed the bit,<br />His head near hers. +Within, the man of God,<br />Sole-sitting, read his office book unmoved,<br />And +ending fixed his keen eye on the king,<br />Not rising from his seat.</p> +<p> Then +fell from God<br />Insight on Dairè, and aloud he cried,<br />“A +kingly man, of mind unmovable<br />Art thou; and as the rock beneath +my tower<br />Shakes not in storm so shakes not heart of thine:<br />Such +men are of the height and not the plain:<br />Therefore that hill to +thee I grant unsought<br />Which whilome I refused. Possession +take<br />This day, lest hostile demon warp my mood;<br />And build +thereon thy church. The same shall stand<br />Strong mother-church +of all thy great clan Christ!”</p> +<p>Thus Dairè spake; and Patrick, at his word<br />Rising, gave +thanks to God, and to the king<br />High blessing heard in heaven; and +making sign<br />Went forth, attended by his priestly train,<br />Benignus +first, his dearest, then the rest.<br />In circuit thrice they girt +that hill, and sang<br />Anthem first heard when unto God was vowed<br />That +House which David offered in his heart<br />His son in act, and hymn +of holy Church<br />Hailing that city like a bride attired,<br />From +heaven to earth descending. With them sang<br />An angel choir +above them borne. The birds<br />Forbore their songs, listening +that angel strain,<br />Ethereal music and by men unheard<br />Except +the Elect. The king in reverence paced<br />Behind, his liegemen +next, a mass confused<br />With saffron standard gay and spears upheld<br />Flashing +through thickets green. These kept not line,<br />For Alp was +still recounting battles old,<br />Aodh of wizards sang, and Ir of love;<br />While +bald-pate Conan, sharpening from his eye<br />The sneering light, shot +from his plastic mouth<br />Shrill taunt and biting gibe. The +younger sort<br />Eyed the dense copse and launched full many a shaft<br />Through +it at flying beast. From ledge to ledge<br />Clomb Angus, keen +of sight, with hand o’er brow,<br />Forth gazing on some far blue +ridge of war<br />With nostril wide outblown, and snorting cried,<br />“Would +I were there!”</p> +<p> Meantime, +the man of God<br />Had reached the fair crown of that sacred hill,<br />A +circle girt with woodland branching low,<br />And roofed with heaven. +Beyond its tonsure fringe,<br />Birch trees and oaks, there pushed a +thorn milk-white,<br />And close beside it slept in shade a fawn<br />Whiter. +The startled dam had left its side,<br />And through the dark stems +fled like flying gleam.<br />Minded they were, the kernes, to kill that +fawn,<br />And all the priests stood silent; but the Saint<br />Put +forth his hand, and o’er her signed the Cross,<br />And, stooping, +on his shoulder placed her firm,<br />And bade the brethren mark with +stones her lair<br />Dewless and dusk: then, singing as he went<br />“Like +as the hart desires the water brooks,”<br />He walked, that hill +descending. Light from God<br />O’ershone his face. +Meantime the awakened fawn<br />Now rolled her dark eye on the silver +head<br />Close by, now turning licked the wrinkled hand,<br />Unfearing. +Soon, with little whimpering sob,<br />The doe drew near and paced at +Patrick’s side.<br />At last they reached a little field low down<br />Beneath +that hill: there Patrick laid the fawn.</p> +<p>King Dairè questioned Patrick of that deed,<br />Incensed; +and scornful asked, “Shall mitred man<br />Play thus the shepherd +and the forester?”<br />And Patrick answered, “Aged men, +O king,<br />Forget their reasons oft. Benignus seek,<br />If +haply God has shown him for what cause<br />I wrought this thing.” +Then Dairè turned him back<br />And faced Benignus; and with +lifted hand,<br />Pure as a maid’s, and dimpled like a child’s,<br />Picturing +his thoughts on air, the little monk<br />Thus glossed that deed. +“Great mystery, king, is Love:<br />Poets its worthiness have +sung in lays<br />Unread by ruder ones like me; and yet<br />Thus much +the simplest and the rudest know,<br />Dear is the fawn to her that +gave it birth,<br />And to the sceptred monarch dear the child<br />That +mounts his knee. Nor here the marvel ends;<br />For, like yon +star, the great Paternal Heart<br />Through all the unmeted, unimagined +years,<br />While yet Creation uncreated hung,<br />A thought, a dawn-streak +on the verge extreme<br />Of lonely Godhead’s inner Universe,<br />Panted +and pants with splendour of its love,<br />The Eternal Sire rejoicing +in the Son<br />And Both in Him Who still from Both proceeds,<br />Bond +of their love. Moreover, king, that Son<br />Who, Virgin-born, +raised from the ruinous gulf<br />Our world, and made it footstool to +God’s throne,<br />The same is Love, and died for Love, and reigns:<br />Loveless, +His Church were but a corse stone-cold;<br />Loveless, her creed were +but a winter leaf<br />Network of barren thoughts, the cerement wan<br />Of +Faith extinct. Therefore our Saint revered<br />The love and anguish +of that mother doe,<br />And inly vowed that where her offspring couched<br />Christ’s +chiefest church should stand, from age to age<br />Confession plain +’mid raging of the clans<br />That God is Love; - His worship +void and vain<br />Disjoined from Love that, rising to the heights<br />Even +to the depths descends.”</p> +<p> Conversing +thus,<br />Macha they reached. Ere long where lay the fawn<br />Stood +God’s new altar; and, ere many years,<br />Far o’er the +woodlands rose the church high-towered,<br />Preaching God’s peace +to still a troubled world.<br />The Saint who built it found not there +his grave<br />Though wished for; him God buried otherwhere,<br />Fulfilling +thus the counsels of His Will:<br />But old, and grey, when many a winter’s +frost<br />To spring had yielded, bent by wounds and woes<br />Upon +that church’s altar looked once more<br />King Dairè; at +its font was joined to Christ;<br />And, midway ’twixt that altar +and that font,<br />Rejoined his beauteous mate a later day.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>THE ARRAIGNMENT OF SAINT PATRICK.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Secknall, the poet, brings, in sport, three heavy charges<br /> against +Saint Patrick, who, supposing them to be<br /> serious, +defends himself against them. Lastly<br /> Secknall +sings a hymn written in praise of a Saint.<br /> Saint +Patrick commends it, affirming that for once<br /> Fame +has dispensed her honours honestly. Upon this,<br /> Secknall +recites the first stave, till then craftily<br /> reserved, +which offers the whole homage of that hymn<br /> to +Patrick, who, though the humblest of men, has thus<br /> arrogated +to himself the saintly Crown. There is<br /> laughter +among the brethren.</i></p> +<p>When Patrick now was old and nigh to death<br />Undimmed was still +his eye; his tread was strong;<br />And there was ever laughter in his +heart,<br />And music in his laughter. In a wood<br />Nigh to +Ardmacha dwelt he with his monks;<br />And there, like birds that cannot +stay their songs<br />Love-touched in Spring, or grateful for their +nests,<br />They to the woodsmen preached of Christ, their King,<br />To +swineherds, and to hinds that tended sheep,<br />Yea, and to pilgrim +guests from distant clans;<br />His shepherd-worshipped birth when breath +of kine<br />Went o’er the Infant; all His wondrous works<br />Or +words from mount, or field, or anchored boat,<br />And Christendom upreared +for weal of men<br />And Angel-wonder. Daily preached the monks<br />And +daily built their convent. Wildly sweet<br />The season, prime +of unripe spring, when March<br />Distils from cup half gelid yet some +drops<br />Of finer relish than the hand of May<br />Pours from her +full-brimmed beaker. Frost, though gone,<br />Had left its glad +vibration on the air;<br />Laughed the blue heavens as though they ne’er +had frowned,<br />Through leafless oak-boughs; limes of kindlier grace<br />And +swifter to believe Spring’s “tidings good”<br />Took +the sweet lights upon a breast bud-swoll’n,<br />And crimson as +the redbreast’s; while, as when<br />Clear rings a flute-note +through sea-murmurs harsh,<br />At intervals ran out a streak of green<br />Across +the dim-hued forest.</p> +<p> From +their wood<br />The strong arms of the monks had hewn them space<br />For +all their convent needed; farmyard stored<br />With stacks that all +the winter long had clutched<br />Their hoarded harvest sunshine; pasture +green<br />Whitened with sheep; fair garden fenceless still<br />With +household herbs new-sprouting: but, as oft<br />Some conquered race, +forth sallying in its spleen<br />When serves the occasion, wins a province +back,<br />Or flouts at least the foe, so here once more<br />Wild flowers, +a clan unvanquished, raised their heads<br />’Mid sprouting wheat; +and where from craggy height<br />Pushed the grey ledge, the woodland +host recoiled<br />As though in Parthian flight; while many a bird,<br />Barbaric +from the inviolate forest launched<br />Wild warbled scorn on all that +life reclaimed,<br />Mute garth-still orchard. Child of distant +hills,<br />A proud stream, swollen by midnight rains, down leaped<br />From +rock to rock. It spurned the precinct now<br />With airy dews +silvering the bramble green<br />And redd’ning more the beech-stock.</p> +<p> ’Twas +the hour<br />Of rest, and every monk was glad at heart,<br />For each +had wrought with might. With hands upheld,<br />Mochta, the priest, +had thundered against sin,<br />Wrath-roused, as when some prince too +late returned<br />Stares at his sea-side village all in flames,<br />The +slave-thronged ship escaped. The bishop, Erc,<br />Had reconciled +old feuds by Brehon Law<br />Where Brehon Law was lawful. Boys +wild-eyed<br />Had from Benignus learned the church’s song,<br />Boys +brightened now, yet tempered, by that age<br />Gracious to stripling +as to maid, that brings<br />Valour to one and modesty to both<br />Where +youth is loyal to the Virgin-born.<br />The giant meek, Mac Cairthen, +on bent neck<br />Had carried beam on beam, while Criemther felled<br />The +oaks, and from the anvil Laeban dashed<br />The sparks in showers. +A little way removed,<br />Beneath a pine three vestals sat close-veiled:<br />A +song these childless sang of Bethlehem’s Child,<br />Low-toned, +and worked their Altar-cloth, a Lamb<br />All white on golden blazon; +near it bled<br />The bird that with her own blood feeds her young:<br />Red +drops affused her holy breast. These three<br />Were daughters +of three kings. The best and fairest,<br />King Dairè’s +daughter, Erenait by name,<br />Had loved Benignus in her Pagan years.<br />He +knew it not: full sweet to her his voice<br />Chaunting in choir. +One day through grief of love<br />The maiden lay as dead: Benignus +shook<br />Dews from the font above her, and she woke<br />With heart +emancipate that outsoared the lark<br />Lost in blue heavens. +She loved the Spouse of Souls.<br />It was as though some child that, +dreaming, wept<br />Its childish playthings lost, awaked by bells,<br />Bride-bells, +had found herself a queen new wed<br />Unto her country’s lord.</p> +<p> While +monk with monk<br />Conversed, the son of Patrick’s sister sat,<br />Secknall +by name, beside the window sole<br />And marked where Patrick from his +hill of prayer<br />Approached, descending slowly. At the sight<br />He, +maker blithe of songs, and wild as hawk<br />Albeit a Saint, whose wont +it was at times<br />Or shy, or strange, or shunning flattery’s +taint,<br />To attempt with mockery those whom most he loved,<br />Whispered +a brother, “Speak to Patrick thus:<br />‘When all men praised +thee, Secknall made reply<br />“A blessed man were Patrick save +for this,<br />Alms deeds he preaches not.”’” +The brother went:<br />Ere long among them entered Patrick, wroth,<br />Or, +likelier, feigning wrath: - “What man is he<br />Who saith I preach +not alms deeds?” Secknall rose:<br />“I said it, Father, +and the charge is true.”<br />Then Patrick answered, “Out +of Charity<br />I preach not Charity. This people, won<br />To +Christ, ere long will prove a race of Saints;<br />To give will be its +passion, not to gain:<br />Its heart is generous; but its hand is slack<br />In +all save war: herein there lurks a snare:<br />The priest will fatten, +and the beggar feast:<br />But the lean land will yield nor chief nor +prince<br />Hire of two horses yoked to chariot beam.”<br />Then +Secknall spake, “O Father, dead it lies<br />Mine earlier charge +against thee. Hear my next,<br />Since in our Order’s equal +Brotherhood<br />Censure uncensured is the right of all.<br />You press +to the earth your converts! gold you spurn;<br />Yet bind upon them +heavier load than when<br />Conqueror his captive tasks. Have +shepherds three<br />Bowed them to Christ? ‘Build up a church,’ +you cry;<br />So one must draw the sand, and one the stone<br />And +one the lime. Honouring the seven great Gifts,<br />You raise +in one small valley churches seven.<br />Who serveth you fares hard!” +The Saint replied,<br />“Second as first! I came not to +this land<br />To crave scant service, nor with shallow plough<br />Cleave +I this glebe. The priest that soweth much<br />For here the land +is fruitful, much shall reap:<br />Who soweth little nought but weeds +shall bind<br />And poppies of oblivion.” Secknall next:<br />“Yet +man to man will whisper, and the face<br />Of all this people darken +like a sea<br />When pipes the coming storm.” He answered, +“Son,<br />I know this people better. Fierce they are<br />In +anger; neither flies their thought direct;<br />For some, though true +to Nature, lie to men,<br />And others, true to men, are false to God:<br />Yet +as the prince’s is the poor man’s heart;<br />Burthen for +God sustained no burden is<br />To him; and those who most have given +to Christ<br />Largeliest His fulness share.”</p> +<p> Secknall +replied,<br />“Low lies my second charge; a third remains,<br />Which, +as a shaft from seasoned bow, not green,<br />Shall pierce the marl. +With convents still you sow<br />The land: in other countries sparse +and small<br />They swell to cities here. A hundred monks<br />On +one late barren mountain dig and pray:<br />A hundred nuns gladden one +woodland lawn,<br />Or sing in one small island. Well - ’tis +well!<br />Yet, balance lost and measure, nought is well.<br />The Angelic +Life more common will become<br />Than life of mortal men.” +The Saint replied,<br />“No shaft from homicidal yew-tree bow<br />Is +thine, but winged of thistle-down! Now hear!<br />Measure is good; +but measure’s law with scale<br />Changeth; nor doth the part +reflect the whole.<br />Each nation hath its gift, and each to all<br />Not +equal ministers. If all were eye,<br />Where then were ear? +If all were ear or hand,<br />Where then were eye? The nation +is the part;<br />The Church the whole” - But Criemther where +he stood,<br />Old warrior, shouted like a chief war-waked,<br />“This +land is Eire! No nation lives like her!<br />A part! Who +portions Eire?” The Saint, with smile<br />Resumed: “The +whole that from the part receives,<br />Repaying still that part, till +man’s whole race<br />Grow to the fulness of Mankind redeemed.<br />What +gift hath God in eminence given to Eire?<br />Singly, her race is feeble; +strong when knit:<br />Nought knits them truly save a heavenly aim.<br />I +knit them as an army unto God,<br />Give them God’s War! +Yon star is militant!<br />Its splendour ’gainst the dark must +fight or die:<br />So wars that Faith I preach against the world;<br />And +nations fitted least for this world’s gain<br />Can speed Faith’s +triumph best. Three hundred years,<br />Well used, should make +of Eire a northern Rome.<br />Criemther! her destiny is this, or nought;<br />Secknall! +the highest only can she reach;<br />Alone the Apostle’s crown +is hers: for this,<br />A Rule I give her, strong, yet strong in Love;<br />Monastic +households build I far and wide;<br />Monastic clans I plant among her +clans,<br />With abbots for their chiefs. The same shall live,<br />Long +as God’s love o’errules them.”</p> +<p> Secknall +then<br />Knelt, reverent; yet his eye had in it mirth,<br />And round +the full bloom of the red rich mouth,<br />No whit ascetic, ran a dim +half smile.<br />“Father, my charges three have futile fallen,<br />And +thrice, like some great warrior of the bards,<br />Your conquering wheels +above me you have driven.<br />Brought low, I make confession. +Once, in woods<br />Wandering, we heard a sound, now loud, now low,<br />As +he that treads the sand-hills hears the sea<br />High murmuring while +he climbs the seaward slope,<br />Low, as he drops to landward. +’Twas a throng<br />Awed, yet tumultuous, wild-eyed, wondering, +fierce,<br />That, standing round a harper, stave on stave<br />Acclaimed +as each had ending. ‘War, still war!’<br />Thou saidst; +‘the bards but sing of War and Death!<br />Ah! if they sang that +Death which conquered Death,<br />Then, like a tide, this people, music-drawn,<br />Would +mount the shores of Christ! Bards love not us,<br />Prescient +that power, that power wielded elsewhere<br />By priest, but here by +them, shall pass to us:<br />Yet we love them for good one day their +gift.’<br />Then didst thou turn on me an eye of might<br />Such +as on Malach, when thou had’st him raise<br />By miracle of prayer +that babe boar-slain,<br />And said’st, ‘Go, fell thy pine, +and frame thy harp,<br />And in the hearing of this people sing<br />Some +Saint, the friend of Christ.’ Too long the attempt<br />Shame-faced, +I shunned; at last, like him of old,<br />That better brother who refused, +yet went,<br />I made my hymn. ’Tis called ‘A Child +of Life.’”<br />Then Patrick, “Welcome is the praise +of Saints:<br />Sing thou thy hymn.”</p> +<p> From +kneeling Secknall rose<br />And stood, and singing, raised his hand +as when<br />Her cymbal by the Red Sea Miriam raised<br />While silent +stood God’s hosts, and silent lay<br />Those host-entombing waters. +Shook, like hers,<br />His slight form wavering ’mid the gusts +of song.<br />He sang the Saint of God, create from nought<br />To work +God’s Will. As others gaze on earth,<br />Her vales, her +plains, her green meads ocean-girt,<br />So gazed the Saint for ever +upon God<br />Who girds all worlds - saw intermediate nought -<br />And +on Him watched the sunshine and the storm,<br />And learned His Countenance, +and from It alone,<br />Drew in upon his heart its day and night.<br />That +contemplation was for him no dream:<br />It hurled him on his mission. +As a sword<br />He lodged his soul within the Hand Divine<br />And wrought, +keen-edged, God’s counsel. Next to God<br />Next, and how +near, he loved the souls of men:<br />Yea, men to him were Souls; the +unspiritual herd<br />He saw as magic-bound, or chained to beast,<br />And +groaned to free them. For their sakes, unfearing,<br />He faced +the ravening waves, and iron rocks,<br />Hunger, and poniard’s +edge, and poisoned cup,<br />And faced the face of kings, and faced +the host<br />Of demons raging for their realm o’erthrown.<br />This +was the Man of Love. Self-love cast out,<br />The love made spiritual +of a thousand hearts<br />Met in his single heart, and kindled there<br />A +sun-like image of Love Divine. Within<br />That Spirit-shadowed +heart was Christ conceived<br />Hourly through faith, hourly through +Love was born;<br />Sole secret this of fruitfulness to Christ.<br />Who +heard him heard with his a lordlier Voice,<br />Strong as that Voice +which said, “Let there be light,”<br />And light o’erflowed +their beings. He from each<br />His secret won; to each God’s +secret told:<br />He touched them, and they lived. In each, the +flesh<br />Subdued to soul, the affections, vassals proud<br />By conscience +ruled, and conscience lit by Christ,<br />The whole man stood, planet +full-orbed of powers<br />In equipoise, Image restored of God.<br />A +nation of such men his portion was;<br />That nation’s Patriarch +he. No wrangler loud;<br />No sophist; lesser victories knew he +none:<br />No triumph his of sect, or camp, or court;<br />The Saint +his great soul flung upon the world,<br />And took the people with him +like a wind<br />Missioned from God that with it wafts in spring<br />Some +wingèd race, a multitudinous night,<br />Into new sun-bright +climes.</p> +<p> As +Secknall sang,<br />Nearer the Brethren drew. On Patrick’s +right<br />Benignus stood; old Mochta on his left,<br />Slow-eyed, with +solemn smile and sweet; next Erc,<br />Whose ever-listening countenance +that hour<br />Beyond its wont was listening; Criemther near<br />The +workman Saint, his many-wounded hands<br />Together clasped: forward +each mighty arm<br />On shoulders propped of Essa and of Bite,<br />Leaned +the meek giant Cairthen: twelve in all<br />Clustering they stood and +in them was one soul.<br />When Secknall ceased, in silence still they +hung<br />Each upon each, glad-hearted since the meed<br />Of all their +toils shone out before them plain,<br />Gold gates of heaven - a nation +entering in.<br />A light was on their faces, and without<br />Spread +a great light, for sunset now had fallen<br />A Pentecostal fire upon +the woods,<br />Or else a rain of angels streamed o’er earth.<br />In +marvel gazed the twelve: yea, clans far off<br />Stared from their hills, +deeming the site aflame.<br />That glory passed away, discourse arose<br />On +Secknall’s hymn. Its radiance from his face<br />Had, like +the sunset’s, vanished as he spake.<br />“Father, what sayst +thou?” Patrick made reply,<br />“My son, the hymn +is good; for Truth is gold;<br />And Fame, obsequious often to base +heads,<br />For once is loyal, and its crown hath laid<br />Where honour’s +debt was due.” Then Secknall raised<br />In triumph both +his hands, and chaunted loud<br />That hymn’s first stave, earlier +through craft withheld,<br />Stave that to Patrick’s name, and +his alone,<br />Offered that hymn’s whole incense! Ceasing, +he stood<br />Low-bowed, with hands upon his bosom crossed.<br />Great +laughter from the brethren came, their Chief<br />Thus trapped, though +late - he meekest man of men -<br />To claim the saintly crown. +First young, then old,<br />Later the old, and sore against their will,<br />That +laughter raised. Last from the giant chest<br />Of Cairthen forth +it rolled its solemn bass,<br />Like sea-sound swallowing lighter sounds +hard by.<br />But Patrick laughed not: o’er his face there passed<br />Shade +lost in light; and thus he spake, “O friends<br />That which I +have to do I know in part:<br />God grant I work my work. That +which I am<br />He knows Who made me. Saints He hath, good store:<br />Their +names are written in His Book of Life;<br />Kneel down, my sons, and +pray that if thus long<br />I seem to stand, I fall not at the end.”</p> +<p>Then in a circle kneeling prayed the twelve.<br />But when they rose, +Secknall with serious brow<br />Advanced, and knelt, and kissed Saint +Patrick’s foot,<br />And said, “O Father, at thy hest that +hymn<br />I made, long labouring, and thy crown it stands:<br />Thou, +therefore, grant me gifts, for strong thy prayer.”</p> +<p>And Patrick said, “The house wherein thy hymn<br />Is sung +at morn or eve shall lack not bread:<br />And if men sing it in a house +new-built,<br />Where none hath dwelt, nor bridegroom yet, nor bride,<br />Nor +hath the cry of babe been heard therein,<br />Upon that house the watching +of the Saints<br />Of Eire, and Patrick’s watching, shall be fixed<br />Even +as the stars.” And Secknall said, “What more?”</p> +<p>Then Patrick added, “They that night and morn<br />Down-lying +and up-rising, sing that hymn,<br />They too that softly whisper it, +nigh death,<br />If pure of heart, and liegeful unto Christ,<br />Shall +see God’s face; and, since the hymn is long,<br />Its grace shall +rest for children and the poor<br />Full measure on the last three lines; +and thou<br />Of this dear company shalt die the first,<br />And first +of Eire’s Apostles.” Then his cheek<br />Secknall +laid down once more on Patrick’s foot,<br />And answered, “Deo +Gratias.”</p> +<p> Thus +in mirth,<br />And solemn talk, and prayer, that brother band<br />In +the golden age of Faith with great free heart<br />Gave thanks to God +that blissful eventide,<br />A thousand and four hundred years and more<br />Gone +by. But now clear rang the compline bell,<br />And two by two +they wended towards their church<br />Across a space for cloister set +apart,<br />Yet still with wood-flowers sweet, and scent beside<br />Of +sod that evening turned. The night came on;<br />A dim ethereal +twilight o’er the hills<br />Deepened to dewy gloom. Against +the sky<br />Stood ridge and rock unmarked amid the day:<br />A few +stars o’er them shone. As bower on bower<br />Let go the +waning light, so bird on bird<br />Let go its song. Two songsters +still remained,<br />Each feebler than a fountain soon to cease,<br />And +claimed somewhile across the dusking dell<br />Rivals unseen in sleepy +argument,<br />Each, the last word: - a pause; and then, once more,<br />An +unexpected note: - a longer pause;<br />And then, past hope, one other +note, the last.<br />A moment more the brethren stood in prayer:<br />The +rising moon upon the church-roof new<br />Glimmered; and o’er +it sang an angel choir,<br />“Venite Sancti.” Entering, +soon were said<br />The psalm, “He giveth sleep,” and hymn, +“Lætare;”<br />And in his solitary cell each monk<br />Lay +down, rejoicing in the love of God.</p> +<p>The happy years went by. When Patrick now<br />And all his +company were housed with God<br />That hymn, at morning sung, and noon, +and eve,<br />Even as it lulled the waves of warring clans<br />So lulled +with music lives of toil-worn men<br />And charmed their ebbing breath. +One time it chanced<br />When in his convent Kevin with his monks<br />Had +sung it thrice, the board prepared, a guest,<br />Foot-sore and hungered, +murmured, “Wherefore thrice?”<br />And Kevin answered, “Speak +not thus, my son,<br />For while we sang it, visible to all,<br />Saint +Patrick was among us. At his right<br />Benignus stood, and, all +around, the Twelve,<br />God’s light upon their brows; while Secknall +knelt<br />Demanding meed of song. Moreover, son,<br />This self-same +day and hour, twelve months gone by,<br />Patrick, our Patriarch, died; +and happy Feast<br />Is that he holds, by two short days alone<br />Severed +from his of Hebrew Patriarchs last,<br />And Chief. The Holy House +at Nazareth<br />He ruled benign, God’s Warder with white hairs;<br />And +still his feast, that silver star of March,<br />When snows afflict +the hill and frost the moor,<br />With temperate beam gladdens the vernal +Church -<br />All praise to God who draws that Twain so near.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>THE STRIVING OF SAINT PATRICK ON MOUNT CRUACHAN.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Saint Patrick, seeing that now Erin believes, desires<br /> that +the whole land should stand fast in belief till<br /> Christ +returns to judge the world. For this end he<br /> resolves +to offer prayer on Mount Cruachan; but<br /> Victor, +the Angel who has attended him in all his<br /> labours, +restrains him from that prayer as being too<br /> great. +Notwithstanding, the Saint prays three times<br /> on +the mountain, and three times all the demons of<br /> Erin +contend against him, and twice Victor, the Angel,<br /> rebukes +his prayers. In the end Saint Patrick<br /> scatters +the demons with ignominy, and God’s Angel<br /> bids +him know that his prayer hath conquered through<br /> constancy.</i></p> +<p>From realm to realm had Patrick trod the Isle;<br />And evermore +God’s work beneath his hand,<br />Since God had blessed that hand, +ran out full-sphered,<br />And brighter than a new-created star.<br />The +Island race, in feud of clan with clan<br />Barbaric, gracious else +and high of heart,<br />Nor worshippers of self, nor dulled through +sense,<br />Beholding, not alone his wondrous works;<br />But, wondrous +more, the sweetness of his strength<br />And how he neither shrank from +flood nor fire,<br />And how he couched him on the wintry rocks,<br />And +how he sang great hymns to One who heard,<br />And how he cared for +poor men and the sick,<br />And for the souls invisible of men,<br />To +him made way - not simple hinds alone,<br />But chiefly wisest heads, +for wisdom then<br />Prime wisdom saw in Faith; and, mixt with these,<br />Chieftains +and sceptred kings. Nigh Tara, first,<br />Scorning the king’s +command, had Patrick lit<br />His Paschal fire, and heavenward as it +soared,<br />The royal fire and all the Beltaine fires<br />Shamed by +its beam had withered round the Isle<br />Like fires on little hearths +whereon the sun<br />Looks in his greatness. Later, to that plain<br />Central +’mid Eire, “of Adoration” named,<br />Down-trampled +for two thousand years and more<br />By erring feet of men, the Saint +had sped<br />In Apostolic might, and kenned far off<br />Ill-pleased, +the nation’s idol lifting high<br />His head, and those twelve +vassal gods around<br />All mailed in gold and shining as the sun,<br />A +pomp impure. Ill-pleased the Saint had seen them,<br />And raised +the Staff of Jesus with a ban:<br />Then he, that demon named of men +Crom-dubh,<br />With all his vassal gods, into the earth<br />That knew +her Maker, to their necks had sunk<br />While round the island rang +three times the cry<br />Of fiends tormented.</p> +<p> Not +for this as yet<br />Had Patrick perfected his strength: as yet<br />The +depths he had not trodden; nor had God<br />Drawn forth His total forces +in the man<br />Hidden long since and sealed. For this cause he,<br />Who +still his own heart in triumphant hour<br />Suspected most, remembering +Milchoe’s fate,<br />With fear lest aught of human mar God’s +work,<br />And likewise from his handling of the Gael<br />Knowing not +less their weakness than their strength,<br />Paused on his conquering +way, and lonely sat<br />In cloud of thought. The great Lent Fast +had come:<br />Its first three days went by; the fourth, he rose,<br />And +meeting his disciples that drew nigh<br />Vouchsafed this greeting only: +“Bide ye here<br />Till I return,” and straightway set his +face<br />Alone to that great hill “of eagles” named<br />Huge +Cruachan, that o’er the western deep<br />Hung through sea-mist, +with shadowing crag on crag,<br />High-ridged, and dateless forest long +since dead.</p> +<p>That forest reached, the angel of the Lord<br />Beside him, as he +entered, stood and spake:<br />“The gifts thy soul demands, demand +them not;<br />For they are mighty and immeasurable,<br />And over great +for granting.” And the Saint:<br />“This mountain +Cruachan I will not leave<br />Alive till all be granted, to the last.”</p> +<p>Then knelt he on the shrouded mountain’s base,<br />And was +in prayer; and, wrestling with the Lord,<br />Demanded wondrous things +immeasurable,<br />Not easy to be granted, for the land;<br />Nor brooked +repulse; and when repulse there came,<br />Repulse that quells the weak +and crowns the strong,<br />Forth from its gloom like lightning on him +flashed<br />Intelligential gleam and insight winged<br />That plainlier +showed him all his people’s heart,<br />And all the wound thereof: +and as in depth<br />Knowledge descended, so in height his prayer<br />Rose, +and far spread; nor roused alone those Powers<br />Regioned with God; +for as the strength of fire<br />When flames some palace pile, or city +vast,<br />Wakens a tempest round it dragging in<br />Wild blast, and +from the aggression mightier grows,<br />So wakened Patrick’s +prayer the demon race,<br />And drew their legions in upon his soul<br />From +near and far. First came the Accursed encamped<br />On Connact’s +cloudy hills and watery moors;<br />Old Umbhall’s Heads, Iorras, +and Arran Isle,<br />And where Tyrawley clasps that sea-girt wood<br />Fochlut, +whence earliest rang the Children’s Cry,<br />To demons trump +of doom. In stormy rack<br />They came, and hung above the invested +Mount<br />Expectant. But, their mutterings heeding not,<br />When +Patrick still in puissance rose of prayer,<br />O’er all their +armies round the realm dispersed<br />There ran prescience of fate; +and, north and south,<br />From all the mountain-girdled coasts - for +still<br />Best site attracts worst Spirit - on they came,<br />From +Aileach’s shore and Uladh’s hoary cliffs,<br />Which held +the aeries of that eagle race<br />More late in Alba throned, “Lords +of the Isles” -<br />High chiefs whose bards, in strong transmitted +line,<br />Filled with the name of Fionn, and thine, Oiseen,<br />The +blue glens of that never-vanquished land -<br />From those purpureal +mountains that o’ergaze<br />Rock-bowered Loch Lene broidered +with sanguine bead,<br />They came, and many a ridge o’er sea-lake +stretched<br />That, autumn-robed in purple and in gold,<br />Pontific +vestment, guard the memories still<br />Of monks who reared thereon +their mystic cells,<br />Finian and Kieran, Fiacre, and Enda’s +self<br />Of hermits sire, and that sea-facing Saint<br />Brendan, who, +in his wicker boat of skins<br />Before that Genoese a thousand years<br />Found +a new world; and many more that now<br />Under wind-wasted Cross of +Clonmacnoise<br />Await the day of Christ.</p> +<p> So +rushed they on<br />From all sides, and, close met, in circling storm<br />Besieged +the enclouded steep of Cruachan,<br />That scarce the difference knew +’twixt night and day<br />More than the sunless pole. Him +sought they, him<br />Whom infinitely near they might approach,<br />Not +touch, while firm his faith - their Foe that dragged,<br />Sole-kneeling +on that wood-girt mountain’s base,<br />With both hands forth +their realm’s foundation stone.<br />Thus ruin filled the mountain: +day by day<br />The forest torment deepened; louder roared<br />The +great aisles of the devastated woods;<br />Black cave replied to cave; +and oaks, whole ranks,<br />Colossal growth of immemorial years,<br />Sown +ere Milesius landed, or that race<br />He vanquished, or that earliest +Scythian tribe,<br />Fell in long line, like deep-mined castle wall,<br />At +either side God’s warrior. Slowly died<br />At last, far +echoed in remote ravines,<br />The thunder: then crept forth a little +voice<br />That shrilly whispered to him thus in scorn:<br />“Two +thousand years yon race hath walked in blood<br />Neck-deep; and shall +it serve thy Lord of Peace?”<br />That whisper ceased. Again +from all sides burst<br />Tenfold the storm; and as it waxed, the Saint<br />Waxed +in strong heart; and, kneeling with stretched hands,<br />Made for himself +a panoply of prayer,<br />And wound it round his bosom twice and thrice,<br />And +made a sword of comminating psalm,<br />And smote at them that mocked +him. Day by day,<br />Till now the second Sunday’s vesper +bell<br />Gladdened the little churches round the isle,<br />That conflict +raged: then, maddening in their ire,<br />Sudden the Princedoms of the +Dark, that rode<br />This way and that way through the tempest, brake<br />Their +sceptres, and with one great cry it fell:<br />At once o’er all +was silence: sunset lit<br />The world, that shone as though with face +upturned<br />It gazed on heavens by angel faces thronged<br />And answered +light with light. A single bird<br />Carolled; and from the forest +skirt down fell,<br />Gem-like, the last drops of the exhausted storm.</p> +<p>Then bowed the Saint his forehead to the ground<br />Thanking his +God; and there in sacred trance,<br />Which was not sleep, abode not +hours alone<br />But silent nights and days; and, ’mid that trance,<br />God +fed his heart with unseen Sacraments,<br />Immortal food. Awaking, +Patrick felt<br />Yearnings for nearer commune with his God,<br />Though +great its cost; and gat him on his feet,<br />And, mile by mile, ascended +through the woods<br />Till stunted were its growths; and still he clomb<br />Printing +with sandalled foot the dewy steep:<br />But when above the mountain +rose the moon<br />Brightening each mist, while sank the prone morass<br />In +double night, he came upon a stone<br />Tomb-shaped, that flecked that +steep: a little stream<br />Dropped by it from the summits to the woods:<br />Thereon +he knelt; and was once more in prayer.</p> +<p>Nor prayed unnoticed by that race abhorred.<br />No sooner had his +knees the mountain touched<br />Than through their realm vibration went; +and straight<br />His prayer detecting back they trooped in clouds<br />And +o’er him closed, blotting with bat-like wing<br />And inky pall, +the moon. Then thunder pealed<br />Once more, nor ceased from +pealing. Over all<br />Night ruled, except when blue and forkèd +flash<br />Revealed the on-circling waterspout or plunge<br />Of rain +beneath the blown cloud’s ravelled hem,<br />Or, huge on high, +that lion-coloured steep<br />Which, like a lion, roared into the night<br />Answering +the roaring from sea-caves far down.<br />Dire was the strife. +That hour the Mountain old,<br />An anarch throned ’mid ruins +flung himself<br />In madness forth on all his winds and floods,<br />An +omnipresent wrath! For God reserved,<br />Too long the prey of +demons he had been;<br />Possession foul and fell. Now nigh expelled<br />Those +demons rent their victim freed. Aloft,<br />They burst the rocky +barrier of the tarn<br />That downward dashed its countless cataracts,<br />Drowning +far vales. On either side the Saint<br />A torrent rushed - mightiest +of all these twain -<br />Peeling the softer substance from the hills<br />Their +flesh, till glared, deep-trenched, the mountain’s bones;<br />And +as those torrents widened, rocks down rolled<br />Showering upon that +unsubverted head<br />Sharp spray ice-cold. Before him closed +the flood,<br />And closed behind, till all was raging flood,<br />All +but that tomb-like stone whereon he knelt.</p> +<p>Unshaken there he knelt with hands outstretched,<br />God’s +Athlete! For a mighty prize he strove,<br />Nor slacked, nor any +whit his forehead bowed:<br />Fixed was his eye and keen; the whole +white face<br />Keen as that eye itself, though - shapeless yet -<br />The +infernal horde to ear not eye addressed<br />Their battle. Back +he drave them, rank on rank,<br />Routed, with psalm, and malison, and +ban,<br />As from a sling flung forth. Revolt’s blind spawn<br />He +named them; one time Spirits, now linked with brute,<br />Yea, bestial +more and baser: and as a ship<br />Mounts with the mounting of the wave, +so he<br />O’er all the insurgent tempest of their wrath<br />Rising +rode on triumphant. Days went by,<br />Then came a lull; and lo! +a whisper shrill,<br />Once heard before, again its poison cold<br />Distilled: +“Albeit to Christ this land should bow,<br />Some conqueror’s +foot one day would quell her Faith.”<br />It ceased. Tenfold +once more the storm burst forth:<br />Once more the ecstatic passion +of his prayer<br />Met it, and, breasting, overbore, until<br />Sudden +the Princedoms of the dark that rode<br />This way and that way through +the whirlwind, dashed<br />Their vanquished crowns of darkness to the +ground<br />With one long cry. Then silence came; and lo!<br />The +white dawn of the fourth fair Day of God<br />O’erflowed the world. +Slowly the Saint upraised<br />His wearied eyes. Upon the mountain +lawns<br />Lay happy lights; and birds sang; and a stream<br />That +any five-years’ child might overleap,<br />Beside him lapsed crystalline +between banks<br />With violets all empurpled, and smooth marge<br />Green +as that spray which earliest sucks the spring.</p> +<p>Then Patrick raised to God his orison<br />On that fair mount, and +planted in the grass<br />His crozier staff, and slept; and in his sleep<br />God +fed his heart with unseen Sacraments,<br />Manna of might divine. +Three days he slept;<br />The fourth he woke. Upon his heart there +rushed<br />Yearning for closer converse with his God<br />Though great +its cost; and on his feet he gat,<br />And high, and higher yet, that +mountain scaled,<br />And reached at noon the summit. Far below<br />Basking +the island lay, through rainbow shower<br />Gleaming in part, with shadowy +moor, and ridge<br />Blue in the distance looming. Westward stretched<br />A +galaxy of isles, and, these beyond,<br />Infinite sea with sacred light +ablaze,<br />And high o’erhead there hung a cloudless heaven.</p> +<p>Upon that summit kneeling, face to sea<br />The Saint, with hands +held forth and thanks returned,<br />Claimed as his stately heritage +that realm<br />From north to south: but instant as his lip<br />Printed +with earliest pulse of Christian prayer<br />That clear aërial +clime Pagan till then;<br />The Host Accursed, sagacious of his act,<br />Rushed +back from all the isle and round him met<br />With anger seven times +heated, since their hour,<br />And this they knew, was come. Nor +thunder din<br />And challenge through the ear alone, sufficed<br />That +hour their rage malign that, craving sore<br />Material bulk to rend +his bulk - their foe’s -<br />Through fleshly strength of that +their murder-lust<br />Flamed forth in fleshly form phantoms night-black<br />Though +bodiless yet to bodied mass as nigh<br />As Spirits can reach. +More thick than vultures winged<br />To fields with carnage piled, the +Accursèd thronged<br />Making thick night which neither earth +nor sky<br />Could pierce, from sense expunged. In phalanx now,<br />Anon +in breaking legion, or in globe,<br />With clang of iron pinion on they +rushed<br />And spectral dart high-held. Nor quailed the Saint,<br />Contending +for his people on that Mount,<br />Nor spared God’s foes; for +as old minster towers<br />Besieged by midnight storm send forth reply<br />In +storm outrolled of bells, so sent he forth<br />Defiance from fierce +lip, vindictive chaunt,<br />And blight and ban, and maledictive rite<br />Potent +on face of Spirits impure to raise<br />These plague-spots three, Defeat, +Madness, Despair;<br />Nor stinted flail of taunt - “When first +my bark<br />Threatened your coasts, as now upon the hills<br />Hung +ye in cloud; as now, I raised this Cross;<br />Ye fled before it and +again shall fly!”<br />So hurled he back their squadrons. +Day by day<br />The hurricanes of war shook earth and heaven:<br />Till +now, on Holy Saturday, that hour<br />Returned which maketh glad the +Church of God<br />When over Christendom in widowed fanes<br />Two days +by penance stripped, and dumb as though<br />Some Antichrist had trodd’n +them down, once more<br />Swells forth amid the new-lit paschal lights<br />The +“Gloria in Excelsis:” sudden then<br />That mighty conflict +ceased, save one low voice<br />Twice heard before, now edged with bitterer +scoff,<br />“That race thou lov’st, though fierce in wrath, +is soft:<br />Plenty and peace will melt their Faith one day:”<br />Then +with that whisper dying, died the night:<br />Then forth from darkness +issued earth and sky:<br />Then fled the phantoms far o’er ocean’s +wave,<br />Thence to return not till the day of doom.</p> +<p>But he, their conqueror wept, upon that height<br />Standing; nor +of his victory had he joy,<br />Nor of that jubilant isle restored to +light,<br />Nor of that heaven relit; so worked that scoff<br />Winged +from the abyss; and ever thus the man<br />With darkness communed and +that poison cold:<br />“If Faith indeed should flood the land +with peace,<br />And peace with gold, and gold eat out her heart<br />Once +true, till Faith one day through Faith’s reward<br />Or die, or +live diseased, the shame of Faith,<br />Then blacker were this land +and more accursed<br />Than lands that knew no Christ.” +And musing thus<br />The whole heart of the man was turned to tears,<br />A +fount of bale and chalice brimmed with death -<br />For oft a thought +chance-born more racks than truth<br />Proven and sure - and, weeping, +still he wept<br />Till drenched was all his sad monastic cowl<br />As +sea-weed on the dripping shelf storm-cast<br />Latest, and tremulous +still.</p> +<p> As +thus he wept<br />Sudden beside him on that summit broad,<br />Ran out +a golden beam like sunset path<br />Gilding the sea: and, turning, by +his side<br />Victor, God’s angel, stood with lustrous brow<br />Fresh +from that Face no man can see and live.<br />He, putting forth his hand, +with living coal<br />Snatched from God’s altar, made that dripping +cowl<br />Dry as an Autumn sheaf. The angel spake:<br />“Rejoice, +for they are fled that hate thy land,<br />And those are nigh that love +it.” Then the Saint<br />Upraised his head; and lo! in snowy +sheen<br />Cresting high rock, and ridge, and airy peak,<br />Innumerable +the Sons of God all round<br />Vested the invisible mountain with white +light,<br />As when the foam-white birds of ocean throng<br />Sea-rock +so close that none that rock may see.<br />In trance the Living Creatures +stood, with wings<br />That pointing crossed upon their breasts; nor +seemed<br />As new arrived but native to that site<br />Though veiled +till now from mortal vision. Song<br />They sang to soothe the +vexed heart of the Saint -<br />Love-song of Heaven: and slowly as it +died<br />Their splendours waned; and through that vanishing light<br />Earth, +sea, and heaven returned.</p> +<p> To +Patrick then,<br />Thus Victor spake: “Depart from Cruachan,<br />Since +God hath given thee wondrous gifts, immense,<br />And through thy prayer +routed that rebel host.”<br />And Patrick, “Till the last +of all my prayers<br />Be granted, I depart not though I die: -<br />One +said, ‘Too fierce that race to bend to faith.’”<br />Then +spake God’s angel, mild of voice, and kind:<br />“Not all +are fierce that fiercest seem, for oft<br />Fierceness is blindfold +love, or love ajar.<br />Souls thou wouldst have: for every hair late +wet<br />In this thy tearful cowl and habit drenched<br />God gives +thee myriads seven of Souls redeemed<br />From sin and doom; and Souls, +beside, as many<br />As o’er yon sea in legioned flight might +hang<br />Far as thine eye can range. But get thee down<br />From +Cruachan, for mighty is thy prayer.”<br />And Patrick made reply: +“Not great thy boon!<br />Watch have I kept, and wearied are mine +eyes<br />And dim; nor see they far o’er yonder deep.”<br />And +Victor: “Have thou Souls from coast to coast<br />In cloud full-stretched; +but, get thee down: this Mount<br />God’s Altar is, and puissance +adds to prayer.”<br />And Patrick: “On this Mountain wept +have I;<br />And therefore giftless will I not depart:<br />One said, +‘Although that People should believe<br />Yet conqueror’s +heel one day would quell their Faith.’”<br />To whom the +angel, mild of voice, and kind:<br />“Conquerors are they that +subjugate the soul:<br />This also God concedes thee; conquering foe<br />Trampling +this land, shall tread not out her Faith<br />Nor sap by fraud, so long +as thou in heaven<br />Look’st on God’s Face; nay, by that +Faith subdued,<br />That foe shall serve and live. But get thee +down<br />And worship in the vale.” Then Patrick said,<br />“Live +they that list! Full sorely wept have I,<br />Nor will I hence +depart unsatisfied:<br />One said; ‘Grown soft, that race their +Faith will shame;’<br />Say therefore what the Lord thy God will +grant,<br />Nor stint His hand; since never scanter grace<br />Fell +yet on head of nation-taming man<br />Than thou to me hast portioned +till this hour.”</p> +<p>Then answer made the angel, soft of voice:<br />“Not all men +stumble when a Nation falls;<br />There are that stand upright. +God gives thee this:<br />They that are faithful to thy Faith, that +walk<br />Thy way, and keep thy covenant with God,<br />And daily sing +thy hymn, when comes the Judge<br />With Sign blood-red facing Jehosaphat,<br />And +fear lays prone the many-mountained world,<br />The same shall ’scape +the doom.” And Patrick said,<br />“That hymn is long, +and hard for simple folk,<br />And hard for children.” And +the angel thus:<br />“At least from ‘Christum Illum’ +let them sing,<br />And keep thy Faith: when comes the Judge, the pains<br />Shall +take not hold of such. Is that enough?”<br />And Patrick +answered, “That is not enough.”<br />Then Victor: “Likewise +this thy God accords:<br />The Dreadful Coming and the Day of Doom<br />Thy +land shall see not; for before that day<br />Seven years, a great wave +arched from out the deep,<br />Ablution pure, shall sweep the isle and +take<br />Her children to its peace. Is that enough?”<br />And +Patrick answered, “That is not enough.”</p> +<p>Then spake once more that courteous angel kind:<br />“What +boon demand’st then?” And the Saint, “No less<br />Than +this. Though every nation, ere that day<br />Recreant from creed +and Christ, old troth forsworn,<br />Should flee the sacred scandal +of the Cross<br />Through pride, as once the Apostles fled through fear,<br />This +Nation of my love, a priestly house,<br />Beside that Cross shall stand, +fate-firm, like him<br />That stood beside Christ’s Mother.” +Straightway, as one<br />Who ends debate, the angel answered stern:<br />“That +boon thou claimest is too great to grant:<br />Depart thou from this +mountain, Cruachan,<br />In peace; and find that Nation which thou lov’st,<br />That +like thy body is, and thou her head,<br />For foes are round her set +in valley and plain,<br />And instant is the battle.” Then +the Saint:<br />“The battle for my People is not there,<br />With +them, low down, but here upon this height<br />From them apart, with +God. This Mount of God<br />Dowerless and bare I quit not till +I die;<br />And dying, I will leave a Man Elect<br />To keep its keys, +and pray my prayer, and name<br />Dying in turn, his heir, successive +line,<br />Even till the Day of Doom.”</p> +<p> Then +heavenward sped<br />Victor, God’s angel, and the Man of God<br />Turned +to his offering; and all day he stood<br />Offering in heart that Offering +Undefiled<br />Which Abel offered, and Melchisedek,<br />And Abraham, +Patriarch of the faithful race,<br />In type, and which in fulness of +the times<br />The Victim-Priest offered on Calvary,<br />And, bloodless, +offers still in Heaven and Earth,<br />Whose impetration makes the whole +Church one.<br />Thus offering stood the man till eve, and still<br />Offered; +and as he offered, far in front<br />Along the aërial summit once +again<br />Ran out that beam like fiery pillar prone<br />Or sea-path +sunset-paved; and by his side<br />That angel stood. Then Patrick, +turning not<br />His eyes in prayer upon the West close held<br />Demanded, +“From the Maker of all worlds<br />What answer bring’st +thou?” Victor made reply:<br />“Down knelt in Heaven +the Angelic Orders Nine,<br />And all the Prophets and the Apostles +knelt,<br />And all the Creatures of the hand of God<br />Visible, and +invisible, down knelt,<br />While thou thy mighty Mass, though altarless,<br />Offeredst +in spirit, and thine Offering joined;<br />And all God’s Saints +on earth, or roused from sleep<br />Or on the wayside pausing, knelt, +the cause<br />Not knowing; likewise yearned the Souls to God<br />In +that fire-clime benign that clears from sin;<br />And lo! the Lord thy +God hath heard thy prayer,<br />Since fortitude in prayer - and this +thou know’st,” -<br />Smiling the Bright One spake, “is +that which lays<br />Man’s hand upon God’s sceptre. +That thou sought’st<br />Shall lack not consummation. Many +a race<br />Shrivelling in sunshine of its prosperous years,<br />Shall +cease from faith, and, shamed though shameless, sink<br />Back to its +native clay; but over thine<br />God shall extend the shadow of His +Hand,<br />And through the night of centuries teach to her<br />In woe +that song which, when the nations wake,<br />Shall sound their glad +deliverance: nor alone<br />This nation, from the blind dividual dust<br />Of +instincts brute, thoughts driftless, warring wills<br />By thee evoked +and shapen by thy hands<br />To God’s fair image which confers +alone<br />Manhood on nations, shall to God stand true;<br />But nations +far in undiscovered seas,<br />Her stately progeny, while ages fleet<br />Shall +wear the kingly ermine of her Faith,<br />Fleece uncorrupted of the +Immaculate Lamb,<br />For ever: lands remote shall raise to God<br /><i>Her</i> +fanes; and eagle-nurturing isles hold fast<br /><i>Her</i> hermit cells: +thy nation shall not walk<br />Accordant with the Gentiles of this world,<br />But +as a race elect sustain the Crown<br />Or bear the Cross: and when the +end is come,<br />When in God’s Mount the Twelve great Thrones +are set,<br />And round it roll the Rivers Four of fire,<br />And in +their circuit meet the Peoples Three<br />Of Heaven, and Earth, and +Hell, fulfilled that day<br />Shall be the Saviour’s word, what +time He stretched<br />Thy crozier-staff forth from His glory-cloud<br />And +sware to thee, ‘When they that with Me walked<br />Sit with Me +on their everlasting thrones<br />Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine +Israel,<br />Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness.’</p> +<p>Thou therefore kneel, and bless thy Land of Eire.”</p> +<p>Then Patrick knelt, and blessed the land, and said,<br />“Praise +be to God who hears the sinner’s prayer.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>EPILOGUE.</p> +<p>THE CONFESSION OF SAINT PATRICK.</p> +<p>ARGUMENT.</p> +<p><i>Before his death, Saint Patrick makes confession to his<br /> brethren +concerning his life; of his love for that<br /> land +which had been his House of Bondage; of his<br /> ceaseless +prayer in youth: of his sojourn at Tours,<br /> where +St. Martin had made abode, at Auxerres with<br /> St. +Germanus, and at Lerins with the Contemplatives:<br /> of +that mystic mountain where the Redeemer Himself<br /> lodged +the Crozier Staff in his hand; of Pope<br /> Celestine +who gave him his Mission; of his Visions; of<br /> his +Labours. His last charge to the sons of Erin is<br /> that +they should walk in Truth; that they should put<br /> from +them the spirit of Revenge; and that they should<br /> hold +fast to the Faith of Christ.</i></p> +<p>At Saul then, by the inland-spreading sea,<br />There where began +my labour, comes the end:<br />I, blind and witless, willed it otherwise:<br />God +willed it thus. When prescience came of death<br />I said, “My +Resurrection place I choose” -<br />O fool, for ne’er since +boyhood choice was mine<br />Save choice to subject will of mine to +God -<br />“At great Ardmacha.” Thitherward I turned;<br />But +in my pathway, with forbidding hand,<br />Victor, God’s angel +stood. “Not so,” he said,<br />“For in Ardmacha +stands thy princedom fixed,<br />Age after age, thy teaching, and thy +law,<br />But not thy grave. Return thou to that shore<br />Thy +place of small beginnings, and thereon<br />Lessen in body and mind, +and grow in spirit:<br />Then sing to God thy little hymn and die.”</p> +<p>Yea, Lord, my mouth would praise Thee ere I die,<br />The Father, +and the Son, and Holy Spirit<br />Who knittest in His Church the just +to Christ:<br />Help me, my sons - mine orphans soon to be -<br />Help +me to praise Him; ye that round me sit<br />On those grey rocks; ye +that have faithful been,<br />Honouring, despite dishonour of my sins,<br />His +servant: I would praise Him yet once more,<br />Though mine the stammerer’s +voice, or as a child’s;<br />For it is written, “Stammerers +shall speak plain<br />Sounding Thy Gospel.” “They +whom Christ hath sent<br />Are Christ’s Epistle, borne to ends +of earth,<br />Writ by His Spirit, and plain to souls elect:”<br />Lord, +am not I of Thine Apostolate?</p> +<p>Yea, by abjection Thine, by suffering Thine!<br />Till I was humbled +I was as a stone<br />In deep mire sunk. Then, stretched from +heaven, Thy hand<br />Slid under me in might, and lifted me,<br />And +fixed me in Thy Temple where Thou wouldst.<br />Wonder, ye great ones, +wonder, ye the wise!<br />On me, the last and least, this charge was +laid<br />This crown, that I in humbleness and truth<br />Should walk +this nation’s Servant till I die.</p> +<p>Therefore, a youth of sixteen years, or less,<br />With others of +my land by pirates seized<br />I stood on Erin’s shore. +Our bonds were just;<br />Our God we had forsaken, and His Law,<br />And +mocked His priests. Tending a stern man’s swine<br />I trod +those Dalaraida hills that face<br />Eastward to Alba. Six long +years went by;<br />But - sent from God - Memory, and Faith, and Fear<br />Moved +on my spirit as winds upon the sea,<br />And the Spirit of Prayer came +down. Full many a day<br />Climbing the mountain tops, one hundred +times<br />I flung upon the storm my cry to God.<br />Nor frost, nor +rain might harm me, for His love<br />Burned in my heart. Through +love I made my fast;<br />And in my fasts one night I heard this voice,<br />“Thou +fastest well: soon shalt thou see thy Land.”<br />Later, once +more thus spake it: “Southward fly,<br />Thy ship awaits thee.” +Many a day I fled,<br />And found the black ship dropping down the tide,<br />And +entered with those Gentiles by Thy grace<br />Vanquished, though first +they spurned me, and was free.<br />It was Thy leading, Lord; the Hand +was Thine!<br />For now when, perils past, I walked secure,<br />Kind +greetings round me, and the Christian Rite,<br />There rose a clamorous +yearning in my heart,<br />And memories of that land so far, so fair,<br />And +lost in such a gloom. And through that gloom<br />The eyes of +little children shone on me,<br />So ready to believe! Such children +oft<br />Ran by me naked in and out the waves,<br />Or danced in circles +upon Erin’s shores,<br />Like creatures never fallen! Thought +of such<br />Passed into thought of others. From my youth<br />Both +men and women, maidens most, to me<br />As children seemed; and O the +pity then<br />To mark how oft they wept, how seldom knew<br />Whence +came the wound that galled them! As I walked,<br />Each wind that +passed me whispered, “Lo, that race<br />Which trod thee down! +Requite with good their ill!<br />Thou know’st their tongue; old +man to thee, and youth,<br />For counsel came, and lambs would lick +thy foot;<br />And now the whole land is a sheep astray<br />That bleats +to God.”</p> +<p> Alone +one night I mused,<br />Burthened with thought of that vocation vast.<br />O’er-spent +I sank asleep. In visions then,<br />Satan my soul plagued with +temptation dire.<br />Methought, beneath a cliff I lay, and lo!<br />Thick-legioned +demons o’er me dragged a rock,<br />That falling, seemed a mountain. +Near, more near,<br />O’er me it blackened. Sudden from +my heart<br />This thought leaped forth: “Elias! Him invoke!”<br />That +name invoked, vanished the rock; and I,<br />On mountains stood watching +the rising sun,<br />As stood Elias once on Carmel’s crest,<br />Gazing +on heaven unbarred, and that white cloud,<br />A thirsting land’s +salvation.</p> +<p> Might +Divine!<br />Thou taught’st me thus my weakness; and I vowed<br />To +seek Thy strength. I turned my face to Tours,<br />There where +in years gone by Thy soldier-priest<br />Martin had ruled, my kinsman +in the flesh.<br />Dead was the lion; but his lair was warm:<br />In +it I laid me, and a conquering glow<br />Rushed up into my heart. +I heard discourse<br />Of Martin still, his valour in the Lord,<br />His +rugged warrior zeal, his passionate love<br />For Hilary, his vigils, +and his fasts,<br />And all his pitiless warfare on the Powers<br />Of +darkness; and one day, in secrecy,<br />With Ninian, missioned then +to Alba’s shore,<br />I peered into his branch-enwoven cell,<br />Half-way +between the river and the rocks,<br />From Tours a mile and more.</p> +<p> So +passed eight years<br />Till strengthened was my heart by discipline:<br />Then +spake a priest, “Brother, thy will is good,<br />Yet rude thou +art of learning as a beast;<br />Fare thee to great Germanus of Auxerres,<br />Who +lightens half the West!” I heard, and went,<br />And to +that Saint was subject fourteen years.<br />He from my mind removed +the veil; “Lift up,”<br />He said, “thine eyes!” +and like a mountain land<br />The Queenly Science stood before me plain,<br />From +rocky buttress up to peak of snow:<br />The great Commandments first, +Edicts, and Laws<br />That bastion up man’s life: - then high +o’er these<br />The forest huge of Doctrine, one, yet many,<br />Forth +stretching in innumerable aisles,<br />At the end of each, the self-same +glittering star: -<br />Lastly, the Life God-hidden. Day by day,<br />With +him for guide, that first and second realm<br />I tracked, and learned +to shun the abyss flower-veiled,<br />And scale heaven-threatening heights. +This, too, he taught,<br />Himself long time a ruler and a prince,<br />The +regimen of States from chaos won<br />To order, and to Christ. +Prudence I learned,<br />And sageness in the government of men,<br />By +me sore needed soon. O stately man,<br />In all things great, +in action and in thought,<br />And plain as great! To Britain +called, the Saint<br />Trod down that great Pelagian Blasphemy,<br />Chief +portent of the age. But better far<br />He loved his cell. +There sat he vigil-worn,<br />In cowl and dusky tunic hued like earth<br />Whence +issued man and unto which returns;<br />I marvelled at his wrinkled +brows, and hands<br />Still tracing, enter or depart who would,<br />From +morn to night his parchments.</p> +<p> There, +once more,<br />O God, Thine eye was on me, or my hand<br />Once more +had missed the prize. Temptation now<br />Whispered in softness, +“Wisdom’s home is here:<br />Here bide untroubled.” +Almost I had fallen;<br />But, by my side, in visions of the night,<br />God’s +angel, Victor, stood as one that hastes,<br />On travel sped. +Unnumbered missives lay<br />Clasped in his hands. One stretched +he forth, inscribed<br />“The wail of Erin’s Children.” +As I read<br />The cry of babes, from Erin’s western coast<br />And +Fochlut’s forest, and the wintry sea,<br />Shrilled o’er +me, clamouring, “Holy youth, return!<br />Walk then among us!” +I could read no more.</p> +<p> Thenceforth rose up renewed mine old desire:<br />My +kinsfolk mocked me. “What! past woes too scant!<br />Slave +of four masters, and the best a churl!<br />Thy Gospel they will trample +under foot,<br />And rend thee! Late to them Palladius preached:<br />They +drave him as a leper from their shores.”<br />I stood in agony +of staggering mind<br />And warring wills. Then, lo! at dead of +night<br />I heard a mystic voice, till then unheard,<br />I knew not +if within me or close by<br />That swelled in passionate pleading; nor +the words<br />Grasped I, so great they seemed and wonderful,<br />Till +sank that tempest to a whisper: - “He<br />Who died for thee is +He that in thee groans.”<br />Then fell, methought, scales from +mine inner eyes:<br />Then saw I - terrible that sight, yet sweet -<br />Within +me saw a Man that in me prayed<br />With groans unutterable. That +Man was girt<br />For mission far. My heart recalled that word,<br />“The +Spirit helpeth our infirmities;<br />That which we lack we know not, +but the Spirit<br />Himself for us doth intercession make<br />With +groanings which may never be revealed.”<br />That hour my vow +was vowed; and he approved,<br />My master and my guide. “But +go,” he said,<br />“First to that island in the Tyrrhene +Sea,<br />Where live the high Contemplatives to God:<br />There learn +perfection; there that Inner Life<br />Win thou, God’s strength +amid the world’s loud storm:<br />Nor fear lest God should frown +on such delay,<br />For Heavenly Wisdom is compassionate:<br />Slowly +before man’s weakness moves it on;<br />Softly: so moved of old +the Wise Men’s Star,<br />Which curbed its lightning ardours and +forbore<br />Honouring the pensive tread of hoary Eld,<br />Honouring +the burthened slave, the camel line<br />Long-linked, with level head +and foot that fell<br />As though in sleep, printing the silent sands.”<br />Thus, +smiling, spake Germanus, large in lore.</p> +<p>So in that island-Eden I sojourned,<br />Lerins, and saw where Vincent +lived, and his,<br />Life fountained from on high. That life was +Love;<br />For all their mighty knowledge food became<br />Of Love Divine, +and took, by Love absorbed,<br />Shape from his flame-like body. +Hard their beds;<br />Ceaseless their prayers. They tilled a sterile +soil;<br />Beneath their hands it blossomed like the rose:<br />O’er +thymy hollows blew the nectared airs;<br />Blue ocean flashed through +olives. They had fled<br />From praise of men; yet cities far +away<br />Rapt those meek saints to fill the bishop’s throne.<br />I +saw the light of God on faces calm<br />That blended with man’s +meditative might<br />Simplicity of childhood, and, with both<br />The +sweetness of that flower-like sex which wears<br />Through love’s +Obedience twofold crowns of Love.<br />O blissful time! In that +bright island bloomed<br />The third high region on the Hills of God,<br />Above +the rock, above the wood, the cloud: -<br />There laughs the luminous +air, there bursts anew<br />Spring bud in summer on suspended lawns;<br />There +the bell tinkles while once more the lamb<br />Trips by the sun-fed +runnel: there green vales<br />Lie lost in purple heavens.</p> +<p> Transfigured +Life!<br />This was thy glory, that, without a sigh,<br />Who loved +thee yet could leave thee! Thus it fell:<br />One morning I was +on the sea, and lo!<br />An isle to Lerins near, but fairer yet,<br />Till +then unseen! A grassy vale sea-lulled<br />Wound inward, breathing +balm, with fruited trees,<br />And stream through lilies gliding. +By a door<br />There stood a man in prime, and others sat<br />Not far, +some grey; and one, a weed of years,<br />Lay like a withered wreath. +An old man spake:<br />“See what thou seest, and scan the mystery +well!<br />The man who stands so stately in his prime<br />Is of this +company the eldest born.<br />The Saviour in His earthly sojourn, Risen,<br />Perchance, +or ere His Passion, who can tell,<br />Stood up at this man’s +door; and this man rose,<br />And let Him in, and made for Him a feast;<br />And +Jesus said, ‘Tarry, till I return.’<br />Moreover, others +are there on this isle,<br />Both men and maids, who saw the Son of +Man,<br />And took Him in, and shine in endless youth;<br />But we, +the rest, in course of nature fade,<br />For we believe, yet saw not +God, nor touched.”<br />Then spake I, “Here till death my +home I make,<br />Where Jesus trod.” And answered he in +prime,<br />“Not so; the Master hath for thee thy task.<br />Parting, +thus spake He: ‘Here for Mine Elect<br />Abide thou. Bid +him bear this crozier staff;<br />My blessing rests thereon: the same +shall drive<br />The foes of God before him.’” Answer +thus<br />I made, “That crozier staff I will not touch<br />Until +I take it from that nail-pierced Hand.”<br />From these I turned, +and clomb a mountain high,<br />Hermon by name; and there - was this, +my God,<br />In visions of the Lord, or in the flesh? -<br />I spake +with Him, the Lord of Life, Who died;<br />He from the glory stretched +the Hand nail-pierced,<br />And placed in mine that crozier staff, and +said:<br />“Upon that day when they that with Me walked<br />Sit +with Me on their everlasting Thrones,<br />Judging the Twelve Tribes +of Mine Israel,<br />Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness.”</p> +<p>Forthwith to Rome I fled; there knelt I down<br />Above the bones +of Peter and of Paul,<br />And saw the mitred embassies from far,<br />And +saw Celestine with his head high held<br />As though it bore the Blessed +Sacrament;<br />Chief Shepherd of the Saviour’s flock on earth.<br />Tall +was the man, and swift; white-haired; with eye<br />Starlike and voice +a trumpet clear that pealed<br />God’s Benediction o’er +the city and globe;<br />Yea, and whene’er his palm he lifted, +still<br />Blessing before it ran. Upon my head<br />He laid both +hands, and “Win,” he said, “to Christ<br />One realm +the more!” Moreover, to my charge<br />Relics he gave, unnumbered, +without price;<br />And when those relics lost had been, and found,<br />And +at his feet I wept, he chided not;<br />But, smiling, said, “Thy +glorious task fulfilled,<br />House them in thy new country’s +stateliest church<br />By cresset girt of ever-burning lamps,<br />And +never-ceasing anthems.”</p> +<p> Northward +then<br />Returned I, missioned. Yet once more, but once,<br />That +old temptation proved me. When they sat,<br />The Elders, making +inquest of my life,<br />Sudden a certain brother rose, and spake,<br />“Shall +this man be a Bishop, who hath sinned?”<br />My dearest friend +was he. To him alone<br />One time had I divulged a sin by me<br />Through +ignorance wrought when fifteen years of age;<br />And after thirty years, +behold, once more,<br />That sin had found me out! He knew my +mission:<br />When in mine absence slander sought my name,<br />Mine +honour he had cleared. Yet now - yet now -<br />That hour the +iron passed into my soul:<br />Yea, well nigh all was lost. I +wept, “Not one,<br />No heart of man there is that knows my heart,<br />Or +in its anguish shares.”</p> +<p> Yet, +O my God!<br />I blame him not: from Thee that penance came:<br />Not +for man’s love should Thine Apostle strive,<br />Thyself alone +his great and sole reward.<br />Thou laid’st that hour a fiery +hand of love<br />Upon a faithless heart; and it survived.</p> +<p>At dead of night a Vision gave me peace.<br />Slowly from out the +breast of darkness shone<br />Strange characters, a writing unrevealed:<br />And +slowly thence and infinitely sad,<br />A Voice: “Ill-pleased, +this day have we beheld<br />The face of the Elect without a name.”<br />It +said not, “Thou hast grieved,” but “We have grieved;”<br />With +import plain, “O thou of little faith!<br />Am I not nearer to +thee than thy friends?<br />Am I not inlier with thee than thyself?”<br />Then +I remembered, “He that touches you<br />Doth touch the very apple +of mine eye.”<br />Serene I slept. At morn I rose and ran<br />Down +to the shore, and found a boat, and sailed.</p> +<p>That hour true life’s beginning was, O Lord,<br />Because the +work Thou gav’st into my hands<br />Prospered between them. +Yea, and from the work<br />The Power forth issued. Strength in +me was none,<br />Nor insight, till the occasion: then Thy sword<br />Flamed +in my grasp, and beams were in mine eyes<br />That showed the way before +me, and nought else.<br />Thou mad’st me know Thy Will. +As taper’s light<br />Veers with a wind man feels not, o’er +my heart<br />Hovered thenceforth some Pentecostal flame<br />That bent +before that Will. Thy Truth, not mine,<br />Lightened this People’s +mind; Thy Love inflamed<br />Their hearts; Thy Hope upbore them as on +wings.<br />Valiant that race, and simple, and to them<br />Not hard +the godlike venture of belief:<br />Conscience was theirs: tortuous +too oft in life<br />Their thoughts, when passionate most, then most +were true,<br />Heart-true. With naked hand firmly they clasped<br />The +naked Truth: in them Belief was Act.<br />A tribe from Thy far East +they called themselves:<br />Their clans were Patriarch households, +rude through war:<br />Old Pagan Rome had known them not; their Isle<br />Virgin +to Christ had come. Oh how unlike<br />Her sons to those old Roman +Senators,<br />Scorn of Germanus oft, who breathed the air<br />Fouled +by dead Faiths successively blown out,<br />Or Grecian sophist with +his world of words,<br />That, knowing all, knew nothing! Praise +to Thee,<br />Lord of the night-time as the day, Who keep’st<br />Reserved +in blind barbaric innocence,<br />Pure breed, when boastful lights corrupt +the wise,<br />With healthier fruit to bless a later age.</p> +<p> I to that people all things made myself<br />For Christ’s +sake, building still that good they lacked<br />On good already theirs. +In courts of kings<br />I stood: before mine eye their eye went down,<br />For +Thou wert with me. Gentle with the meek,<br />I suffered not the +proud to mock my face:<br />Thus by the anchors twain of Love and Fear,<br />Since +Love, not perfected, gains strength from Fear,<br />I bound to thee +This nation. Parables<br />I spake in; parables in act I wrought<br />Because +the people’s mind was in the sense.<br />At Imbher Dea they scoffed +Thy word: I raised<br />Thy staff, and smote with barrenness that flood:<br />Then +learned they that the world was Thine, not ruled<br />By Sun or Moon, +their famed “God-Elements:”<br />Yea, like Thy Fig-tree +cursed, that river banned<br />Witnessed Thy Love’s stern pureness. +From the grass<br />The little three-leaved herb, I stooped and plucked,<br />And +preached the Trinity. Thy Staff I raised,<br />And bade - not +ravening beast - but reptiles foul<br />Flee to the abyss like that +blind herd of old;<br />Then spake I: “Be not babes, but understand:<br />Thus +in your spirit lift the Cross of Christ:<br />Banish base lusts; so +God shall with you walk<br />As once with man in Eden.” +With like aim<br />Convents I reared for holy maids, then sought<br />The +marriage feast, and cried, “If God thus draws<br />Close to Himself +those virgin hearts, and yet<br />Blesses the bridal troth, and infant’s +font,<br />How white a thing should be the Christian home!”<br />Marvelling, +they learned what heritage their God<br />Possessed in them! how wide +a realm, how fair.</p> +<p>Lord, save in one thing only, I was weak -<br />I loved this people +with a mother’s love,<br />For their sake sanctified my spirit +to thee<br />In vigil, fast, and meditation long,<br />On mountain and +on moor. Thus, Lord, I wrought,<br />Trusting that so Thy lineaments +divine,<br />Deeplier upon my spirit graved, might pass<br />Thence +on that hidden burthen which my heart<br />Still from its substance +feeding, with great pangs<br />Strove to bring forth to Thee. +O loyal race!<br />Me too they loved. They waited me all night<br />On +lonely roads; and, as I preached, the day<br />To those high listeners +seemed a little hour.<br />Have I not seen ten thousand brows at once<br />Flash +in the broad light of some Truth new risen,<br />And felt like him, +that Saint who cried, flame-girt,<br />“At last do I begin to +be a Christian?”<br />Have I not seen old foes embrace? +Seen him,<br />That white-haired man who dashed him on the ground,<br />Crying +aloud, “My buried son, forgive!<br />Thy sire hath touched the +hand that shed thy blood?”<br />Fierce chiefs knelt down in penance! +Lord! how oft<br />Shook I their tear-drop sparkles from my gown!<br />’Twas +the forgiveness taught them all the debt,<br />Great-hearted penitents! +How many a youth<br />Contemned the praise of men! How many a +maid -<br />O not in narrowness, but Love’s sweet pride<br />And +love-born shyness - jealous for a mate<br />Himself not jealous - spurned +terrestrial love,<br />Glorying in heavenly Love’s fair oneness! +Race<br />High-dowered! God’s Truth seemed some remembered +thing<br />To them; God’s Kingdom smiled, their native haunt<br />Prophesied +then their daughters and their sons:<br />Each man before the face of +each upraised<br />His hand on high, and said, “The Lord hath +risen!”<br />Then, like a stream from ice released, forth fled<br />And +wafted far the tidings, flung them wide,<br />Shouted them loud from +rocky ridge o’er bands<br />Marching far down to war! The +sower sowed<br />With happier hope; the reaper bending sang,<br />“Thus +shall God’s Angels reap the field of God<br />When we are ripe +for heaven.” Lovers new-wed<br />Drank of that water changed +to wine, thenceforth<br />Breathing on earth heaven’s sweetness. +Unto such<br />More late, whate’er of brightness time or will<br />Infirm +had dimmed, shone back from infant brows<br />By baptism lit. +Each age its garland found:<br />Fair shone on trustful childhood faith +divine:<br />Eld, once a weight of wrinkles now upsoared<br />In venerable +lordship of white hairs,<br />Seer-like and sage. Healed was a +nation’s wound:<br />All men believed who willed not disbelief;<br />And +sat in that oppugnancy steel-mailed:<br />They cried, “Before +thy priests our bards shall bow,<br />And all our clans put on thy great +Clan Christ!”</p> +<p> For your sake, O my brethren, and my sons<br />These +things have I recorded. Something I wrought:<br />Strive ye in +loftier labours; strive, and win:<br />Your victory shall be mine: my +crown are ye.<br />My part is ended now. I lived for Truth:<br />I +to this people gave that truth I knew;<br />My witnesses ye are I grudged +it not:<br />Freely did I receive, freely I gave;<br />Baptising, or +confirming, or ordaining,<br />I sold not things divine. Of mine +own store<br />Ofttimes the hire of fifteen men I paid<br />For guard +where bandits lurked. When prince or chief<br />Laid on God’s +altar ring, or torque, or gold,<br />I sent them back. Too fortunate, +too beloved,<br />I said, “Can he Apostle be who bears<br />Such +scanty marks of Christ’s Apostolate,<br />Hunger, and thirst, +and scorn of men?” For this,<br />Those pains they spared +I spared not to myself,<br />The body’s daily death. I make +not boast:<br />What boast have I? If God His servant raised,<br />He +knoweth - not ye - how oft I fell; how low;<br />How oft in faithless +longings yearned my heart<br />For faces of His Saints in mine own land,<br />Remembered +fields far off. This, too, He knoweth,<br />How perilous is the +path of great attempts,<br />How oft pride meets us on the storm-vexed +height,<br />Pride, or some sting its scourge. My hope is He:<br />His +hand, my help so long, will loose me never:<br />And, thanks to God, +the sheltering grave is near.</p> +<p> How still this eve! The morn was racked with storm:<br />’Tis +past; the skylark sings; the tide at flood<br />Sighs a soft joy: alone +those lines of weed<br />Report the wrath foregone. Yon watery +plain<br />Far shines, a mingled sea of glass and fire,<br />Even as +that Beatific Sea outspread<br />Before the Throne of God. ’Tis +Paschal Tide; -<br />O sorrowful, O blissful Paschal Tide!<br />Fain +would I die on Holy Saturday;<br />For then, as now, the storm is past +- the woe;<br />And, somewhere ’mid the shades of Olivet<br />Lies +sealed the sacred cave of that Repose<br />Watched by the Holy Women. +Earth, that sing’st,<br />Since first He made thee, thy Creator’s +praise,<br />Sing, sing, thy Saviour’s! Myriad-minded sea,<br />How +that bright secret thrills thy rippling lips<br />Which shake, yet speak +not! Thou that mad’st the worlds,<br />Man, too, Thou mad’st; +within Thy Hands the life<br />Of each was shapen, and new-wov’n +ran out,<br />New-willed each moment. What makes up that life?<br />Love +infinite, and nothing else save love!<br />Help ere need came, deliverance +ere defeat;<br />At every step an angel to sustain us,<br />An angel +to retrieve! My years are gone:<br />Sweet were they with a sweetness +felt but half<br />Till now; - not half discerned. Those blessèd +years<br />I would re-live, deferring thus so long<br />The Vision of +Thy Face, if thus with gaze<br />Cast backward I might <i>see</i> that +guiding hand<br />Step after step, and kiss it.</p> +<p> Happy +isle!<br />Be true; for God hath graved on thee His Name:<br />God, +with a wondrous ring, hath wedded thee;<br />God on a throne divine +hath ’stablished thee: -<br />Light of a darkling world! +Lamp of the North!<br />My race, my realm, my great inheritance,<br />To +lesser nations leave inferior crowns;<br />Speak ye the thing that is; +be just, be kind;<br />Live ye God’s Truth, and in its strength +be free!</p> +<p>This day to Him, the Faithful and the True,<br />For Whom I toiled, +my spirit I commend.<br />That which I am, He knoweth: I know not now:<br />But +I shall know ere long. If I have loved Him<br />I seek but this +for guerdon of my love<br />With holier love to love Him to the end:<br />If +I have vanquished others to His love<br />Would God that this might +be their meed and mine<br />In witness for His love to pour our blood<br />A +glad stream forth, though vultures or wild beasts<br />Rent our unburied +bones! Thou setting sun,<br />That sink’st to rise, that +time shall come at last<br />When in thy splendours thou shalt rise +no more;<br />And, darkening with the darkening of thy face,<br />Who +worshipped thee with thee shall cease; but those<br />Who worshipped +Christ shall shine with Christ abroad,<br />Eternal beam, and Sun of +Righteousness,<br />In endless glory. For His sake alone<br />I, +bondsman in this land, re-sought this land.<br />All ye who name my +name in later times,<br />Say to this People, since vindictive rage<br />Tempts +them too often, that their Patriarch gave<br />Pattern of pardon ere +in words he preached<br />That God who pardons. Wrongs if they +endure<br />In after years, with fire of pardoning love<br />Sin-slaying, +bid them crown the head that erred:<br />For bread denied let them give +Sacraments,<br />For darkness light, and for the House of Bondage<br />The +glorious freedom of the sons of God:<br />This is my last Confession +ere I die.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>NOTES.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p><a name="footnote10a"></a><a href="#citation10a">{10a}</a> Cotton +MSS., Nero, E.’; Codex Salisburiensis; and a MS. in the Monastery +of St. Vaast.</p> +<p><a name="footnote10b"></a><a href="#citation10b">{10b}</a> The Book +of Armagh, preserved at Trinity College, Dublin, contains a Life of +St. Patrick, with his writings, and consists in chief part of a description +of all the books of the New Testament, including the Epistle of Paul +to the Laodiceans. Traces found here and there of the name of +the copyist and of the archbishop for whom the copy was made, fix its +date almost to a year as 807 or 811-812.</p> +<p><a name="footnote77"></a><a href="#citation77">{77}</a> The Isle +of Man.</p> +<p><a name="footnote101"></a><a href="#citation101">{101}</a> Now Limerick.</p> +<p><a name="footnote111"></a><a href="#citation111">{111}</a> Foynes.</p> +<p><a name="footnote116"></a><a href="#citation116">{116}</a> The Giant’s +Causeway.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK ***</p> +<pre> + +******This file should be named lgsp10h.htm or lgsp10h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, lgsp11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, lgsp10ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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