Prince Ragnal.

White and chill from the wintry skies, The starlight falls upon ancient Eire: The wind makes moan thro’ the leafless trees Of Devenish Isle, like a soul in fear,— Deep in the heart of its snowy woods, Fanning a peat-flame, lone and drear. The ruined hut where that turf-fire glows Hath never a roof of thatch or stone, But bow and spear on the rude walls hang, And a bed of skins on the floor is strewn, Where, close to the embers, stern and still, Ragnal the leper sits alone. Ragnal of Errigal, prince of doom, His face, a death-mask of despair;— The foul disorder’s loathly scales Lacquer his skin with their hideous glair: Dulling the blue of his brave young eye, Dimming the gold of his tangled hair. Bowed like a churl of three-score ten, His peakéd chin in his wasted hands, He watches the flames with a sluggish eye, Sparkle and glow in their fiery dance; Till, deep in the embers, pictured, lie His life’s lost hopes—its dead romance. A royal castle beside the sea, On breezy cliffs, exultant, set: A Prince and Princess, young and fair, Pacing the grassy parapet, The golden fringe of his long, bright hair Sweeping the maiden’s locks of jet. Thro’ perfum’d air, replete with peace, The swallows skim the blue waves’ flow: The lovely Dympna’s hand, at rest On her lover’s arm (a thing of snow)— Thrills, as he bends his head, and breathes In her blushing ear, a whisper low. She gathers the fleece of her floating veil From the nodding shade of his raven plume, As, gravely pleading, he bends again To hear those bright lips speak his doom. —Why does she start and lift her head? Why are her cheeks devoid of bloom? He sees the flash of her wide, dark eye, He hears her clear voice rise and fall: “Sooner than sell my faith in Christ, My life I’d yield—my love—my all! Content my bridal vows should prove A martyr’s grave and a virgin’s pall!” Then, in the flames, his other self He sees, erect in scorn and pride: “Sooner would I a leper be, Far from the world to crouch and hide, Than bend to a Christian priest mine knee, Or take to mine arms a Christian bride!” The royal blood leaps in her face, Her voice rings out its golden knell: “O Christ! incline Thy pitying grace, And pardon this poor infidel!” Then, with averted, shuddering gaze, “Unhappy Ragnal! fare thee well!” A sudden darkness shuts her in ... The flutter of her snowy gown— The sunlit towers—the sparkling waves In pallid embers, crumble down; As Ragnal by the fire sits, A leprous Prince without a crown! “O lily, nurtured by the sea! Sweet Dympna, long-lost, promised bride! Thine unknown Christ”—(he cries aloud): “This night hath triumph’d o’er my pride! Forgive me!”—Lo! a gust of song Fills all the wintry world outside!

A thrilling, heavenly harmony From silvern harps and lutes divine: The Leper, prostrate on his face, Drinks in the glorious draught like wine; Then, rising, reels like drunken wight, Into the starlight’s wondrous shine. For strange, unearthly lustres fill The frosty air. To Ragnal blown, Across Lough Erne, there comes the breath Of sweetest blossoms ever grown; Yet, right or left, above, below, No living thing or shape is shown. All wordless, o’er the sparkling Lough, The music steals again—but hark! “Gloria in excelsis!” sings A voice, up-soaring like a lark; While: “Et in terra pax!” (strange words!) Drop down to Ragnal thro’ the dark. His breast heaves with a mighty fear, The strong man trembles like a reed: The while the minstrels float before, (Tho’ ulcer’d feet and ankles bleed), Straight onward through the shining wood, He needs must follow where they lead; And walks, and walks, and walks, and walks, His bare feet buried in the snow; While flaming eyes of savage beasts From bog and thicket, glare and glow. He sees the stars slide down the east, He hears the cocks begin to crow. Yet walks, and walks, and walks, and walks, Till ev’ry nerve and sinew aches, And sweat and blood and loathly scales Mark ev’ry painful step he takes— When, suddenly, the rapturous sound That lured him on—his path forsakes! And with his burning forehead bared, The hoar-frost on his yellow locks, The Leper finds himself before An open cave, wherein an ox And ass are stalled—dumb, placid brutes,— Their manger rooted in the rocks. And in the midst—O Vision strange!— A Woman glorious as the moon, Upon whose breast, a radiant Child Lies, like a rosebud blown in June, His eyes (twin-lamps of Paradise!) Making the night a brilliant noon. They look on Ragnal sweet, yet sad, And Ragnal bends his aching knee; He stretches forth his wasted arms, And cries: “Eternal praise to Thee! O Blessed Christ! Thine hour is come— Complete the work begun in me!” And then, he swoons—how long—how short A space, he knows not—till his eyes He, languid, opens to the dawn, Faint-blushing in the eastern skies; And sees the cavern full of shapes, And blazing with a glad surprise!

An altar cloth’d with pure samite, Adorned with gold and precious stones— A Christian priest in vestments white Baptizing many little ones; And all the people on their knees Singing in full, melodious tones!— Whose hand on Ragnal’s shoulder lies? Whose sweet voice murmurs in his ear? “For such as thou, the Christ was born; Arise, Prince Ragnal, and draw near!” A veiléd woman leads him down To where the altar-lights shine clear. The Hidden Presence strong and sweet His erring son would closer draw. In the warm glory of the shrine, His icy blood begins to thaw: Yet Ragnal dare not lift his eyes— He trembles with delicious awe. What time the children yield him place, (Without a look or sign of dread), Kneeling before the agéd priest, The sacred words are softly said; And with a thrill of joy, he feels The saving waters on his head. O miracle of purest faith! The people shout and clap their hands— Like some foul mantle, earthward, cast, Down drop the Leper’s loathsome bands!— Ragnal, the Golden-hair’d, once more, In manly beauty, perfect, stands! While, clear and strong to Heaven’s high court, Goes up the glorious Christmas hymn— The shrouded woman at his side Flings back her veil from eyes that swim With happy tears—and Dympna’s face Shines star-like, from the shadows dim! Forgiven the past—forgot the pains Which made that face his bitterest dream; A trusting smile is on its lips, Its eyes with glad affection beam, While, down the Prince’s waving beard, The grateful tears, unbidden, stream. The priest hath joined their willing hands; The day grows bright—the wind blows free— As thro’ the woods, they go to seek Their sunlit castle by the sea. O Ragnal of the Golden Hair! The Lord hath gracious dealt with thee!

And in the midst—O Vision strange!— A Woman glorious as the moon, Upon whose breast, a radiant Child Lies, like a rosebud blown in June.