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Title: The Legends of Saint Patrick
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<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>
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