Volume 7 — Iona to Erin!

What Saint Columba Said To The Bird Blown Over From Ireland To Iona. [Footnote 21]

I. Cling to my breast, my Irish bird, Poor storm-tost stranger, sore afraid! How sadly is thy beauty blurred— The wing whose hue was as the curd, Rough as the seagull's pinion made! II. Lay close thy head, my Irish bird. Upon this bosom, human still! Nor fear the heart that still has stirred To every tale of pity heard From every shape of earthly ill. III. For you and I are exiles both; Rest you, wanderer, rest you here! Soon fair winds shall waft you forth Back to our own beloved north— Would God, I could go with you, dear! IV. Were I as you, then would they say, Hermits and all in choir who join, 'Behold two doves upon their way; The pilgrims of the air are they, Birds from the Liffey or the Boyne!' V. But you will see what I am banned No more, for my youth's sins, to see— My Derry's oaks in council stand. By Roseapenna's silver strand— Or by Raphoe your flight may be. VI. The shrines of Meath are fair and far, White-winged one! not too far for thee— Emania, shining like a star, (Bright brooch on Erin's breast you are!) [Footnote 22] That I am never more to see. [Footnote 22: It is said that Macha, the queen, traced out the site of the royal rath of Emania, near Armagh, with the pin of her golden brooch. See Mrs. Ferguson's "Ireland before the Conquest," for this and other interesting Celtic legends.] VII. You'll see the homes of holy men Far west upon the shoreless main— In sheltered vale, on cloudy Ben, Where saints still pray, and scribes still pen The sacred page, despising gain! VIII. Above the crofts of virgin saints. There pause, my dove, and rest thy wing. But tell them not our sad complaints! For if they dreamt our spirit faints There would be fruitless sorrowing. IX. Perch as you pass amid their trees, At noon or eve, my travelled dove. And blend with voices of their bees In croft, or school, or on their knees— They'll bind you with their hymns of love! X. Be thou to them, O dove! where'er The men or women saints are found. My hyssop flying through the air; My seven-fold benedictions bear— To them, and all on Irish ground. XI. Thou wilt return, my Irish bird— I, Colum, do foretell it thee. Would thou couldst speak as thou hast heard To all I love—O happy bird! At home in Eri soon to be!