AUTHOR’S PREFACE TO “THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK.” (continued 2)

Then Patrick, standing up among them, spake, And God was with him. Not as when loose tongue Babbles vain rumour, or the Sophist spins Thought’s air-hung cobwebs gay with Fancy’s dews, Spake he, but words of might, as when a man Bears witness to the things which he has seen, And tells of that he knows: and as the harp Attested is by rapture of the ear, And sunlight by consenting of the eye That, seeing, knows it sees, and neither craves Inferior demonstration, so his words Self-proved, went forth and conquered: for man’s mind, Created in His image who is Truth, Challenged by truth, with recognising voice Cries out “Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,” And cleaves thereto. In all that listening host One vast, dilating heart yearned to its God. Then burst the bond of years. No haunting doubt They knew. God dropped on them the robe of Truth Sun-like: down fell the many-coloured weed Of error; and, reclothed ere yet unclothed, They walked a new-born earth. The blinded Past Fled, vanquished. Glorious more than strange it seemed That He who fashioned man should come to man, And raise by ruling. They, His trumpet heard, In glory spurned demons misdeemed for gods: The great chief had returned: the clan enthralled Trod down the usurping foe.

Then rose the cry, “Join us to Christ!” His strong eyes on them set, Patrick replied, “Know ye what thing ye seek Ye that would fain be house-mates with my King? Ye seek His cross!” He paused, then added slow: “If ye be liegeful, sirs, decree the day, His baptism shall be yours.”

That eve, while shone The sunset on the green-touched woods, that, grazed By onward flight of unalighting spring, Caught warmth yet scarcely flamed, Aengus stood With Patrick in a westward-facing tower Which overlooked far regions town-besprent, And lit with winding waters. Thus he spake: “My Father! what is sovereignty of man? Say, can I shield yon host from death, from sin, Taking them up into my breast, like God? I trow not so! Mine be the lowliest place Following thy King who left his Father’s throne To walk the lowliest!” Patrick answered thus: “Best lot thou choosest, son. If thine that lot Thou know’st not yet; nor I. The Lord, thy God, Will teach us.”

When the day decreed had dawned Loud rang the bull-horn; and on every breeze Floated the banners, saffron, green, and blue; While issuing from the horizon’s utmost verge The full-voiced People flocked. So swarmed of old Some migratory nation, instinct-urged To fly their native wastes sad winter’s realm; So thronged on southern slopes when, far below, Shone out the plains of promise. Bright they came! No summer sea could wear a blithsomer sheen Though every dancing crest and milky plume Ran on with rainbows braided. Minstrel songs Wafted like winds those onward hosts, or swayed Or stayed them; while among them heralds passed Lifting white wands of office. Foremost rode Aileel, the younger brother of the prince: He ruled a milk-white horse. Fluttered, breeze-borne His mantle green, while all his golden hair Streamed back redundant from the ring of gold Circling his head uncovered. Loveliest light Of innocence and joy was on that face: Full well the young maids marked it! Brighter yet Beamed he, his brother noting. On the verge Of Cashel’s Rock that hour Aengus stood, By Patrick’s side. That concourse nearer now He gazed upon it, crying, with clasped hands, “My Father, fair is sunrise, fair the sea, The hills, the plains, the wind-stirred wood, the maid; But what is like a People onward borne In gladness? When I see that sight, my heart Expands like palace-gates wide open flung That say to all men, ‘Enter.’” Then the Saint Laid on that royal head a hand of might, And said, “The Will of God decrees thee King! Son of this People art thou: Sire one day Thou shalt be! Son and Sire in one are King. Shepherd for God thy flock, thou Shepherd true!” He spake: that word was ratified in Heaven.

Meantime that multitude innumerable Had reached the Rock, and, now the winding road In pomp ascending, faced those fair-wrought gates Which, by the warders at the prince’s sign Drawn back, to all gave entrance. In they streamed, Filling the central courtway. Patrick stood High stationed on a prostrate idol’s base, In vestments of the Vigil of that Feast The Annunciation, which with annual boon Whispers, while melting snows dilate those streams Purer than snows, to universal earth That Maiden Mother’s joy. The Apostle watched The advancing throng, and gave them welcome thus; “As though into the great Triumphant Church, O guests of God, ye flock! Her place is Heaven: Sirs! we this day are militant below: Not less, advance in faith. Behold your crowns— Obedience and Endurance.”

There and then The Rite began: his people’s Chief and Head Beside the font Aengus stood; his face Sweet as a child’s, yet grave as front of eld: For reverence he had laid his crown aside, And from the deep hair to the unsandalled feet Was raimented in white. With mitred head And massive book, forward Saint Patrick leaned, Stayed by the gem-wrought crosier. Prayer on prayer Went up to God; while gift on gift from God, All Angel-like, invisibly to man, Descended. Thrice above that princely brow Patrick the cleansing waters poured, and traced Three times thereon the Venerable Sign, Naming the Name Triune. The Rite complete, Awestruck that concourse downward gazed. At last Lifting their eyes, they marked the prince’s face That pale it was though bright, anguished and pale, While from his naked foot a blood-stream gushed And o’er the pavement welled. The crosier’s point, Weighted with weight of all that priestly form, Had pierced it through. “Why suffer’dst thou so long The pain in silence?” Patrick spake, heart-grieved: Smiling, Aengus answered, “O my Sire, I thought, thus called to follow Him whose feet Were pierced with nails, haply the blissful Rite Bore witness to their sorrows.”

At that word The large eyes of the Apostolic man Grew larger; and within them lived that light Not fed by moon or sun, a visible flash Of that invisible lightning which from God Vibrates ethereal through the world of souls, Vivific strength of Saints. The mitred brow Uptowered sublime: the strong, yet wrinkled hands, Ascending, ceased not, till the crosier’s head Glittered above the concourse like a star. At last his hands disparting, down he drew From Heaven the Royal Blessing, speaking thus: “For this cause may the blessing, Sire of kings, Cleave to thy seed forever! Spear and sword Before them fall! In glory may the race Of Nafrach’s sons, Aengus, and Aileel, Hold sway on Cashel’s summit! Be their kings Great-hearted men, potent to rule and guard Their people; just to judge them; warriors strong; Sage counsellors; faithful shepherds; men of God, That so through them the everlasting King May flood their land with blessing.” Thus he spake; And round him all that nation said, “Amen.”

Thus held they feast in Cashel of the Kings That day till all that land was clothed with Christ: And when the parting came from Cashel’s steep Patrick the People’s Blessing thus forth sent: “The Blessing fall upon the pasture broad, On fruitful mead, and every corn-clad hill, And woodland rich with flowers that children love: Unnumbered be the homesteads, and the hearths:— A blessing on the women, and the men, On youth, and maiden, and the suckling babe: A blessing on the fruit-bestowing tree, And foodful river tide. Be true; be pure, Not living from below, but from above, As men that over-top the world. And raise Here, on this rock, high place of idols once, A kingly church to God. The same shall stand For aye, or, wrecked, from ruin rise restored, His witness till He cometh. Over Eire The Blessing speed till time shall be no more From Cashel of the Kings.”

The Saint fared forth: The People bare him through their kingdom broad With banner and with song; but o’er its bound The women of that People followed still A half day’s journey with lamenting voice; Then silent knelt, lifting their babes on high; And, crowned with two-fold blessing, home returned.

Across his breast one hundred times each day Saint Patrick drew the Venerable Sign, And sixty times by night: and whensoe’er In travel Cross was seen far off or nigh On lonely moor, or rock, or heathy hill, For Erin then was sown with Christian seed, He sought it, and before it knelt. Yet once, While cold in winter shone the star of eve Upon their board, thus spake a youthful monk: “Three times this day, my father, didst thou pass The Cross of Christ unmarked. At morn thou saw’st A last year’s lamb that by it sheltered lay, At noon a dove that near it sat and mourned, At eve a little child that round it raced, Well pleased with each; yet saw’st thou not that Cross, Nor mad’st thou any reverence!” At that word Wondering, the Saint arose, and left the meat, And, wondering, went to venerate that Cross.

Dark was the earth and dank ere yet he reached That spot; and lo! where lamb had lain, and dove Had mourned, and child had raced, there stood indeed High-raised, the Cross of Christ. Before it long He prayed, and kneeling, marked that on a tomb That Cross was raised. Then, inly moved by God, The Saint demanded, “Who, of them that walked The sun-warmed earth lies here in darkness hid?” And answer made a lamentable Voice: “Pagan I lived, my own soul’s bane:—when dead, Men buried here my body.” Patrick then: “How stands the Cross of Christ on Pagan grave?” And answered thus the lamentable Voice: “A woman’s work. She had been absent long; Her son had died; near mine his grave was made; Half blind was she through fleeting of her tears, And, erring, raised the Cross upon my tomb, Misdeeming it for his. Nightly she comes, Wailing as only Pagan mothers wail; So wailed my mother once, while pain tenfold Ran through my bodiless being. For her sake, If pity dwells on earth or highest heaven, May it this mourner comfort! Christian she, And capable of pity.”

Then the Saint Cried loud, “O God, Thou seest this Pagan’s heart, That love within it dwells: therefore not his That doom of Souls all hate, and self-exiled To whom Thy Presence were a woe twice told. Eternal Pity! pity Thou Thy work;— Sole Peace of them that love Thee, grant him peace.” Thus Patrick prayed; and in the heaven of heavens God heard his servant’s prayer. Then Patrick mused “Now know I why I passed that Cross unmarked; It was not that it seemed.”

As thus he knelt, Behold, upon the cold and bitter wind Rang wail on wail; and o’er the moor there moved What seemed a woman’s if a human form. That miserable phantom onward came With cry succeeding cry that sank or swelled As dipped or rose the moor. Arrived at last, She heeded not the Saint, but on that grave Dashed herself down. Long time that woman wailed; And Patrick, long, for reverence of her woe Forbore. At last he spake low-toned as when Best listener knows not when the strain begins. “Daughter! the sparrow falls not to the ground Without his Maker. He that made thy son Hath sent His Son to bear all woes of men, And vanquish every foe—the latest, Death.” Then rolled that woman on the Saint an eye As when the last survivor of a host Glares on some pitying conqueror. “Ho! the man That treads upon my grief! He ne’er had sons; And thou, O son of mine, hast left no sons, Though oft I said, ‘When I am old, his babes Shall climb my knees.’ My boast was mine in youth; But now mine age is made a barren stock And as a blighted briar.” In grief she turned; And as on blackening tarn gust follows gust, Again came wail on wail. On strode the night: The jagged forehead of that forest old Alone was seen: all else was gloom. At last With voice, though kind, upbraiding, Patrick spake: “Daughter, thy grief is wilful and it errs; Errs like those sad and tear-bewildered eyes That for a Christian’s take a Pagan’s grave, And for a son’s a stranger’s. Ah! poor child, Thy pride it was to raise, where lay thy son, A Cross, his memory’s honour. By thee close All dewed and glimmering in yon rising moon, Low lies a grave unhonoured, and unknown: No cross stands on it; yet upon its breast Graved shalt thou find what Christian tomb ne’er lacks, The Cross of Christ. Woman, there lies thy son.”

She rose; she found that other tomb; she knelt; And o’er it went her wandering palms, as though Some stone-blind mother o’er an infant’s face Should spread an agonising hand, intent To choose betwixt her own and counterfeit; She found that cross deep-grav’n, and further sign Close by, to her well known. One piercing shriek— Another moment, and her body lay Along that grave with kisses, and wild hands As when some forest beast tears up the ground, Seeking its prey there hidden. Then once more Rang the wild wail above that lonely heath, While roared far off the vast invisible woods, And with them strove the blast, in eddies dire Whirling both branch and bough. Through hurrying clouds The scared moon rushed like ship that naked glares One moment, lightning-lighted in the storm, Anon in wild waves drowned. An hour went by: Still wailed that woman, and the tempest roared; While in the heart of ruin Patrick prayed. He loved that woman. Unto Patrick dear, Dear as God’s Church was still the single Soul, Dearest the suffering Soul. He gave her time; He let the floods of anguish spend themselves: But when her wail sank low; when woods were mute, And where the skiey madness late had raged Shone the blue heaven, he spake with voice in strength Gentle like that which calmed the Syrian lake, “My sister, God hath shown me of thy wound, And wherefore with the blind old Pagan’s cry Hopeless thou mourn’st. Returned from far, thou found’st Thy son had Christian died, and saw’st the Cross On Christian graves: and ill thy heart endured That tomb so dear should lack its reverence meet. To him thou gav’st the Cross, albeit that Cross Inly thou know’st not yet. That knowledge thine, Thou hadst not left thy son amerced of prayer, And given him tears, not succour.” “Yea,” she said, “Of this new Faith I little understand, Being an aged woman and in woe: But since my son was Christian, such am I; And since the Christian tomb is decked with Cross He shall not lack his right.”

Then Patrick spake: “O woman, hearken, for through me thy son Invokes thee. All night long for thee, unknown, My hands have risen: but thou hast raised no prayer For him, thy dearest; nor from founts of God, Though brimful, hast thou drawn for lips that thirst. Arise, and kneel, and hear thy loved one’s cry: Too long he waiteth. Blessed are the dead: They rest in God’s high Will. But more than peace, The rapturous vision of the Face of God, Won by the Cross of Christ—for that they thirst As thou, if viewless stood thy son close by, Wouldst thirst to see his countenance. Eyes sin-sealed Not yet can see their God. Prayer speeds the time: The living help the dead; all praise to Him Who blends His children in a league of help, Making all good one good. Eternal Love! Not thine the will that love should cease with life, Or, living, cease from service, barren made, A stagnant gall eating the mourner’s heart That hour when love should stretch a hand of might Up o’er the grave to heaven. O great in love, Perfect love’s work: for well, sad heart, I know, Hadst thou not trained thy son in virtuous ways, Christian he ne’er had been.”

Those later words That solitary mourner understood, The earlier but in part, and answered thus: “A loftier Cross, and farther seen, shall rise Upon this grave new-found! No hireling hands— Mine own shall raise it; yea, though thirty years Should sweat beneath the task.” And Patrick said: “What means the Cross? That lore thou lack’st now learn.”

Then that which Kings desired to know, and seers And prophets vigil-blind—that Crown of Truths, Scandal of fools, yet conqueror of the world, To her, that midnight mourner, he divulged, Record authentic: how in sorrow and sin The earth had groaned; how pity, like a sword, Had pierced the great Paternal Heart in heaven; How He, the Light of Light, and God of God, Had man become, and died upon the Cross, Vanquishing thus both sorrow and sin, and risen, The might of death o’erthrown; and how the gates Of heaven rolled inwards as the Anointed King Resurgent and ascending through them passed In triumph with His Holy Dead; and how The just, thenceforth death-freed, the selfsame gates Entering, shall share the everlasting throne. Thus Patrick spake, and many a stately theme Rehearsed beside, higher than heaven, and yet Near as the farthest can alone be near. Then in that grief-worn creature’s bosom old Contentions rose, and fiercer fires than burn In sultry breasts of youth: and all her past, Both good and evil, woke, in sleep long sealed; And all the powers and forces of her soul Rushed every way through darkness seeking light, Like winds or tides. Beside her Patrick prayed, And mightier than his preaching was his prayer, Sheltering that crisis dread. At last beneath The great Life-Giver’s breath that Human Soul, An inner world vaster than planet worlds, In undulation swayed, as when of old The Spirit of God above the waters moved Creative, while the blind and shapeless void Yearned into form, and form grew meet for life, And downward through the abysses Law ran forth With touch soul-soft, and seas from lands retired, And light from dark, and wondering Nature passed Through storm to calm, and all things found their home.

Silence long time endured; at last, clear-voiced, Her head not turning, thus the woman spake: “That God who Man became—who died, and lives,— Say, died He for my son?” And Patrick said, “Yea, for thy son He died. Kneel, woman, kneel! Nor doubt, for mighty is a mother’s prayer, That He who in the eternal light is throned, Lifting the roseate and the nail-pierced palm, Will make in heaven the Venerable Sign, For He it is prays in us, and that Soul Thou lov’st pass on to glory.”

At his word She knelt, and unto God, with help of God, Uprushed the strength of prayer, as when the cloud Uprushes past some beetling mountain wall From billowy deeps unseen. Long time she prayed; While heaven and earth grew silent as that night When rose the Saviour. Sudden ceased the prayer: And rang upon the night her jubilant cry, “I saw a Sign in Heaven. Far inward rolled The gates; and glory flashed from God; and he I love his entrance won.” Then, fair and tall, That woman stood with hands upraised to heaven The dusky shadow of her youth renewed, And instant Patrick spake, “Give thanks to God, And speed thee home, and sleep; and since thy son No children left, take to thee orphans twain And rear them, in his honour, unto Christ; And yearly, when the death-day of thy son Returns, his birth-day name it; call thy friends; Give alms; and range the poor around thy door, So shall they feast, and pray. Woman, farewell: All night the dark upon thy face hath lain; Yet shall we know each other, met in heaven.”

Then blithe of foot that Mother crossed the moor; And when she reached her door a zone of white Loosening along a cloud that walled the east Revealed the coming dawn. That dawn ere long Lay, unawaking, on a face serene, On tearless lids, and quiet, open palms, On stormless couch and raiment calm that hid A breast if faded now, yet happier far Than when in prime its youthful wave first heaved Rocking a sleeping Infant.

In Limneach, [101] ere he reached it, fame there ran Of Patrick’s words and works. Before his foot Aileel had fallen, loud wailing, with his wife, And cried, “Our child is slain by savage beasts; But thou, O prophet, if that God thou serv’st Be God indeed, restore him!” Patrick turned To Malach, praised of all men. “Brother, kneel, And raise yon child.” But Malach answered, “Nay, Lest, tempting God, His service I should shame.” Then Patrick, “Answer of the base is thine; And base shall be that house thou build’st on earth, Little, and low. A man may fail in prayer: What then? Thank God! the fault is ours not His, And ours alone the shame.” The Apostle turned To Ibar, and to Ailbè, bishops twain, And bade them raise the child. They heard and knelt: And Patrick knelt between them; and these three Upheaved a wondrous strength of prayer; and lo! All pale, yet shining, rose the child, and sat, Lifting small hands, and preached to those around, And straightway they believed, and were baptized.

Thus with loud rumour all the land was full, And some believed; some doubted; and a chief, Lonan, the son of Eire, that half believed, Willing to draw from Patrick wonder and sign, By messengers besought him, saying, “Come, For in thy reverence waits thy servant’s feast Spread on Knock Cae.” That pleasant hill ascends Westward of Ara, girt by rivers twain, Maigue, lily-lighted, and the “Morning Star” Once “Samhair” named, that eastward through the woods Winding, upon its rapids earliest meets The morn, and flings it far o’er mead and plain.

From Limneach therefore Patrick, while the dawn Still dusk, its joyous secret kept, went forth, O’er dustless road soon lost in dewy fields, And groves that, touched by wakening winds, began To load damp airs with scent. That time it was When beech leaves lose their silken gloss, and maids From whitest brows depose the hawthorn white, Red rose in turn enthroning. Earliest gleams Glimmered on leaves that shook like wings of birds: Saint Patrick marked them well. He turned to Fiacc— “God might have changed to Pentecostal tongues The leaves of all the forests in the world, And bade them sing His love! He wrought not thus: A little hint He gives us and no more. Alone the willing see. Thus they sin less Who, if they saw, seeing would disbelieve. Hark to that note! O foolish woodland choirs! Ye sing but idle loves; and, idler far, The bards sing war—war only!”

Answered thus The monk bard-loving: “Sing it! Ay, and make The keys of all the tempests hang on zones Of those cloud-spirits! They, too, can ‘bind and loose:’ A bard incensed hath proved a kingdom’s doom! Such Aidan. Upon cakes of meal his host, King Aileach, fed him in a fireless hall: The bard complained not—ay, but issuing forth, Sang in dark wood a keen and venomed song That raised on the king’s countenance plague-spots three; Who saw him named them Scorn, Dishonour, Shame, And blighted those three oak trees nigh his door. What next? Before a month that realm lay drowned In blood; and fire went o’er the opprobrious house!” Thus spake the youth, and blushed at his own zeal For bardic fame; then added, “Strange the power Of song! My father, do I vainly dream Oft thinking that the bards, perchance the birds, Sing something vaster than they think or know? Some fire immortal lives within their strings: Therefore the people love them. War divine, God’s war on sin—true love-song best and sweetest— Perforce they chaunt in spirit, not wars of clans: Yea, one day, conscious, they shall sing that song; One day by river clear of south or north, Pagan no more, the laurelled head shall rise, And chaunt the Warfare of the Realm of Souls, The anguish and the cleansing, last the crown— Prelude of songs celestial!”

Patrick smiled: “Still, as at first, a lover of the bards! Hard task was mine to win thee to the cowl! Dubtach, thy master, sole in Tara’s hall Who made me reverence, mocked my quest. He said, ‘Fiacc thou wouldst?—my Fiacc? Few days gone by I sent the boy with poems to the kings; He loves me: hardly will he leave the songs To wear thy tonsure!’ As he spake, behold, Thou enter’dst. Sudden hands on Dubtach’s head I laid, as though to gird with tonsure crown: Then rose thy clamour, ‘Erin’s chief of bards A tonsured man! Me, father, take, not him! Far less the loss to Erin and the songs!’ Down knelt’st thou; and, ere long, old Dubtach’s floor Shone with thy vernal locks, like forest paths Made gold by leaves of autumn!”

As he spake, The sun, new-risen, flashed on a breast of wood That answered from a thousand jubilant throats: Then Fiacc, with all their music in his face, Resumed: “My father, upon Tara’s steep Patient thou sat’st whole months, sifting with care The laws of Eire, recasting for all time, Ill laws from good dissevering, as that Day Shall sever tares from wheat. I see thee still, As then we saw—thy clenched hand lost in beard Propping thy chin; thy forehead wrinkle-trenched Above that wondrous tome, the ‘Senchus Mohr,’ Like his, that Hebrew lawgiver’s, who sat Throned on the clouded Mount, while far below The Tribes waited in awe. Now answer make! Three bishops, and three brehons, and three kings. Ye toiled—who helped thee best?” “Dubtach, the bard,” Patrick replied—“Yea, wise was he, and knew Man’s heart like his own strings.” “All bards are wise,” Shouted the youth, “except when war they wage On thee, the wisest. In their music bath They cleanse man’s heart, not less, and thus prepare, Though hating thee, thy way. The bards are wise For all except themselves. Shall God not save them, He who would save the worst? Such grace were hard Unless, death past, their souls to birds might change, And in the darksomest grove of Paradise Lament, amerced, their error, yet rejoice In souls that walked obedient!” “Darksomest grove,” Patrick made answer; “darksome is their life; Darksome their pride, their love, their joys, their hopes; Darksome, though gleams of happier lore they have, Their light! Seest thou yon forest floor, and o’er it, The ivy’s flash—earth-light? Such light is theirs: By such can no man walk.”

Thus, gay or grave, Conversed they, while the Brethren paced behind; Till now the morn crowded each cottage door With clustered heads. They reached ere long in woods A hamlet small. Here on the weedy thatch White fruit-bloom fell: through shadow, there, went round The swinging mill-wheel tagged with silver fringe; Here rang the mallet; there was heard remote The one note of the love-contented bird. Though warm the sun, in shade the young spring morn Was edged with winter yet, and icy film Glazed the deep ruts. The swarthy smith worked hard, And working sang; the wheelwright toiled close by; An armourer next to these: through flaming smoke Glared the fierce hands that on the anvil fell In thunder down. A sorcerer stood apart Kneading Death’s messenger, that missile ball, The Lia Laimbhè. To his heart he clasped it, And o’er it muttered spells with flatteries mixed: “Hail, little daughter mine! ’Twixt hand and heart I knead thee! From the Red Sea came that sand Which, blent with viper’s poison, makes thy flesh! Be thou no shadow wandering on the air! Rush through the battle gloom as red-combed snake Cleaves the blind waters! On! like Witch’s glance, Or forkèd flash, or shaft of summer pest, And woe to him that meets thee! Mouth blood-red My daughter hath:—not healing be her kiss!” Thus he. In shade he stood, and phrensy-fired; And yet he marked who watched him. Without word Him Patrick passed; but spake to all the rest With voice so kindly reverent, “Is not this,” Men asked, “the preacher of the ‘Tidings Good?’” “What tidings? Has he found a mine?” “He speaks To princes as to brothers; to the hind As we to princes’ children! Yea, when mute, Saith not his face ‘Rejoice’?”

At times the Saint Laid on the head of age his strong right hand, Gentle as touch of soft-accosting eyes; And once before an open door he stopped, Silent. Within, all glowing like a rose, A mother stood for pleasure of her babes That—in them still the warmth of couch late left— Around her gambolled. On his face, as hers, Their sport regarding, long time lay the smile; Then crept a shadow o’er it, and he spake In sadness: “Woman! when a hundred years Have passed, with opening flower and falling snow, Where then will be thy children?” Like a cloud Fear and great wrath fell on her. From the wall She snatched a battle-axe and raised it high In both hands, clamouring, “Wouldst thou slay my babes?” He answered, “I would save them. Woman, hear! Seest thou yon floating shape? It died a worm; It lives, the blue-winged angel of spring meads. Thy children, likewise, if they serve my King, Death past, shall find them wings.” Then to her cheek The bloom returned, and splendour to her eye; And catching to her breast, that larger swelled, A child, she wept, “Oh, would that he might live For ever! Prophet, speak! thy words are good! Their father, too, must hear thee.” Patrick said, “Not so; nor falls this seed on every road;” Then added thus: “You child, by all the rest Cherished as though he were some infant God, Is none of thine.” She answered, “None of ours; A great chief sent him here for fosterage.” Then he: “All men on earth the children are Of One who keeps them here in fosterage: They see not yet His face; but He sees them, Yea, and decrees their seasons and their times: Like infants, they must learn Him first by touch, Through nature, and her gifts—by hearing next, The hearing of the ear, and that is Faith— By Vision last. Woman, these things are hard; But thou to Limneach come in three days’ time, Likewise thy husband; there, by Sangul’s Well, Thou shalt know all.”

The Saint had reached ere long That festal mount. Thousands with bannered line Scaled it light-hearted. Never favourite lamb In ribands decked shone brighter than that hour The fair flank of Knock Cae. Heath-scented airs Lightened the clambering toil. At times the Saint Stayed on their course the crowds, and towards the Truth Drew them by parable, or record old, Oftener by question sage. Not all believed: Of such was Derball. Man of wealth and wit, Nor wise, nor warlike, toward the Saint he strode With bubble-seething brain, and head high tossed, And cried, “Great Seer! remove yon mountain blue, Cenn Abhrat, by thy prayer! That done, to thee Fealty I pledge.” Saint Patrick knelt in prayer: Soon Derball cried, “The central ridge descends;— Southward, beyond it, Longa’s lake shines out In sunlight flashing!” At his word drew near The men of Erin. Derball homeward turned, Mocking: “Believe who will, believe not I! Me more imports it o’er my foodful fields To draw the Maigue’s rich waters than to stare At moving hills.” But certain of that throng, Light men, obsequious unto Derball’s laugh, Questioned of Patrick if the mountain moved. He answered, “On the ground mine eyes were fixed; Nought saw I. Haply, through defect of mine, It moved not. Derball said the mountain moved; Yet kept he not his pledge, but disbelieved. ‘Faith can move mountains.’ Never said my King That mountains moved could move reluctant faith In unbelieving heart.” With sad, calm voice He spake; and Derball’s laughter frustrate died.

Meantime, high up on that thyme-scented hill By shadows swept, and lights, and rapturous winds, Lonan prepared the feast, and, with that chief, Mantan, a deacon. Tables fair were spread; And tents with branches gay. Beside those tents Stood the sweet-breathing, mournful, slow-eyed kine With hazel-shielded horns, and gave their milk Gravely to merry maidens. Low the sun Had fallen, when, Patrick near the summit now, There burst on him a wandering troop, wild-eyed, With scant and quaint array. O’er sunburnt brows They wore sere wreaths; their piebald vests were stained, And lean their looks, and sad: some piped, some sang, Some tossed the juggler’s ball. “From far we came,” They cried; “we faint with hunger; give as food!” Upon them Patrick bent a pitying eye, And said, “Where Lonan and where Mantan toil Go ye, and pray them, for mine honour’s sake, To gladden you with meat.” But Lonan said, And Mantan, “Nay, but when the feast is o’er, The fragments shall be yours.” With darkening brow The Saint of that denial heard, and cried, “He cometh from the North, even now he cometh, For whom the Blessing is reserved; he cometh Bearing a little wether at his back:” And, straightway, through the thicket evening-dazed A shepherd—by him walked his mother—pushed, Bearing a little wether. Patrick said, “Give them to eat. They hunger.” Gladly then That shepherd youth gave them the wether small: With both his hands outstretched, and liberal smile, He gave it, though, with angry eye askance His mother grudged it sore. The wether theirs, As though earth-swallowed, vanished that wild tribe, Fearing that mother’s eye.

Then Patrick spake To Lonan, “Zealous is thy service, friend; Yet of thy house no king shall sit on throne, No bishop bless the people.” Turning then To Mantan, thus he spake, “Careful art thou Of many things; not less that church thou raisest Shall not be of the honoured in the land; And in its chancel waste the mountain kine Shall couch above thy grave.” To Nessan last Thus spake he: “Thou that didst the hungry feed, The poor of Christ, that know not yet His name, And, helping them that cried to me for help, Cherish mine honour, like a palm, one day, Shall rise thy greatness.” Nessan’s mother old For pardon knelt. He blessed her hoary head, Yet added, mournful, “Not within the Church That Nessan serves shall lie his mother’s grave.” Then Nessan he baptized, and on him bound Ere long the deacon’s grade, and placed him, later, Priest o’er his church at Mungret. Centuries ten It stood, a convent round it as a star Forth sending beams of glory and of grace O’er woods Teutonic and the Tyrrhene Sea. Yet Nessan’s mother in her son’s great church Slept not; nor where the mass bell tinkled low: West of the church her grave, to his—her son’s— Neighbouring, yet severed by the chancel wall.

Thus from the morning star to evening star Went by that day. In Erin many such Saint Patrick lived, using well pleased the chance, Or great or small, since all things come from God: And well the people loved him, being one Who sat amid their marriage feasts, and saw, Where sin was not, in all things beauty and love. But, ere he passed from Munster, longing fell On Patrick’s heart to view in all its breadth Her river-flood, and bless its western waves; Therefore, forth journeying, to that hill he went, Highest among the wave-girt, heathy hills, That still sustains his name, and saw the flood At widest stretched, and that green Isle [111] hard by, And northern Thomond. From its coasts her sons Rushed countless forth in skiff and coracle Smiting blue wave to white, till Sheenan’s sound Ceased, in their clamour lost. That hour from God Power fell on Patrick; and in spirit he saw, Invisible to flesh, the western coasts, And the ocean way, and, far beyond, that land The Future’s heritage, and prophesied Of Brendan who ere long in wicker boat Should over-ride the mountains of the deep, Shielded by God, and tread—no fable then— Fabled Hesperia. Last of all he saw More near, thy hermit home, Senanus;—“Hail, Isle of blue ocean and the river’s mouth! The People’s Lamp, their Counsel’s Head, is thine!” That hour shone out through cloud the westering sun And paved the wave with fire: that hour not less Strong in his God, westward his face he set, Westward and north, and spread his arms abroad, And drew the blessing down, and flung it far: “A blessing on the warriors, and the clans, A blessing on high field, and golden vales, On sea-like plain and on the showery ridge, On river-ripple, cliff, and murmuring deep, On seaward peaks, harbours, and towns, and ports; A blessing on the sand beneath the ships: On all descend the Blessing!” Thus he prayed, Great-hearted; and from all the populous hills And waters came the People’s vast “Amen!”

Eochaid, son of Crimther, reigned, a King Northward in Clochar. Dearer to his heart Than kingdom or than people or than life Was he, the boy long wished for. Dear was she, Keinè, his daughter. Babyhood’s white star, Beauteous in childhood, now in maiden dawn She witched the world with beauty. From her eyes A light went forth like morning o’er the sea; Sweeter her voice than wind on harp; her smile Could stay men’s breath. With wingèd feet she trod The yearning earth that, if it could, like waves Had swelled to meet their pressure. Ah, the pang! Beauty, the immortal promise, like a cheat If unwed glides into the shadow land, Childless and twice defeated. Beauty wed To mate unworthy, suffers worse eclipse— “Ill choice between two ills!” thus spleenfull cried Eochaid; but not his the pensive grief: He would have kept his daughter in his house For ever; yet, since better might not be, Himself he chose her out a mate, and frowned, And said, “The dog must have her.” But the maid Wished not for marriage. Tender was her heart; Yet though her twentieth year had o’er her flown, And though her tears had dewed a mother’s grave, In her there lurked, not flower of womanhood, But flower of angel texture. All around To her was love. The crown of earthly love Seemed but its crown of mockery. Love Divine— For that she yearned, and yet she knew it not; Knew less that love she feared.

She walked in woods While all the green leaves, drenched by sunset’s gold, Upon a shower-bespangled sycamore Shivered, and birds among them choir on choir Chanted her praise—or spring’s. “Ill sung,” she laughed, “My dainty minstrels! Grant to me your wings, And I for them will teach you song of mine: Listen!” A carol from her lip there gushed That, ere its time, might well have called the spring From winter’s coldest cave. It ceased; she turned. Beside her Patrick stood. His hand he raised To bless her. Awed, though glad, upon her knees The maiden sank. His eye, as if through air, Saw through that stainless soul, and, crystal-shrined Therein, its inmate, Truth. That other Truth Instant to her he preached—the Truth Divine— (For whence is caution needful, save from sin?) And those two Truths, each gazing upon each, Embraced like sisters, thenceforth one. For her No arduous thing was Faith, ere yet she heard In heart believing: and, as when a babe Marks some bright shape, if near or far, it knows not, And stretches forth a witless hand to clasp Phantom or form, even so with wild surmise And guesses erring first, and questions apt, She chased the flying light, and round it closed At last, and found it substance. “This is He.” Then cried she, “This, whom every maid should love, Conqueror self-sacrificed of sin and death: How shall we find, how please Him, how be nigh?” Patrick made answer: “They that do His will Are nigh Him.” And the virgin: “Of the nigh, Say, who is nighest?” Thus, that wingèd heart Rushed to its rest. He answered: “Nighest they Who offer most to Him in sacrifice, As when the wedded leaves her father’s house And cleaveth to her husband. Nighest they Who neither father’s house nor husband’s house Desire, but live with Him in endless prayer, And tend Him in His poor.” Aloud she cried, “The nearest to the Highest, that is love;— I choose that bridal lot!” He answered, “Child, The choice is God’s. For each, that lot is best To which He calls us.” Lifting then pure hands, Thus wept the maiden: “Call me, Virgin-born! Will not the Mother-Maid permit a maid To sit beside those nail-pierced feet, and wipe, With hair untouched by wreaths of mortal love, The dolorous blood-stains from them? Stranger guest, Come to my father’s tower! Against my will, Against his own, in bridal bonds he binds me: My suit he might resist: he cannot thine!”

She spake; and by her Patrick paced with feet To hers accordant. Soon they reached that fort: Central within a circling rath earth-built It stood; the western tower of stone; the rest, Not high, but spreading wide, of wood compact; For thither many a forest hill had sent His wind-swept daughter brood, relinquishing Converse with cloud and beam and rain forever To echo back the revels of a Prince. Mosaic was the work, beam laced with beam In quaint device: high up, o’er many a door Shone blazon rich of vermeil, or of green, Or shield of bronze, glittering with veinèd boss, Chalcedony or agate, or whate’er The wave-lipped marge of Neagh’s broad lake might boast, Or ocean’s shore, northward from Brandon’s Head To where the myriad-pillared cliffs hang forth Their stony organs o’er the lonely main. And trembles yet the pilgrim, noting at eve The pride Fomorian, and that Giant Way [116] Trending toward eastern Alba. From his throne Above the semicirque of grassy seats Whereon by Brehons and by Ollambs girt Daily be judged his people, rose the king And bade the stranger welcome.

Day to day And night to night succeeded. In fit time, For Patrick, sometimes sudden, oft was slow, He spoke his Master’s message. At the close, As though in trance, the warriors circling stood With hands outstretched; the Druids downward frowned, Silent; and like a strong man awed for once, Eochaid round him stared. A little while, And from him passed the amazement. Buoyant once more, And bright like trees fresher for thunder-shower, With all his wonted aspect, bold and keen, He answered: “O my prophet, words, words, words! We too have Prophets. Better thrice our Bards; Yet, being no better these than trumpet’s blast, The trumpet more I prize. Had words been work, Myself in youth had led the loud-voiced clan! Deeds I preferred. What profit e’er had I From windy marvels? Once with me in war A seer there camped that, bending back his head, Fit rites performed, and upward gazing, blew With rounded lips into the heaven of heavens Druidic breath. That heaven was changed to cloud, Cloud that on borne to Clairè’s hated bound Down fell, a rain of blood! To me what gain? Within three weeks my son was trapped and snared By Aodh of Hy Brinin, king whose hosts Number my warriors fourfold. Three long years Beyond those purple mountains in the west Hostage he lies.” Lightly Eochaid spake, And turned: but shaken chin betrayed that grief Which lived beneath his lightness.

Sudden thronged High on the neighbouring hills a jubilant troop, Their banners waving, while the midway vale With harp and horn resounded. Patrick spake: “Rejoice! thy son returns! not sole he comes, But in his hand a princess, fair and good, A kingdom for her dowry. Aodh’s realm, By me late left, welcomed my King with joy: All fire the mountains shone. ‘The God I serve,’ Thus spake I, Aodh pointing to those fires, ‘In mountains of rejoicing hath no joy While sad beyond them sits a childless man, His only son thy captive. Captive groaned Creation; Bethlehem’s Babe set free the slave. For His sake loose thy thrall!’ A sweeter voice Pleaded with mine, his daughter’s ’mid her tears. ‘Aodh,’ I said, ‘these two each other love! What think’st thou? He who shaped the linnet’s nest, Indifferent unto Him are human loves? Arise! thy work make perfect! Righteous deeds Are easier whole than half.’ In thought awhile Old Aodh sat; then to his daughter turned, And thus, imperious even in kindness, spake: ‘Well fought the youth ere captured, like the son Of kings, and worthy to be sire of kings: Wed him this hour: and in three days, at eve, Restore him to his father!’ King, this hour Thou know’st if Christ’s strong Faith be empty words, Or truth, and armed with power.”

That night was passed In feasting and in revel, high and low Rich with a common gladness. Many a torch Flared in the hand of servitors hill-sent, That standing, each behind a guest, retained Beneath that roof clouded by banquet steam Their mountain wildness. Here, the splendour glanced On goblet jewel-chased and dark with wine, Swift circling; there, on walls with antlers spread, And rich with yew-wood carvings, flower or bud, Or clustered grape pendent in russet gleam As though from nature’s hand. A hall hard by Echoed the harp that now nor kindled rage, Nor grief condoled, nor sealed with slumber’s balm Tempestuous spirits, triumphs three of song, But raised to rapture, mirth. Far shone that hall Glowing with hangings steeped in every tinct The boast of Erin’s dyeing-vats, now plain, Now pranked with bird or beast or fish, whate’er Fast-flying shuttle from the craftsman’s thought Catching, on bore through glimmering warp and woof, A marvellous work; now traced by broiderer’s hand With legends of Ferdìadh and of Meave, Even to the golden fringe. The warriors paced Exulting. Oft they showed their merit’s prize, Poniard or cup, tribute ordained of tribes From age to age, Eochaid’s right, on them With equal right devolving. Slow they moved In mantle now of crimson, now of blue, Clasped with huge torque of silver or of gold Just where across the snowy shirt there strayed Tendril of purple thread. With jewelled fronts Beauteous in pride ’mid light of winsome smiles, Over the rushes green with slender foot In silver slipper hid, the ladies passed, Answering with eyes not lips the whispered praise, Or loud the bride extolling—“When was seen Such sweetness and such grace?”

Meantime the king Conversed with Patrick. Vexed he heard announced His daughter’s high resolve: but still his looks Went wandering to his son. “My boy! Behold him! His valour and his gifts are all from me: My first-born!” From the dancing throng apart His daughter stood the while, serene and pale, Down-gazing on that lily in her hand With face of one who notes not shapes around, But dreams some happy dream. The king drew nigh, And on her golden head the sceptre staff Leaning, but not to hurt her, thus began: “Your prophets of the day, I trust them not! If sent from God, why came they not long since? Our Druids came before them, and, belike, Shall after them abide! With these new seers I count not Patrick. Things that Patrick says I ofttimes thought. His lineage too is old— Wide-browed, grey-eyed, with downward lessening face, Not like your baser breeds, with questing eyes And jaw of dog. But for thy Heavenly Spouse, I like not Him! At least, wed Cormac first! If rude his ways, yet noble is his name, And being but poor the man will bide with me: He’s brave, and likeliest soon in fight may fall! When Cormac dies, wed next—” a music clash Forth bursting drowned his words.

Three days passed by: To Patrick, then preparing to depart, Thus spake Eochaid in the ears of all: “Herald Heaven-missioned of the Tidings Good! Those tidings I have pondered. They are true: I for that truth’s sake, and in honour bound By reason of my son set free, resolve The same, upon conditions, to believe, And suffer all my people to believe, Just terms exacted. Briefly these they are: First, after death, I claim admittance frank Into thy Heavenly Kingdom: next, till death For me exemption from that Baptism Rite, Imposed on kerne and hind. Experience-taught, I love not rigid bond and written pledge: ’Tis well to brand your mark on sheep or lamb: Kings are of lion breed; and of my house ’Tis known there never yet was king baptized. This pact concluded, preach within my realm Thy Faith; and wed my daughter to thy God. Not scholarly am I to know what joy A maid can find in psalm, and cell, and spouse Unseen: yet ever thus my sentence stood, ‘Choose each his way.’ My son restored, her loss To me is loss the less.” Thus spake the king.

Then Patrick, on whose face the princess bent The supplication softly strong of eyes Like planets seen through mist, Eochaid’s heart Knowing, which miracle had hardened more, Made answer, “King, a man of jests art thou, Claiming free range in heaven, and yet its gate Thyself close barring! In thy daughter’s prayers Belike thou trustest, that where others creep Thou shalt its golden bastions over-fly. Far otherwise than in that way thou ween’st, That daughter’s prayers shall speed thee. With thy word I close, that word to frustrate. God be with thee! Thou living, I return not. Fare thee well.”

Thus speaking, by the hand he took the maid, And led her through the concourse. At her feet The poor fell low, kissing her garment’s hem, And many brought their gifts, and all their prayers, And old men wept. A maiden train snow-garbed, Her steps attending, whitened plain and field, As when at times dark glebe, new-turned, is changed To white by flock of ocean birds alit, Or inland blown by storm, or hunger-urged To filch the late-sown grain. Her convent home Ere long received her. There Ethembria ruled, Green Erin’s earliest nun. Of princely race, She in past years before the font of Christ Had knelt at Patrick’s feet. Once more she sought him: Over the lovely, lovelier change had passed, As when on childish girlhood, ’mid a shower Of lilies earthward wafted, maidenhood In peacefuller state assumes her spotless throne; So, from that maiden, vestal now had risen:— Lowlier she seemed, more tender, soft, and grave, Yet loftier; hushed in quiet more divine, Yet wonder-awed. Again she knelt, and o’er The bending queenly head, till then unbent, He flung that veil which woman bars from man To make her more than woman. Nigh to death The Saint forgat not her. With her remained Keinè; but Patrick dwelt far off at Saul.

Years came and went: yet neither chance nor change, Nor war, nor peace, nor warnings from the priests, Nor whispers ’mid the omen-mongering crowd, Might from Eochaid charm his wayward will, Nor reasonings of the wise that still preferred Safe port to victory’s pride. He reasoned too, For confident in his reasonings was the king, Reckoning on pointed fingers every link That clenched his mail of proof. “On Patrick’s word Ye tell me Baptism is the gate of Heaven: Attend, Sirs! I have Patrick’s word no less That I shall enter Heaven. What need I more? If, Death, truth-speaker, shows that Patrick lied, Plain is my right against him! Heaven not won, Patrick bare hence my daughter through a fraud: He must restore her fourfold—daughters four, As fair and good. If not, the prophet’s pledge For honour’s sake his Master must redeem, And unbaptized receive me. Dupes are ye! Doomed ’mid the common flock, with branded fleece Bleating to enter Heaven!”

The years went by; And weakness came. No more his small light form To reverent eyes seemed taller than it was: No more the shepherd watched him from the hill Heading his hounds, and hoped to catch his smile, Yet feared his questions keen. The end drew near. Some wept, some railed; restless the warriors tramped; The Druids conned their late discountenanced spells; The bard his lying harpstrings spurned, so long Healing, unhelpful now. But far away, Within that lonely convent tower from her Who prayed for ever, mightier rose the prayer.

Within the palace, now by usage old To all flung open, all were sore amazed, All save the king. The leech beside the bed Sobbed where he stood, yet sware, “The fit will pass: Ten years the King may live.” Eochaid frowned: “Shall I, to patch thy fame, live ten years more, My death-time come? My seventy years are sped: My sire and grandsire died at sixty-nine. Like Aodh, shall I lengthen out my days Toothless, nor fit to vindicate my clan, Some losel’s song? The kingdom is my son’s! Strike from my little milk-white horse the shoes, And loose him where the freshets make the mead Greenest in springtide. He must die ere long; And not to him did Patrick open Heaven. Praise be to Patrick’s God! May He my sins, Known and unknown, forgive!”

Backward he sank Upon his bed, and lay with eyes half closed, Murmuring at times one prayer, five words or six; And twice or thrice he spake of trivial things; Then like an infant slumbered till the sun, Sinking beneath a great cloud’s fiery skirt, Smote his old eyelids. Waking, in his ears The ripening cornfields whispered ’neath the breeze, For wide were all the casements that the soul By death delivered hindrance none might find (Careful of this the king); and thus he spake: “Nought ever raised my heart to God like fields Of harvest, waving wide from hill to hill, All bread-full for my people. Hale me forth: When I have looked once more upon that sight My blessing I will give them, and depart.”

Then in the fields they laid him, and he spake. “May He that to my people sends the bread, Send grace to all who eat it!” With that word His hands down-falling, back once more he sank, And lay as dead; yet, sudden, rising not, Nor moving, nor his eyes unclosing, said, “My body in the tomb of ancient kings Inter not till beside it Patrick stands And looks upon my brow.” He spake, then sighed A little sigh, and died.

Three days, as when Black thunder cloud clings fast to mountain brows, So to the nation clung the grief: three days The lamentation sounded on the hills And rang around the pale blue meres, and rose Shrill from the bleeding heart of vale and glen, And rocky isle, and ocean’s moaning shore; While by the bier the yellow tapers stood, And on the right side knelt Eochaid’s son, Behind him all the chieftains cloaked in black; And on his left his daughter knelt, the nun, Behind her all her sisterhood, white-veiled, Like tombstones after snowstorm. Far away, At “Saul of Patrick,” dwelt the Saint when first The king had sickened. Message sent he none Though knowing all; and when the end was nigh, And heralds now besought him day by day, He made no answer till o’er eastern seas Advanced the third fair morning. Then he rose, And took the Staff of Jesus, and at eve Beside the dead king standing, on his brow Fixed a sad eye. Aloud the people wept; The kneeling warriors eyed their lord askance; The nuns intoned their hymn. Above that hymn A cry rang out: it was the daughter’s prayer; And after that was silence. By the dead Still stood the Saint, nor e’er removed his gaze. Then—seen of all—behold, the dead king’s hands Rose slowly, as the weed on wave upheaved Without its will; and all the strengthless shape In cerements wrapped, as though by mastering voice From the white void evoked and realm of death, Without its will, a gradual bulk half rose, The hoar head gazing forth. Upon the face Had passed a change, the greatest earth may know; For what the majesty of death began The majesties of worlds unseen, and life Resurgent ere its time, had perfected, All accidents of flesh and sorrowful years Cancelled and quelled. Yet horror from his eyes Looked out as though some vision once endured Must cling to them for ever. Patrick spake: “Soul from the dead sent back once more to earth What seek’st thou from God’s Church?” He answer made, “Baptism.” Then Patrick o’er him poured the might Of healing waters in the Name Triune, The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit; And from his eyes the horror passed, and light Went from them, as the light of eyes that rest On the everlasting glory, while he spake: “Tempest of darkness drave me past the gates Celestial, and, a moment’s space, within I heard the hymning of the hosts of God That feed for ever on the Bread of Life As feed the nations on the harvest wheat. Tempest of darkness drave me to the gates Of Anguish: then a cry came up from earth, Cry like my daughter’s when her mother died, That stayed the on-rushing whirlwind; yet mine eyes Perforce looked in, and, many a thousand years, Branded upon them lay that woful sight Now washed from them for ever.” Patrick spake: “This day a twofold choice I give thee, son; For fifteen years the rule o’er Erin’s land, Rule absolute, Ard-Righ o’er lesser kings; Or instant else to die, and hear once more That hymn celestial, and that Vision see They see who sing that anthem.” Light from God Over that late dead countenance streamed amain, Like to his daughter’s now—more beauteous thrice— Yet awful, more than beauteous. “Rule o’er earth, Rule without end, were nought to that great hymn Heard but a single moment. I would die.”

Then Patrick, on him gazing, answered, “Die!” And died the king once more, and no man wept; But on her childless breast the nun sustained Softly her father’s head.

That night discourse Through hall and court circled in whispers low. First one, “Was that indeed our king? But where The sword-scar and the wrinkles?” “Where,” rejoined, Wide-eyed, the next, “his little cranks and girds The wisdom, and the whim?” Then Patrick spake: “Sirs, till this day ye never saw your king; The man ye doted on was but his mask, His picture—yea, his phantom. Ye have seen At last the man himself.” That night nigh sped, While slowly o’er the darkling woods went down, Warned by the cold breath of the up-creeping morn Invisible yet nigh, the August moon, Two vestals, gliding past like moonlight gleams, Conversed: one said, “His daughter’s prayer prevailed!” The second, “Who may know the ways of God? For this, may many a heart one day rejoice In hope! For this, the gift to many a man Exceed the promise; Faith’s invisible germ Quickened with parting breath; and Baptism given, It may be, by an angel’s hand unseen!”

At Cluain Cain, in Ross, unbent yet old, Dwelt Patrick long. Its sweet and flowery sward He to the rock had delved, with fixed resolve To build thereon Christ’s chiefest church in Eire. Then by him stood God’s angel, speaking thus: “Not here, but northward.” He replied, “O, would This spot might favour find with God! Behold! Fair is it, and as meet to clasp a church As is a true heart in a virgin breast To clasp the Faith of Christ. The hinds around Name it ‘the beauteous meadow.’” “Fair it is,” The angel answered, “nor shall lack its crown. Another’s is its beauty. Here, one day A pilgrim from the Britons sent shall build, And, later, what he builds shall pass to thine; But thou to Macha get thee.”

Patrick then, Obedient as that Patriarch Sire who faced At God’s command the desert, northward went In holy silence. Soon to him was lost That green and purple meadow-sea, embayed ’Twixt two descending woody promontories, Its outlet girt with isles of rock, its shores Cream-white with meadow-sweet. Not once he turned, Climbing the uplands rough, or crossing streams Swoll’n by the melted snows. The Brethren paced Behind; Benignus first, his psalmist; next Secknall, his bishop; next his brehon Erc; Mochta, his priest; and Sinell of the Bells; Rodan, his shepherd; Essa, Bite, and Tassach, Workers of might in iron and in stone, God-taught to build the churches of the Faith With wisdom and with heart-delighting craft; Mac Cairthen last, the giant meek that oft On shoulders broad bare Patrick through the floods: His rest was nigh. That hour they crossed a stream; ’Twas deep, and, ’neath his load, the giant sighed. Saint Patrick said, “Thou wert not wont to sigh!” He answered, “Old I grow. Of them my mates How many hast thou left in churches housed Wherein they rule and rest!” The Saint replied, “Thee also will I leave within a church For rule and rest; not to mine own too near For rarely then should we be seen apart, Nor yet remote, lest we should meet no more.” At Clochar soon he placed him. There, long years Mac Cairthen sat, its bishop.

As they went, Oft through the woodlands rang the battle-shout; And twice there rose above the distant hill The smoke of hamlet fired. Yet, none the less, Spring-touched, the blackbird sang; the cowslip changed Green lawn to green and golden; and grey rock And river’s marge with primroses were starred; Here shook the windflower; there the blue-bells gleamed, As though a patch of sky had fallen on earth.

Then to Benignus spake the Saint: “My son, If grief were lawful in a world redeemed The blood-stains on a land so strong in faith, So slack in love, might cloud the holiest brow, Yea, his whose head lay on the breast of Christ. Clan wars with clan: no injury is forgiven; Like to the joy in stag-hunts is the war: Alas! for such what hope!” Benignus answered “O Father, cease not for this race to hope, Lest they should hope no longer! Hope they have; Still say they, ‘God will snare us in the end Though wild.’” And Patrick, “Spirits twain are theirs: The stranger, and the poor, at every door They meet, and bid him in. The youngest child Officious is in service; maids prepare The bath; men brim the wine-cup. Then, forth borne, Cities they fire and rich in spoil depart, Greed mixed with rage—an industry of blood!” He spake, and thus the younger made reply: “Father, the stranger is the brother-man To them; the poor is neighbour. Septs remote To them are alien worlds. They know not yet That rival clans are men.”

“That know they shall,” Patrick made answer, “when a race far off Tramples their race to clay! God sends abroad His plague of war that men on earth may know Brother from foe, and anguish work remorse.” He spake, and after musings added thus: “Base of God’s kingdom is Humility— I have not spared to thunder o’er their pride; Great kings have I rebuked and signs sent forth, And banned for their sake fruitful plain, and bay; Yet still the widow’s cry is on the air, The orphan’s wail!” Benignus answered mild, “O Father, not alone with sign and ban Hast thou rebuked their madness. Oftener far Thy sweetness hath reproved them. Once in woods Northward of Tara as we tracked our way Round us there gathered slaves who felled the pines For ship-masts. Scarred their hands, and red with blood, Because their master, Trian, thus had sworn, ‘Let no man sharpen axe!’ Upon those hands Gazing, they wept soon as thy voice they heard, Because that voice was soft. Thou heard’st their tale; Straight to that chieftain’s castle went’st thou up, And bound’st him with thy fast, beside his gate Sitting in silence till his heart should melt; And since he willed it not to melt, he died. Then, in her arms two babes, came forth the queen Black-robed, and freed her slaves, and gave them hire; And, we returning after many years, Filled was that wood with homesteads; plots of corn Rustled around them; here were orchards; there In trench or tank they steeped the bright blue flax; The saw-mill turned to use the wanton brook; Murmured the bee-hive; murmured household wheel; Soft eyes looked o’er it through the dusk; at work The labourers carolled; matrons glad and maids Bare us the pail head-steadied, children flowers: Last, from her castle paced the queen, and led In either hand her sons whom thou hadst blest, Thenceforth to stand thy priests. The land believed; And not through ban, or word, sharp-edged or soft, But silence and thy fast the ill custom died.”

He answered, “Christ, in Christ-like life expressed, This, this, not words, subdues a land to Christ; And in this best Apostolate all have part. Ah me! that flower thou hold’st is strong to preach Creative Love, because itself is lovely; But we, the heralds of Redeeming Love, Because we are unlovely in our lives, Preach to deaf ears! Yet theirs, theirs too, the sin.” Benignus made reply: “The race is old; Not less their hearts are young. Have patience with them! For see, in spring the grave old oaks push forth Impatient sprays, wine-red: their strength matured, These sober down to verdure.” Patrick paused, Then, brooding, spake, as one who thinks, not speaks: “A priest there walked with me ten years and more; Warrior in youth was he. One day we heard The shock of warring clans—I hear it still: Within him, as in darkening vase you note The ascending wine, I watched the passion mount:— Sudden he dashed him down into the fight, Nor e’er to Christ returned.” Benignus answered; “I saw above a dusky forest roof The glad spring run, leaving a track sea-green: Not straight she ran; and yet she reached her goal: Later I saw above green copse of thorn The glad spring run, leaving a track foam-white: Not straight she ran; yet soon she conquered all! O Father, is it sinful to be glad Here amid sin and sorrow? Joy is strong, Strongest in spring-tide! Mourners I have known That, homeward wending from the new-dug grave, Against their will, where sang the happy birds Have felt the aggressive gladness stir their hearts, And smiled amid their tears.” So babbled he, Shamed at his spring-tide raptures.

As they went, Far on their left there stretched a mighty land Of forest-girdled hills, mother of streams: Beyond it sank the day; while round the west Like giants thronged the great cloud-phantoms towered. Advancing, din they heard, and found in woods A hamlet and a field by war unscathed, And boys on all sides running. Placid sat The village Elders; neither lacked that hour The harp that gently tranquillises age, Yet wakes young hearts with musical unrest, Forerunner oft of love’s unrest. Ere long The measure changed to livelier: maid with maid Danced ’mid the dancing shadows of the trees, And youth with youth; till now, the strangers near, Those Elders welcomed them with act benign; And soon was slain the fatted kid, and soon The lamb; nor any asked till hunger’s rage Was quelled, “Who art thou?” Patrick made reply, “A Priest of God.” Then prayed they, “Offer thou To Him our sacrifice! Belike ’tis He Who saves from war this hamlet hid in woods: Unblest be he who finds it!” Thus they spake, The matrons, not the youths. In friendly talk The hours went by with laughter winged and tale; But when the moon, on rolling through the heavens, Showered through the leaves a dew of sprinkled light O’er the dark ground, the maidens garments brought Woven in their quiet homes when nights were long, Red cloak and kirtle green, and laid them soft, Still with the wearers’ blameless beauty warm, For coverlet upon the warm dry grass, Honouring the stranger guests. For these they deemed Their low-roofed cots too mean. Glad-hearted rose The Christian hymn, not timid: far it rang Above the woods. Ere long, their blissful rites Fulfilled, the wanderers laid them down and slept.

At midnight by the side of Patrick stood Victor, God’s Angel, saying, “Lo! thy work Hath favour found and thou ere long shalt die: Thus therefore saith the Lord, ‘So long as sea Girdeth this isle, so long thy name shall hang In splendour o’er it, like the stars of God.’” Then Patrick said, “A boon! I crave a boon!” The angel answered, “Speak;” and Patrick said, “Let them that with me toiled, or in the years To come shall toil, building o’er all this land The Fortress-Temple and great House of Christ, Equalled with me my name in Erin share.” And Victor answered, “Half thy prayer is thine; With thee shall they partake. Not less, thy name Higher than theirs shall rise, and wider spread, Since thus more plainly shall His glory shine Whose glory is His justice.”

With the morn Those pilgrims rose, and, prime entoned and lauds, Poured out their blessing on that woodland clan Which, round them pressing, kissed them, robe and knee; Then on they journeyed till at set of sun Shone out the roofs of Macha, and that tower Where Dairè dwelt, its lord.

Saint Patrick sent To Dairè embassage, vouchsafing prayer As sire might pray of son; “Give thou yon hill To Christ, that we may build His church thereon.” And Dairè answered with a brow of storms Bent forward darkly, and long, sneering lips, “Your master is a mighty man, we know. Garban, that lied to God, he slew through prayer, And banned full many a lake, and many a plain, For trespass there committed! Let it be! A Chief of souls he is! No signs we work, Rulers earth-born: yet somewhat are we here— Depart! By others answer we will send.”

So Dairè sent to Patrick men of might, Fierce men, the battle’s nurslings. Thus they spake: “High region for high heads! If build ye must, Build on the plain: the hill is Dairè’s right: Church site he grants you, and the field around.” And Patrick, glancing from his Office Book, Made answer, “Deo Gratias,” and no more.

Upon that plain he built a little church Ere long, a convent likewise, girt with mound Banked from the meadow loam, and deftly set With stone, and fence, and woody palisade, That neither warring clans, far heard by day, Might hurt his cloistered charge, nor wolves by night, Howling in woods; and there he served the Lord.

But Dairè scorned the Saint, and grudged his gift, Though small; and half in spleen, and half in greed, Sent down two stately coursers all night long To graze the deep sweet pasture round the church: Ill deed:—and so, for guerdon of that sin, Dead lay the coursers twain at the break of dawn.

Then fled the servants back, and told their lord, Fearing for negligence rebuke and scath, “Thy Christian slew the coursers!” and the king Gave word to slay or bind him. But from God A sickness fell on Dairè nigh to death That day and night. When morning brake, the queen, A woman leal with kind barbaric heart, Her bosom from the sick man’s head withdrew A moment while he slept; and, round her gazing, Closed with both hands upon a liegeman’s arm, And sped him to the Saint for pardon and peace. Then Patrick, dipping in the inviolate fount A chalice, blessed the water, with command “Sprinkle the stately coursers and the king;” And straightway as from death the king arose, And rose from death the coursers.

Dairè then, His tall frame boastful with that life renewed, Took with him men, and down the stone-paved hill Rode from his tower, and through the woodlands green, And bare with him an offering of those days, A brazen cauldron vast. Embossed it shone With sculptured shapes. On one side hunters rode: Low stretched their steeds: the dogs pulled down the stag Unseen, except the branching horns that rose Like hands in protest. Feasters, on the other, Raised high the cup pledging the safe return. This offering Dairè brought, and, entering, spake: “A gift for guerdon and for grace, O Priest!” And Patrick, upward glancing from his book, Made answer, “Deo Gratias!” and no more.

King Dairè, homeward riding with knit brow Muttered, “Churl’s welcome for a kingly boon!” And, drinking late that night the stormy breath Of others’ anger blent with his, commanded, “Ride forth at morn and bring me back my gift! Spurn it he shall not, though he prize it not.” They heard him, and obeyed. At noon the king Demanded thus, “What answer made the Saint?” They said, “His eyes he raised not from his book, But answered, ‘Deo Gratias!’ and no more.”

Then Dairè stamped his foot, like war-horse stung By gadfly: musing next, and mute he sat A space, and lastly roared great laughter peals Till roared in mockery back the raftered roof, And clashed his hands together shouting thus: “A gift, and ‘Deo Gratias!’—gift withdrawn, And ‘Deo Gratias!’ Sooth, the word is good! Madman is this, or man of God? We’ll know!” So from his frowning fortress once again Adown the resonant road o’er street and bridge Rode Dairè, at his right the queen in fear, With dumbly pleading countenance; close behind, With tangled locks and loose-hung battle-axe Ran the wild kerne; and loud the bull-horn blew. The convent reached, King Dairè from his horse Flung his great limbs, and at the doorway towered In gazing stern: the queen beside him stood, Her lustrous violet eyes all lost in tears: One hand on Dairè’s garment lay like light Wandering on dusky ripple; one, upraised, Held in the high-necked horse that champed the bit, His head near hers. Within, the man of God, Sole-sitting, read his office book unmoved, And ending fixed his keen eye on the king, Not rising from his seat.

Then fell from God Insight on Dairè, and aloud he cried, “A kingly man, of mind unmovable Art thou; and as the rock beneath my tower Shakes not in storm so shakes not heart of thine: Such men are of the height and not the plain: Therefore that hill to thee I grant unsought Which whilome I refused. Possession take This day, lest hostile demon warp my mood; And build thereon thy church. The same shall stand Strong mother-church of all thy great clan Christ!”

Thus Dairè spake; and Patrick, at his word Rising, gave thanks to God, and to the king High blessing heard in heaven; and making sign Went forth, attended by his priestly train, Benignus first, his dearest, then the rest. In circuit thrice they girt that hill, and sang Anthem first heard when unto God was vowed That House which David offered in his heart His son in act, and hymn of holy Church Hailing that city like a bride attired, From heaven to earth descending. With them sang An angel choir above them borne. The birds Forbore their songs, listening that angel strain, Ethereal music and by men unheard Except the Elect. The king in reverence paced Behind, his liegemen next, a mass confused With saffron standard gay and spears upheld Flashing through thickets green. These kept not line, For Alp was still recounting battles old, Aodh of wizards sang, and Ir of love; While bald-pate Conan, sharpening from his eye The sneering light, shot from his plastic mouth Shrill taunt and biting gibe. The younger sort Eyed the dense copse and launched full many a shaft Through it at flying beast. From ledge to ledge Clomb Angus, keen of sight, with hand o’er brow, Forth gazing on some far blue ridge of war With nostril wide outblown, and snorting cried, “Would I were there!”

Meantime, the man of God Had reached the fair crown of that sacred hill, A circle girt with woodland branching low, And roofed with heaven. Beyond its tonsure fringe, Birch trees and oaks, there pushed a thorn milk-white, And close beside it slept in shade a fawn Whiter. The startled dam had left its side, And through the dark stems fled like flying gleam. Minded they were, the kernes, to kill that fawn, And all the priests stood silent; but the Saint Put forth his hand, and o’er her signed the Cross, And, stooping, on his shoulder placed her firm, And bade the brethren mark with stones her lair Dewless and dusk: then, singing as he went “Like as the hart desires the water brooks,” He walked, that hill descending. Light from God O’ershone his face. Meantime the awakened fawn Now rolled her dark eye on the silver head Close by, now turning licked the wrinkled hand, Unfearing. Soon, with little whimpering sob, The doe drew near and paced at Patrick’s side. At last they reached a little field low down Beneath that hill: there Patrick laid the fawn.

King Dairè questioned Patrick of that deed, Incensed; and scornful asked, “Shall mitred man Play thus the shepherd and the forester?” And Patrick answered, “Aged men, O king, Forget their reasons oft. Benignus seek, If haply God has shown him for what cause I wrought this thing.” Then Dairè turned him back And faced Benignus; and with lifted hand, Pure as a maid’s, and dimpled like a child’s, Picturing his thoughts on air, the little monk Thus glossed that deed. “Great mystery, king, is Love: Poets its worthiness have sung in lays Unread by ruder ones like me; and yet Thus much the simplest and the rudest know, Dear is the fawn to her that gave it birth, And to the sceptred monarch dear the child That mounts his knee. Nor here the marvel ends; For, like yon star, the great Paternal Heart Through all the unmeted, unimagined years, While yet Creation uncreated hung, A thought, a dawn-streak on the verge extreme Of lonely Godhead’s inner Universe, Panted and pants with splendour of its love, The Eternal Sire rejoicing in the Son And Both in Him Who still from Both proceeds, Bond of their love. Moreover, king, that Son Who, Virgin-born, raised from the ruinous gulf Our world, and made it footstool to God’s throne, The same is Love, and died for Love, and reigns: Loveless, His Church were but a corse stone-cold; Loveless, her creed were but a winter leaf Network of barren thoughts, the cerement wan Of Faith extinct. Therefore our Saint revered The love and anguish of that mother doe, And inly vowed that where her offspring couched Christ’s chiefest church should stand, from age to age Confession plain ’mid raging of the clans That God is Love;—His worship void and vain Disjoined from Love that, rising to the heights Even to the depths descends.”

Conversing thus, Macha they reached. Ere long where lay the fawn Stood God’s new altar; and, ere many years, Far o’er the woodlands rose the church high-towered, Preaching God’s peace to still a troubled world. The Saint who built it found not there his grave Though wished for; him God buried otherwhere, Fulfilling thus the counsels of His Will: But old, and grey, when many a winter’s frost To spring had yielded, bent by wounds and woes Upon that church’s altar looked once more King Dairè; at its font was joined to Christ; And, midway ’twixt that altar and that font, Rejoined his beauteous mate a later day.

When Patrick now was old and nigh to death Undimmed was still his eye; his tread was strong; And there was ever laughter in his heart, And music in his laughter. In a wood Nigh to Ardmacha dwelt he with his monks; And there, like birds that cannot stay their songs Love-touched in Spring, or grateful for their nests, They to the woodsmen preached of Christ, their King, To swineherds, and to hinds that tended sheep, Yea, and to pilgrim guests from distant clans; His shepherd-worshipped birth when breath of kine Went o’er the Infant; all His wondrous works Or words from mount, or field, or anchored boat, And Christendom upreared for weal of men And Angel-wonder. Daily preached the monks And daily built their convent. Wildly sweet The season, prime of unripe spring, when March Distils from cup half gelid yet some drops Of finer relish than the hand of May Pours from her full-brimmed beaker. Frost, though gone, Had left its glad vibration on the air; Laughed the blue heavens as though they ne’er had frowned, Through leafless oak-boughs; limes of kindlier grace And swifter to believe Spring’s “tidings good” Took the sweet lights upon a breast bud-swoll’n, And crimson as the redbreast’s; while, as when Clear rings a flute-note through sea-murmurs harsh, At intervals ran out a streak of green Across the dim-hued forest.

From their wood The strong arms of the monks had hewn them space For all their convent needed; farmyard stored With stacks that all the winter long had clutched Their hoarded harvest sunshine; pasture green Whitened with sheep; fair garden fenceless still With household herbs new-sprouting: but, as oft Some conquered race, forth sallying in its spleen When serves the occasion, wins a province back, Or flouts at least the foe, so here once more Wild flowers, a clan unvanquished, raised their heads ’Mid sprouting wheat; and where from craggy height Pushed the grey ledge, the woodland host recoiled As though in Parthian flight; while many a bird, Barbaric from the inviolate forest launched Wild warbled scorn on all that life reclaimed, Mute garth-still orchard. Child of distant hills, A proud stream, swollen by midnight rains, down leaped From rock to rock. It spurned the precinct now With airy dews silvering the bramble green And redd’ning more the beech-stock.

’Twas the hour Of rest, and every monk was glad at heart, For each had wrought with might. With hands upheld, Mochta, the priest, had thundered against sin, Wrath-roused, as when some prince too late returned Stares at his sea-side village all in flames, The slave-thronged ship escaped. The bishop, Erc, Had reconciled old feuds by Brehon Law Where Brehon Law was lawful. Boys wild-eyed Had from Benignus learned the church’s song, Boys brightened now, yet tempered, by that age Gracious to stripling as to maid, that brings Valour to one and modesty to both Where youth is loyal to the Virgin-born. The giant meek, Mac Cairthen, on bent neck Had carried beam on beam, while Criemther felled The oaks, and from the anvil Laeban dashed The sparks in showers. A little way removed, Beneath a pine three vestals sat close-veiled: A song these childless sang of Bethlehem’s Child, Low-toned, and worked their Altar-cloth, a Lamb All white on golden blazon; near it bled The bird that with her own blood feeds her young: Red drops affused her holy breast. These three Were daughters of three kings. The best and fairest, King Dairè’s daughter, Erenait by name, Had loved Benignus in her Pagan years. He knew it not: full sweet to her his voice Chaunting in choir. One day through grief of love The maiden lay as dead: Benignus shook Dews from the font above her, and she woke With heart emancipate that outsoared the lark Lost in blue heavens. She loved the Spouse of Souls. It was as though some child that, dreaming, wept Its childish playthings lost, awaked by bells, Bride-bells, had found herself a queen new wed Unto her country’s lord.

While monk with monk Conversed, the son of Patrick’s sister sat, Secknall by name, beside the window sole And marked where Patrick from his hill of prayer Approached, descending slowly. At the sight He, maker blithe of songs, and wild as hawk Albeit a Saint, whose wont it was at times Or shy, or strange, or shunning flattery’s taint, To attempt with mockery those whom most he loved, Whispered a brother, “Speak to Patrick thus: ‘When all men praised thee, Secknall made reply “A blessed man were Patrick save for this, Alms deeds he preaches not.”’” The brother went: Ere long among them entered Patrick, wroth, Or, likelier, feigning wrath:—“What man is he Who saith I preach not alms deeds?” Secknall rose: “I said it, Father, and the charge is true.” Then Patrick answered, “Out of Charity I preach not Charity. This people, won To Christ, ere long will prove a race of Saints; To give will be its passion, not to gain: Its heart is generous; but its hand is slack In all save war: herein there lurks a snare: The priest will fatten, and the beggar feast: But the lean land will yield nor chief nor prince Hire of two horses yoked to chariot beam.” Then Secknall spake, “O Father, dead it lies Mine earlier charge against thee. Hear my next, Since in our Order’s equal Brotherhood Censure uncensured is the right of all. You press to the earth your converts! gold you spurn; Yet bind upon them heavier load than when Conqueror his captive tasks. Have shepherds three Bowed them to Christ? ‘Build up a church,’ you cry; So one must draw the sand, and one the stone And one the lime. Honouring the seven great Gifts, You raise in one small valley churches seven. Who serveth you fares hard!” The Saint replied, “Second as first! I came not to this land To crave scant service, nor with shallow plough Cleave I this glebe. The priest that soweth much For here the land is fruitful, much shall reap: Who soweth little nought but weeds shall bind And poppies of oblivion.” Secknall next: “Yet man to man will whisper, and the face Of all this people darken like a sea When pipes the coming storm.” He answered, “Son, I know this people better. Fierce they are In anger; neither flies their thought direct; For some, though true to Nature, lie to men, And others, true to men, are false to God: Yet as the prince’s is the poor man’s heart; Burthen for God sustained no burden is To him; and those who most have given to Christ Largeliest His fulness share.”

Secknall replied, “Low lies my second charge; a third remains, Which, as a shaft from seasoned bow, not green, Shall pierce the marl. With convents still you sow The land: in other countries sparse and small They swell to cities here. A hundred monks On one late barren mountain dig and pray: A hundred nuns gladden one woodland lawn, Or sing in one small island. Well—’tis well! Yet, balance lost and measure, nought is well. The Angelic Life more common will become Than life of mortal men.” The Saint replied, “No shaft from homicidal yew-tree bow Is thine, but winged of thistle-down! Now hear! Measure is good; but measure’s law with scale Changeth; nor doth the part reflect the whole. Each nation hath its gift, and each to all Not equal ministers. If all were eye, Where then were ear? If all were ear or hand, Where then were eye? The nation is the part; The Church the whole”—But Criemther where he stood, Old warrior, shouted like a chief war-waked, “This land is Eire! No nation lives like her! A part! Who portions Eire?” The Saint, with smile Resumed: “The whole that from the part receives, Repaying still that part, till man’s whole race Grow to the fulness of Mankind redeemed. What gift hath God in eminence given to Eire? Singly, her race is feeble; strong when knit: Nought knits them truly save a heavenly aim. I knit them as an army unto God, Give them God’s War! Yon star is militant! Its splendour ’gainst the dark must fight or die: So wars that Faith I preach against the world; And nations fitted least for this world’s gain Can speed Faith’s triumph best. Three hundred years, Well used, should make of Eire a northern Rome. Criemther! her destiny is this, or nought; Secknall! the highest only can she reach; Alone the Apostle’s crown is hers: for this, A Rule I give her, strong, yet strong in Love; Monastic households build I far and wide; Monastic clans I plant among her clans, With abbots for their chiefs. The same shall live, Long as God’s love o’errules them.”

Secknall then Knelt, reverent; yet his eye had in it mirth, And round the full bloom of the red rich mouth, No whit ascetic, ran a dim half smile. “Father, my charges three have futile fallen, And thrice, like some great warrior of the bards, Your conquering wheels above me you have driven. Brought low, I make confession. Once, in woods Wandering, we heard a sound, now loud, now low, As he that treads the sand-hills hears the sea High murmuring while he climbs the seaward slope, Low, as he drops to landward. ’Twas a throng Awed, yet tumultuous, wild-eyed, wondering, fierce, That, standing round a harper, stave on stave Acclaimed as each had ending. ‘War, still war!’ Thou saidst; ‘the bards but sing of War and Death! Ah! if they sang that Death which conquered Death, Then, like a tide, this people, music-drawn, Would mount the shores of Christ! Bards love not us, Prescient that power, that power wielded elsewhere By priest, but here by them, shall pass to us: Yet we love them for good one day their gift.’ Then didst thou turn on me an eye of might Such as on Malach, when thou had’st him raise By miracle of prayer that babe boar-slain, And said’st, ‘Go, fell thy pine, and frame thy harp, And in the hearing of this people sing Some Saint, the friend of Christ.’ Too long the attempt Shame-faced, I shunned; at last, like him of old, That better brother who refused, yet went, I made my hymn. ’Tis called ‘A Child of Life.’” Then Patrick, “Welcome is the praise of Saints: Sing thou thy hymn.”

From kneeling Secknall rose And stood, and singing, raised his hand as when Her cymbal by the Red Sea Miriam raised While silent stood God’s hosts, and silent lay Those host-entombing waters. Shook, like hers, His slight form wavering ’mid the gusts of song. He sang the Saint of God, create from nought To work God’s Will. As others gaze on earth, Her vales, her plains, her green meads ocean-girt, So gazed the Saint for ever upon God Who girds all worlds—saw intermediate nought— And on Him watched the sunshine and the storm, And learned His Countenance, and from It alone, Drew in upon his heart its day and night. That contemplation was for him no dream: It hurled him on his mission. As a sword He lodged his soul within the Hand Divine And wrought, keen-edged, God’s counsel. Next to God Next, and how near, he loved the souls of men: Yea, men to him were Souls; the unspiritual herd He saw as magic-bound, or chained to beast, And groaned to free them. For their sakes, unfearing, He faced the ravening waves, and iron rocks, Hunger, and poniard’s edge, and poisoned cup, And faced the face of kings, and faced the host Of demons raging for their realm o’erthrown. This was the Man of Love. Self-love cast out, The love made spiritual of a thousand hearts Met in his single heart, and kindled there A sun-like image of Love Divine. Within That Spirit-shadowed heart was Christ conceived Hourly through faith, hourly through Love was born; Sole secret this of fruitfulness to Christ. Who heard him heard with his a lordlier Voice, Strong as that Voice which said, “Let there be light,” And light o’erflowed their beings. He from each His secret won; to each God’s secret told: He touched them, and they lived. In each, the flesh Subdued to soul, the affections, vassals proud By conscience ruled, and conscience lit by Christ, The whole man stood, planet full-orbed of powers In equipoise, Image restored of God. A nation of such men his portion was; That nation’s Patriarch he. No wrangler loud; No sophist; lesser victories knew he none: No triumph his of sect, or camp, or court; The Saint his great soul flung upon the world, And took the people with him like a wind Missioned from God that with it wafts in spring Some wingèd race, a multitudinous night, Into new sun-bright climes.

As Secknall sang, Nearer the Brethren drew. On Patrick’s right Benignus stood; old Mochta on his left, Slow-eyed, with solemn smile and sweet; next Erc, Whose ever-listening countenance that hour Beyond its wont was listening; Criemther near The workman Saint, his many-wounded hands Together clasped: forward each mighty arm On shoulders propped of Essa and of Bite, Leaned the meek giant Cairthen: twelve in all Clustering they stood and in them was one soul. When Secknall ceased, in silence still they hung Each upon each, glad-hearted since the meed Of all their toils shone out before them plain, Gold gates of heaven—a nation entering in. A light was on their faces, and without Spread a great light, for sunset now had fallen A Pentecostal fire upon the woods, Or else a rain of angels streamed o’er earth. In marvel gazed the twelve: yea, clans far off Stared from their hills, deeming the site aflame. That glory passed away, discourse arose On Secknall’s hymn. Its radiance from his face Had, like the sunset’s, vanished as he spake. “Father, what sayst thou?” Patrick made reply, “My son, the hymn is good; for Truth is gold; And Fame, obsequious often to base heads, For once is loyal, and its crown hath laid Where honour’s debt was due.” Then Secknall raised In triumph both his hands, and chaunted loud That hymn’s first stave, earlier through craft withheld, Stave that to Patrick’s name, and his alone, Offered that hymn’s whole incense! Ceasing, he stood Low-bowed, with hands upon his bosom crossed. Great laughter from the brethren came, their Chief Thus trapped, though late—he meekest man of men— To claim the saintly crown. First young, then old, Later the old, and sore against their will, That laughter raised. Last from the giant chest Of Cairthen forth it rolled its solemn bass, Like sea-sound swallowing lighter sounds hard by. But Patrick laughed not: o’er his face there passed Shade lost in light; and thus he spake, “O friends That which I have to do I know in part: God grant I work my work. That which I am He knows Who made me. Saints He hath, good store: Their names are written in His Book of Life; Kneel down, my sons, and pray that if thus long I seem to stand, I fall not at the end.”