Part 2 — THE LEGENDS OF OISIN, BARD OF ERIN. BY AUBREY DE VERE.

Not seldom, crossed by bodings sad, In words though kind yet hard Spake Patrick to his guest, Oisin; For Patrick loved the Bard In whose broad bosom, swathed with beard Like cliffs with ivy trailed, A Christian strove with a pagan soul, And neither quite prevailed. Silent as shades the shadowing monks O’er cloistral courts might glide; But the War-Bard strode through the church itself Like hunter on mountain-side. Yea, sometimes, while his beads he told, Fierce thoughts, a rebel breed, Burst up from the graves of his warriors dead, And he stormed at priest and Creed. His end drew nigh. ’Twas after years Had proved stern warnings vain, When dying he lay on his wolf-skin bed, And murmured a warlike strain. The Saint drew near: he gazed; then spake, “A fair child died one day: Four weeks had passed; yet, changeless still, Like a child asleep he lay. “They could not hide him in the ground Though hand and heart were chill, For round his lips the smile avouched The soul was in him still. “Then lo! a man of God came by And stood beside the bier, And spake, ‘A pagan house is this; And yet a saint lies here! “‘God shaped this child his praise to sing To a blind and pagan race; And till that song is sung, in heaven He may not see God’s face.’ “Then thrice around that child he moved With circling censer-cloud, And touched with censer fire his tongue, And the dead child sang aloud. “Oisin! like larks beside thy Lee, So loud he sang his hymn: And straight baptized he was, and died; And, dead, his face grew dim. “So then, since Christ had caught to heaven The fair soul washed from sin, A little grave they dug, and laid The little saint therein. “And ever as fell the night, that grave Shone like the Shepherds’ star, With happy beam that homeward drew The wanderer from afar. “Oisin! thy Land is as that child! Thou call’st her dead—thy Land; For cold is Fionn, thy sire; and he, He was her strong right hand! “And cold is Oscar now, thy son: Her mighty heart was he— Oisin! let dead at last be dead; Let living, living be! “Her great old Past is gone at last: Her heavenlier Future waits, Yet entrance never can she find Till Faith unbars the gates. “Prince of thy country’s songful choir! Thou wert her golden Tongue! Sing thou her New Song—‘I believe!’ Give thou to God her Song! Then suddenly that old man stood, And made his arms a cross: Within his heart a light that changed The earth to dust and dross: And, pierced by beams from those two hands Of Jesus crucified, His Erin of two thousand years Held forth her hands, and died: For all her sceptres by a Reed That hour were overborne; And all her crowns went down, that hour, Before the Crown of Thorn. As shines the sun through snowy haze Oisin’s white head forth shone: “In God the Father I believe,” He sang, “and Mary’s Son:” And, onward as the swan-chaunt swept Adown the Creed’s broad flood, In radiance waxed his face, as though He saw the face of God. Then Patrick, with his wondering monks, Knelt down, and said, “Amen,” While slowly dropped a sun that ne’er Saw that white head again. The rite complete, the old man sank, And turned him on his side: Next morning, as the Lauds began, “My Son,” he said, and died.