RAWDON COLLEGE LIBRARY. 
 
 (From the Library of the late Rev. C. BAILHACHE.) 
 
 A. E., A. B. AND A. W. ROOKE, 
 
 FEBRUARY, 1879. 
 
 Shelf 
 
 No. 
 
LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK 
 
By the same Author. 
 
 I. THE INFANT BRIDAL, and 
 
 other Poems. (Macmillan. ) 
 
 II. MAY CAROLS. 2nd Edition. 
 
 (Richardson.) 
 
 III. POEMS, Miscellaneous and 
 
 Sacred. (Burns and Lambert ) 
 
THE LEGENDS 
 
 OF 
 
 SAINT PATRICK 
 
 BY 
 
 AUBREY DE VERE 
 
 LONDON 
 
 HENRY S. KING & Co., 65 CORNHILL 
 
 Dublin : McGLA,SHAN & GILL 
 1872 
 
LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
TO THE MEMORY 
 of 
 
 WORDSWORTH 
 
 513451 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IN most parts of Ireland the traveller hears quaint 
 stories about Saint Patrick, and sometimes perhaps 
 imagines that the Saint visited the island for the 
 benefit of witty guides, and to promote mirth in 
 wet weather. He would hardly suspect that, 
 during fourteen centuries, the subject of these 
 stories has been regarded, at countless hearths, as 
 the greatest man and the greatest benefactor that 
 ever trod the Irish soil,' and that there remains 
 respecting him a vast cycle of legends, serious, 
 pathetic, and profound. It could not have been 
 otherwise. Ireland was a land of legends many 
 ages before Saint Patrick visited it. JlThere existed 
 in all parts of it Colleges of Bard"7 whose duty it 
 was to preserve in song the history of every clan 
 and ruling House. Such a people could not have 
 
viii Preface. 
 
 forgotten the heroic man who had led them forth in 
 their Exodus from the bondage of Pagan darkness. 
 In many instances, doubtless, as the tale became 
 a tradition, the foliage of an ever-active popular 
 imagination gathered round the central stem of 
 fact ; but the fact remained. 
 
 To this class of legends belong the poems 
 respecting Saint Patrick and the old Irish warrior- 
 poet, Oisin, with whom the modern reader is better 
 acquainted under the name of Ossian. They are 
 to this day chaunted in those parts of Ireland in 
 which the Gaelic language is spoken, and consist 
 chiefly of poetic contentions in which the blind 
 bard, represented as the guest of Saint Patrick in his 
 friendless old age, responds to the Saint's preaching 
 by singing the praises of his father, Fionn (the 
 Fingal of Macpherson), of his son, Oscar, and of 
 the friends of his youth. Oisin had died two 
 centuries before St. Patrick's mission ; and, earlier 
 still, the whole of that polity to which he was 
 devoted had perished, with his son and the warriors 
 he loved so well, upon the fatal field of Gahbra : 
 yet those dialogues, referred by Professor O' Curry 
 to the ninth and tenth centuries, though disfigured 
 
Preface. ix 
 
 by subsequent interpolations, do not the less 
 vividly illustrate the relations, partly friendly, 
 partly hostile, between the new religion of Ireland 
 and her old world of bards and chiefs. Many 
 of them are to be found, beside those included 
 in the publications of the ' Ossianic Society/ in a 
 striking volume published by J. Hawkins Simpson, 
 Esq., who, during a residence in Mayo, had often 
 been struck by the vehement effect they produced on 
 the listeners. It is called, ' Oisin, the Bard of 
 Erin.' 1 The first two of the poems relating to 
 Oisin in the present volume embody, in substance, 
 two of the traditional Ossianic poems of Ireland : 
 and several of the other poems in lyrical metres are 
 drawn from the same sources. - 
 
 ButjThe earlier legends respecting Saint Patrick 
 are at once the more authentic and the nobler. 
 Not a few have a character of the sublime ; 
 many are pathetic ; some have a profound mean- 
 ing under a strange disguise ; but their predomi- 
 nant character is their brightness and gladsomeness. 
 A large tract of Irish history is dark : but the time 
 of Saint Patrick, and the three centuries which 
 1 See note orf page 244. 
 
x Preface. 
 
 succeeded it, were her time of joy. Here we tread 
 no land of sorrows or of wrongs. That chronicle 
 is a song of gratitude and hope, as befits the story 
 of a nation's conversion to Christianity, and in it 
 the bird and the brook blend their carols with 
 those of angels and of men. It was otherwise with 
 the Ossianic legends connected with Saint Patrick. 
 A poet once remarked, while studying the frescoes 
 of Michael Angelo in the Sistine Chapel, that the 
 Sibyls are always sad, while the Prophets alternated 
 with them are joyous. In the legends of the 
 Patrician Cycle the chief-loving old Bard is ever 
 mournful, for his face is turned to the past 
 glories of his country : while the Saint is always 
 bright, because his eyes are set on to the glory that 
 has no end. 
 
 Those higher legends, the subject of the blank 
 verse poems in this work, which, however, do not 
 profess to keep close to the original sources except 
 as regards their spirit, and the manners of the 
 time described are to be found chiefly in some very 
 ancient lives of Saint Patrick, the most valuable of 
 which is the ' Tripartite Life,' ascribed by Colgan 
 to the century after the Saint's death, though it 
 
Preface. xi 
 
 has not escaped later additions. The work was long 
 lost : but two copies of it were re-discovered, one of 
 which has been recently translated by an eminent 
 Irish scholar, Mr. Hennessy. This translation, as 
 well as translations of several other ancient remains, 
 enrich the appendix of a work, the high merits of 
 which have gained for it a wide circulation, the ' Life 
 of Saint Patrick, by M. F. Cusack.' The miracles 
 recorded in the ' Tripartite Life ' are neither the 
 most marvellous nor the most interesting portion 
 of that Life. Whether regarded from the religious 
 or the philosophic point of view, few things can be 
 more instructive than the picture which it deline- 
 ates of human nature in a period of critical 
 transition, and the dawning .of the Religion of 
 Peace upon a race barbaric, but far indeed from 
 savage. That wild race regarded it doubtless as a 
 notable cruelty, when the new Faith discouraged 
 an amusement so popular as battle. But in many 
 respects they were in sympathy with that Faith. 
 That race was one in which the affections, as well 
 as the passions, retained an unblunted ardour ; and 
 where Nature is strongest and least corrupted it 
 most feels the need of something higher than itself, 
 
xii Preface. 
 
 its interpreter and its supplement. It prized the 
 family ties, like the Germans recorded by Tacitus ; 
 and it could not but have been drawn to Christian- 
 ity, which consecrated them. Its morals were pure, 
 and it had not lost that simplicity to which so 
 much of spiritual insight belongs. Admiration 
 and wonder were among its chief habits : it 
 would not have been repelled by Mysteries in what 
 professed to belong to 'the Infinite ; nor did it 
 desire a religion smaller than the human mind 
 itself a religion capable of'being, not only appre- 
 hended and believed, but comprehended in its 
 fulness and measured in all its parts. Lawless as 
 it often was, it abounded also in loyalty, generosity, 
 and self-sacrifice : it was not therefore untouched 
 by the records of martyrs, the principle of self- 
 sacrifice, or the doctrine of a great Sacrifice. It 
 loved children and the poor ; and Christianity 
 made the former the exemplars of faith, and the 
 latter the eminent inheritors of the Kingdom. On 
 the other hand, all the vices of the race ranged 
 themselves against the new religion, as well as 
 many of its jealousies. 
 ^~In the main the institutions and traditions of 
 
Preface. xiii 
 
 Ireland were favourable to Christianity. She had 
 preserved in a large measure the patriarchal system 
 of the East. Her clans were families, and her 
 chiefs were patriarchs who led their households to 
 battle, and seized or recovered the spoil. Those 
 clans were proud of the strong rule they obeyed ; 
 for it was a rule interwoven with the affection^ 
 Ireland had never been subject to the Roman 
 Empire ; the State was to her a less familiar idea 
 than the Family, although her monarchy had run 
 back to such early times ; and civil ties were but 
 domestic ties on a larger scale. To such a people 
 the Christian Church announced herself as a great 
 family the family of man. Her genealogies 
 went up to the first parent ; and her rule was pa- 
 rental rule. The kingdom of Christ was the house- 
 hold of Christ ; and its portions in all lands were 
 the tribes of a larger Israel. Its laws were living 
 traditions ; and for traditions the Irish had ever 
 retained the Eastern reverence ; as well as despite 
 an idol-worship which seems however not to have 
 obliterated more spiritual aspirations and recol- 
 lections the great Theistic instinct of the East. 
 In the Druids no formidable enemy was found. 
 
xiv Preface. 
 
 It was the Bards who wielded the predominant 
 social influence. As in Greece, where the sacer- 
 dotal power was small, the Bards were the priests 
 of the national Imagination, and round them all 
 moral influences had gathered themselves. The 
 Gael required that even his laws should be recited 
 to him in verse. The Bards had at once in part 
 1 made the laws ' of the country, and ' written its 
 ballads : ' it was no wonder therefore that they 
 were strong. Many of them were hereditary 
 functionaries ; they lived in regal state, and tra- 
 velled with large retinues. Their colleges had been 
 a sort of Pagan convents, as subsequently, the 
 Christian convents looked like spiritual clans. They 
 were jealous of their rivals ; but those rivals won 
 them by degrees. Secknall and Fiacc were 
 Christian Bards, trained by St. Patrick, who is 
 said to have also brought a bard with him from 
 Italy. At a later time St. Columba preserved the 
 whole Order from destruction, when the excessive 
 wealth and pride of the Bard-Establishment had 
 kindled a revolt against it. The beautiful legend 
 in which the Saint loosened the tongue of the dumb 
 child was an apt emblem of Christianity im- 
 
Preface. xv 
 
 parting to the Irish race the highest use of its 
 natural faculties. The Christian clergy turned to 
 account the Irish traditions, as they had made use 
 of the Pagan temples, purifying them first. The 
 Christian Religion looked with a genuine kind- 
 ness on whatever was human, except so far as the 
 stain was on it ; and while it resisted to the face 
 what it disapproved, it also, in the Apostolic sense, 
 ' made itself all things to all men.' The early Irish 
 Church was as hospitable to the old Bard-songs 
 and social usages of Ireland as the Patrick of the 
 Ossianic legends had been to her blind Bard. 
 Her friendliness found an emblem in the legend 
 which represents Saint Kieran, when the famous 
 old Pagan Epic, the ' Tain bo Chuailne,' long lost, 
 had been so marvellously recovered, as sacrificing 
 his favourite little heifer, and thus supplying the 
 parchment needed in order to commend the 
 treasure to posterity an act still recorded in the 
 title of one of the oldest of Ireland's MS. Volumes 
 
 fr-=* ^ 
 
 * The Book of the Dun Cow.' | As legislator, 
 Saint Patrick waged no needless war against the 
 ancient Laws of Ireland. He purified them, and 
 he amplified them, discarding only what was unfit 
 
 a 
 
xvi Preface. 
 
 for a nation made Christian. Thus was produced 
 the great ' Book of the Law/ or ' Senchus Mohr/ 
 compiled A.D. 439. 
 
 The Irish people received the gospel gladly. 
 The great and the learned, in other nations the 
 last to believe, among them commonly set the 
 example. With the natural disposition of the race 
 an appropriate culture had concurred. It was one 
 which at least did not fail to develope the imagina- 
 tion, the affections, and a great part of the moral 
 being, and which prompted ardent natures to find 
 their rest in spiritual things, rather than in material 
 or conventional. That culture, without removing 
 the barbaric, had singularly blended it with the 
 refined. It had created among the people an exqui- 
 site appreciation of the beautiful, the pathetic, and 
 the pure. The early Irish chronicles, as well as songs, 
 show how strong among them that sentiment had 
 ever been.JjThe Borromean Tribute, for so many 
 ages the source of relentless wars, had been imposed 
 in vengeance for an insult offered to a woman ; and 
 a discourtesy shown to a poet had overthrown an 
 ancient dynasty. The education of an Ollambh 
 occupied twelve years ; and in the third century, 
 
Preface. xvii 
 
 the time of Oisin and Fionn, the military rules of 
 the Feine included provisions which the chivalry of 
 later ages might have been proud of. It was a 
 wild, but not an unfeeling time. An unprovoked 
 affront was regarded as a grave moral offence ; and 
 severe punishments were ordained, not only for 
 detraction, but for a word, though uttered in jest, 
 which brought a blush on the cheek of a listener. 
 Yet an injury a hundred years old could meet no for- 
 giveness, and the life of man was war ! It was not 
 that laws were wanting ; a code, minute in its justice, 
 had proportioned a penalty to every offence, and 
 specified the Eric which was to wipe out the blood- 
 stain in case the injured party renounced his 
 claim to right his own wrong. It was not that 
 hearts were hard there was at least as much pity 
 for others as for self. It was that anger was 
 implacable, and that where fear was unknown, the 
 war field was what among us the hunting field is. 
 \\ The rapid growth of learning as well as piety in 
 the three centuries succeeding the conversion of 
 Ireland, prove that the country had not been till 
 then without a preparation for the gift. It had 
 been the special skill of Sajnt Patrick to build the 
 
 a2 
 
xviii Preface. 
 
 good which was lacked upon that which existed. 
 Even the material arts of Ireland he had pressed 
 into the service of the Faith ; and Irish craftsmen 
 had assisted him, not only in the building of his 
 churches, but in casting his church bells, and in 
 the adornment of his chalices, crosiers, and eccle- 
 siastical vestments. Those who have inspected the 
 collections of the Royal Irish Academy, and read 
 the more recent works on Irish Archeology, know 
 how much skill had at an early time been lavished 
 upon the arms, and the dress, the houses and the 
 musical instruments of men whom many figure to 
 themselves as naked wanderers through the woods. 
 That early civilisation had doubtless its special 
 defects as well as merits ; and the vindictiveness 
 which it sanctioned (a vice which even Christian 
 teaching has so often found it difficult to expel), 
 to Ireland as to other countries has proved a 
 frequent cause of suffering and of weakness. Yet 
 that early civilisation was a memorable thing ; and 
 when submitted to the Christian law, it did great 
 things. It sheltered a high virtue at home, and 
 evangelised a great part of Northern Europe ; and 
 amidst many confusions it held its own till the 
 
Preface. xix 
 
 true time of barbarism had set in those two 
 disastrous centuries when the Danish invasions trod 
 down the sanctuaries, dispersed the libraries, and 
 laid waste the colleges to which distant Kings had 
 sent their sons. 
 
 Perhaps nothing human had so large an influence 
 in the conversion of the Irish, as the personal cha- 
 racter of her Apostle. Where others, as Palladius, 
 had failed, he succeeded. By nature, by grace, 
 and by providential training he had been specially 
 fitted for his task. We can still see plainly even 
 the finer traits of that character, while the land of 
 his birth is a matter of dispute, and of his early 
 history we know little, except that he was of noble 
 birth, that he was carried to -Ireland by pirates at 
 the age of sixteen, and that after five years of 
 bondage, he escaped thence, to return A.D. 432, 
 when about forty-five years old. We know from 
 himself the great main outlines of his life after 
 his escape. For some years he dwelt at Tours, 
 where, as he tells us, his heart was strengthened by 
 discipline most needful for the largest hearts in 
 the school of Saint Martin, his own kinsman, the 
 soldier-priest. Next, he resided for fifteen years 
 
xx Preface. 
 
 at Auxerres, where his intellect was illumined by 
 the teaching of the great Saint Germanus, b'oth 
 soldier and statesman before he had become a 
 bishop. By his counsel, the Saint, while journeying 
 to Rome, made his abode for some time with Saint 
 Vincent, and his brother Contemplatives at Lerins, 
 then the Thebais of the West. Here he completed 
 his time of preparation, passing beyond, without 
 forgetting, the lowlier ' elements ' of the Christian 
 Law, and transmuting to love all that high light 
 which had shone upon him from the Doctrine of 
 Saint Germanus. Thus was ended his triple training, 
 and the work was to begin. At Rome he received 
 mission from Pope Celestine, and Orders also, as 
 some have affirmed, but of this last there seems 
 to be no proof, and there is some evidence to the 
 contrary. This large and various culture had been 
 built on the foundations of a devout childhood, and 
 of a youth ennobled by adversity. It had been 
 bestowed on one of those natures that reward 
 culture. Everywhere we trace the might and the 
 sweetness which belonged to it, the versatile mind 
 yet the simple heart, the varying tact yet the fixed 
 resolve, the large design taking counsel for all, yet 
 
Preface. xxi 
 
 the minute solicitude for each, the fiery zeal yet 
 the genial temper, the skill in using means yet the 
 reliance on God alone, the readiness in action with 
 the willingness to wait, the habitual self-possession 
 yet the outbursts of an inspiration which raised 
 him above himself, the abiding consciousness of 
 authority an authority in him, but not of him 
 and yet the ever present humility. Above all, 
 there burned in him that boundless Love, which 
 seems the main constituent of the Apostolic cha- 
 racter. It was love for God : but it was love for 
 man also, an impassioned love, and a parental 
 compassion. It was not for the spiritual weal 
 alone of man that he thirsted. Wrong and in- 
 justice to the poor he resented as an injury to God. 
 His vehement love for the poor is illustrated by 
 his ' Epistle to Coroticus,' reproaching him with his 
 cruelty, as well as by his denunciations of slavery, 
 which piracy had introduced into parts of Ireland. 
 No wonder that such a character should have 
 exercised a talismanic power over the ardent and 
 sensitive race among whom he laboured, a race, 
 ' easy to be drawn, but impossible to be driven/ 
 and drawn more by sympathy than even by benefits. 
 
xxii Preface. 
 
 The variety of qualities which that character 
 blended in a unity yet more remarkable is illus- 
 trated by many of the legends that relate to him : 
 but the inmost of his being, the great interior 
 fountains of power which refreshed his labours, 
 and bore him forward on his conquering way, can 
 only be understood by one who studies, and 
 in a right spirit, that account of his life which he 
 bequeathed to us shortly before its close the 
 ' Confession of Saint Patrick/^ VA translation of it 
 is among the translations included in the latest 
 and most detailed history of the Saint. The last 
 poem in this volume embodies its most cha- 
 racteristic portions, including the visions which it 
 records. 
 
 j]The ' Tripartite Life ' reveals to us how men felt 
 to Saint Patrick in days not remote from his own. 
 It closes with this summary of his character and 
 labours. ' A just man, indeed, was this man ; with 
 purity of nature like the patriarchs ; a true pilgrim, 
 like Abraham ; gentle and forgiving of heart like 
 Moses ; a praiseworthy Psalmist, like David ; an 
 emulator of wisdom, like Solomon ; a chosen vessel 
 for proclaiming truth, like the Apostle Paul ; a 
 
Preface. xxiii 
 
 man full of grace, and of the knowledge of the 
 Holy Ghost, like the beloved John ; a fair flower- 
 garden to children of grace ; a fruitful vine-branch ; 
 a flaming fire, with force of life and heat to the 
 sons of Life, for instituting and illustrating charity ; 
 a lion in strength and power ; a dove in gentleness 
 and humility ; a serpent in wisdom and cunning to 
 do good ; gentle, humble, merciful towards sons of 
 Life ; dark, ungentle towards sons of Death ; a 
 servant of labour and service of Christ ; a king in 
 dignity and might, for binding and loosening, for 
 liberating and convicting, for killing and giving life. 
 ' After these great miracles, therefore, after re- 
 suscitating the dead, after healing lepers, and the 
 blind, and the deaf, and the lame, and all diseases ; 
 after ordaining bishops, and priests, and deacons, 
 and people of all orders in the Church ; after 
 teaching the men of Erin, and after baptizing them; 
 after founding churches and monasteries ; after 
 destroying idols and images and Druidical arts, the 
 hour of death of Saint Patrick approachedAJ He 
 received the body of Christ from the Bishop 
 Tassach, according to the counsel of the Angel 
 Victor. He resigned hi$ spirit afterwards to 
 
xxiv Preface. 
 
 Heaven, in the one hundred and twentieth year 01 
 his age. His body is still here in the earth, with 
 honour and reverence. Though great his honour 
 here, greater honour will be to him in the Day of 
 Judgment, when judgment will be given on the 
 fruit of his teaching, as of every great Apostle, in 
 the union of the Apostles and Disciples of Jesus ; 
 in the union of the Nine Orders of Angels, which 
 cannot be surpassed ; in the union of the Divinity 
 and Humanity of the Son of God ; in the union, 
 which is higher than all unions, of the Holy Trinity, 
 Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.' 
 
 Slightly as most men are acquainted with the 
 early legends of Ireland (often attracted more to 
 the stormier period of her annals) it is impossible 
 not to be struck by their wildness, their pathos, 
 their child-like simplicity, and by a significance 
 which must once have rendered them a vehicle 
 of instruction to the people more efficacious than 
 any that is conveyed in a didactic form. They 
 have claims on the philosopher and historian. 
 Ihe incidents which survive in the recollections of 
 a people are not by necessity the most momentous 
 which they have witnessed, but they are the most 
 
Preface. xxv 
 
 characteristic, or they are those with which the 
 popular heart was most in sympathy. The natu- 
 ralist can reconstruct an extinct species from a few 
 fossil remains : the philosophic mind might repre- 
 sent to itself the character of a race, from a careful 
 analysis of its legends. Few historical works could 
 give us so true an idea of the Umbrian valleys in 
 the thirteenth century as we can extract from that 
 charming old book of legends, the ' Fioretti di San 
 Francesco/ the record of their favourite Saint. To 
 the imagination those broken fragments suggest a 
 state of society in its wholeness. A history or a 
 disquisition which pretended to treat the same sub- 
 ject with completeness, would probably be, and be 
 felt to be, an imposture. If the Ireland of early 
 times is ever understood, it will not be till after 
 thoughtful men have deemed her legends worthy 
 of their serious attention. 
 
 But it is for the lover of poetry that the early 
 Irish legends have most immediate interest. They 
 are poetical because they deal frankly with those 
 vehement emotions of a nation's youth which, like 
 ' the gestures of children, are cramped by no restraint. 
 They have neither the open, nor the veiled coarse- 
 
xxvi Preface. 
 
 ness. They delight in illustrating human affections, 
 in all their forms, and remind us that an age which 
 can find Love in no poetry except 'love poetry' is 
 a cold-hearted age, and one of narrow sympathies. 
 They have also, like the legendary poetry of most 
 nations, a singular felicity in dealing with the 
 supernatural and the divine. Poetry, like politics, 
 has its ' Religious Difficulty.' In early times the 
 Poet who dealt with themes in part religious was 
 also, like ^schylus, the one who delineated human 
 passion with most energy. In modern times he is 
 apt to leave human interest behind, and finds him- 
 self sometimes engaged on a task as difficult as 
 if a Painter were to attempt a picture of the sun, 
 in place of illustrating sunshine flashed from wood 
 and cloud. The opposite course is not happier. 
 If he omits the divine, he degrades and belies the 
 human ; for behind the visible there ever remains 
 the invisible, and with it both man and nature 
 have relations strong as those ' of flesh and blood.' 
 The poetry so abundantly found in the old legends 
 never felt this difficulty. Their Religion was neither 
 polemical nor abstruse. They showed Nature as 
 she is because they did not fear to ' add the gleam ' 
 
Preface. xxvii 
 
 that shoots along her summits, and did not cancel 
 all above the line of perpetual snow. Religion 
 was dealt with best by the Poetry that never in- 
 tended to deal with it at all. It delineated what 
 it saw, but it saw more than surfaces. Even Pagan 
 Poetry owed much of its depth and its greatness to 
 the fact that it never proposed to itself to represent 
 such a mere abstraction as man without man's soul. 
 The Christian nations cherished the Christian 
 legends interwoven with their earliest development, 
 social and national, not with conscious piety, but 
 instinctively, as old Rome cherished those recorded 
 by Livy. They looked back thus ' to the rock 
 whence they were hewn.' 
 
 When the Irish legends come to be explored, it 
 will perhaps be found that ancient Ireland, too, had 
 poets who ' left great music to a little clan.' Few 
 indeed are the authentic fragments of Oisin : but 
 many a tale survives which cannot long remain 
 unknown. One already alluded to, the ' Tain Bo 
 Chuailne,' has been translated -by a great Irish 
 scholar, alas ! lost to us, Professor O' Curry ; though 
 his translation still remains unpublished. That 
 eminent archeologist, Dr. Reeves, has, it is said, 
 
xxv'ii Preface. 
 
 long been occupied with the far-famed ' Book of 
 Armagh ' : and there are rumours of an intention 
 on the part of the authorities of Trinity College, 
 Dublin, to publish with a translation the * Book of 
 Leinster,' which contains poems attributed to Saint 
 Patrick's age, and to yet earlier times. The pre- 
 sent volume will be fortunate if it should help to 
 draw attention to Ireland's vast and almost un- 
 known stores of legendary lore. Whenever they 
 are given to us they ought to prove as refreshing as 
 mountain air to men fevered by city life. 
 
 May 17, 1872. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 THE BAPTISM OF SAINT PATRICK . . 1 
 
 THE DISBELIEF OF MILCHO, OR SAINT PATRICK'S 
 
 ONE FAILURE ..... 3 
 
 | 
 SAINT PATRICK AT TARA . . . .26 
 
 THE STRIVING OF SAINT PATRICK ON MOUNT 
 
 CRUACHAN . . . . 31 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AND THE TWO PRINCESSES . 51 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDREN OF FOCHLUT 
 
 WOOD . . . . . .60 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AND KING LAEGHAIRE . . 83 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR ; OR, MAC KYLE 
 
 OF MAN . . , . .86 
 
 PATRICK AND THE KNIGHT ; OR, THE INAUGURA- 
 TION OF IRISH CHIVALRY - . . . 94 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AT CASH EL j OR, THE BAPTISM OF 
 
 AENGUS . . ^ . -95 
 
PATRICK AKD O15JX. L. THE CQSTESTflOV. 104 
 SADFT PATRICK A3O> THE OULDIESS MOTHER IIO 
 
 r -._v . . . . .121 
 
 SAIXT PATRICK AT THE FEAST <V KSOCK CAE : 
 
 PATRICK: AMD oisis. m. omxs TOCTH . 142 
 
 ; -.:-.7 :-...- 7 . : >.>- y.:- : z :::-:>_- E . . 149 
 
 SAJST PATKJet ASD OBSE5. IT. CNSES^ QCESTIOX l6S 
 SAEXT PATRICK AKD THE POCXDEXG OF 
 
 
 v :: = :yf "5i:y : f. : 
 
 OF SATNT "ArsLitrs. . _ 194 
 
 PATRICK AKD OEISL TL O'ESty'S GOOD 
 
 ..... 210 
 
 THE COXFESSMKS OF SADTT PATRICK . . 215 
 
 . .... 237 
 
THE BAPTISM OF ST. PATRICK. 
 
 ' How can the babe baptized be 
 
 Where font is none, and water none ? ' 
 Thus wept the nurse on bended knee, 
 And swayed the Infant in the sun. 
 
 The blind priest took that Infant's hand : 
 With that small hand, above the ground 
 
 He signed the Cross. At God's command 
 A fountain rose with brimming bound. 
 
 In that pure wave, from Adam's sin 
 
 The blind priest cleansed the Babe with awe 
 
 Then, reverently, he washed therein 
 His old, unseeing face, and saw ! 
 
 B 
 
The Baptism of St. Patrick. 
 
 He saw the earth ; he saw the skies, 
 And that all-wondrous Child decreed 
 
 A pagan nation to baptize, 
 
 And give the Gentiles light indeed. 
 
 Thus Secknall sang. Far off and nigh 
 The clansmen shouted loud and long ; 
 
 While every mother tossed more high 
 Her babe, and, glorying, joined the song. 
 
THE DISBELIEF OF MILCHO, 
 
 OR, SAINT PATRICK'S ONE FAILURE. 
 
 WHEN now at Imber Dea, that precious bark,' 
 Freighted with Erin's future, touched the sands 
 Just where a river, through a woody vale 
 Curving, with duskier current clave the sea, 
 Patrick, the Island's great inheritor, 
 His perilous voyage past, stept forth and knelt 
 And blessed his God. The peace of those green meads 
 Cradled 'twixt purple hills and purple deep, 
 Seemed' as the peace of heaven. The sun had set ; 
 But still those summits twinned, the ' Golden Spears/ 
 Laughed with his latest beam. The hours went by : 
 The brethren paced the shore, or musing sa.t, 
 But still their Patriarch knelt, and still gave thanks 
 For all the marvellous chances of his life 
 Since those his earlier years, when, slave new-trapped, 
 He comforted on hills of Dakraide 
 B 2 
 
4 The Disbelief of Milcho. 
 
 His hungry heart with God, and, cleansed by pain, 
 
 In exile found the spirit's native land. 
 
 Eve deepened into night, and still he prayed : 
 
 The clear cold stars had crowned the azure vault ; 
 
 And, risen at midnight from dark seas, the moon 
 
 Had quenched those stars, yet Patrick still prayed on 
 
 Till from the river murmuring in the vale, 
 
 Far off, and from the morning airs close by 
 
 That shook the alders by the river's mouth, 
 
 And from his own deep heart a voice there came, 
 
 ' Ere yet thou fling'st God's bounty on this land 
 
 There is a debt to cancel. Where is he, 
 
 Thy five years' lord that scourged thee for his swine ? 
 
 Alas that wintry face ! Alas that hand 
 
 Barren as frozen well ! To him reveal it ! 
 
 To him declare that God who Man became 
 
 Man's fall'n estate to raise, as though a man, 
 
 All faculties of man unmerged, undimmed, 
 
 Had worm become, and died the prey of worms, 
 
 That so the mole might see ! ' 
 
 Thus Patrick mused, 
 
 Not ignorant that from low beginnings rise 
 Oftenest the works of greatness ; yet of this 
 Unweeting, that his failure, one and sole 
 Through all his more than mortal course, even now 
 Before that low beginning's threshold lay, 
 
The Disbelief of Mile ho. 5 
 
 And all that Promised Land beyond, a bar 
 Of seeming scandal stretched. Not otherwise 
 Might whatsoe'er was mortal in his strength 
 Dying, put on the immortal. 
 
 With the morn 
 
 Upon him sleep descended. Waking soon, 
 A man of might he rose, and in that might 
 Laboured ; and God His servant's labours blessed ; 
 And on that coast the land of Eire to Christ 
 Her firstfruits paid. Three days his Lord he preached : 
 The fourth embarking, cape succeeding cape 
 They passed, and heard the lowing of the herds 
 In hollow glens, and smelt the balmy breath 
 Of gorse on golden hillsides ; till at eve, 
 The Imber Domnand reached, on silver sands 
 Grated their keel. Around them flocked at dawn 
 Warriors with hunters mixed, and shepherd youths, 
 And maids with lips as mountain berries red, 
 And eyes like sloes, or keener eyes, dark-fringed, 
 And gleaming like the blue-black spear. They came 
 With milk-pail, and with kid, and kindled fire, 
 And spread the genial board. Upon that shore 
 Full many knelt, and gave themselves to Christ 
 Strong men, and men at midmost of their hopes 
 By sickness felled : old chiefs, at life's dim close 
 That oft had asked, ' Beyond the grave what hope ? ' 
 
6 The Disbelief of Milcho. 
 
 Worn sailors, weary of the toilsome seas, 
 And craving rest ; they, too, that sex which wears 
 The blended crowns of Chastity and Love, 
 Wondering, they hailed the Maiden-Motherhood ; 
 And listening children praised the Babe Divine, 
 And passed Him, each to each. 
 
 Ere long, once more 
 
 Their sails were spread. Again by grassy marge 
 They rowed, and sylvan glades. The branching deer 
 Like flying gleams o'erswept them. Oft the cry 
 Of fighting clans rang out : but oftener yet 
 Clamour of rural dance, or mart confused 
 With many-coloured garb, and movements swift, 
 Pageant sun-bright : or on the sands a throng 
 Girdled with circle glad some bard whose song 
 The concourse shook as tempest shakes the woods. 
 Still north the wanderers sailed : at evening, mists 
 Cumbered the shore, and on them leaned the blast, 
 And flashed fierce rain, mingling with dim-lit sea. 
 All night they toiled ; next day, at noon, they kenned 
 A seaward stream that shone like golden tress 
 Severed, and random-thrown. That river's mouth 
 Ere long attained was all with lilies white 
 As April field with daisies. Entering there 
 They reached a wood, and disembarked with joy. 
 There, after thanks to God, silent they sat 
 
The Disbelief of Milcho. 7 
 
 In thought, and watched the ripples, dusk yet bright, 
 
 That lived and died, like things that laugh at time, 
 
 On gliding 'neath those many-centuried boughs. 
 
 But, midmost, Patrick slept. Then through the trees, 
 
 Shy as a fawn half-tamed, now stole, now fled, 
 
 A boy of such bright aspect, faery child 
 
 He seemed, or babe exposed of royal race : 
 
 At last, assured, beside the Saint he stood, 
 
 And dropped into his breast a flower ; then fled : 
 
 Thus flower on flower from the great woods he brought, 
 
 And hid them in the bosom of the Saint. 
 
 The monks forbade him, saying, * Lest thou wake 
 
 The master from his sleep.' But Patrick woke, 
 
 And saw the boy, and said, t Forbid him not ; 
 
 The heir of all my kingdom is this child.' 
 
 Then spake the brethren, ' Wilt thou walk with us ? ' 
 
 And he, * I will : ' and so for his sweet face 
 
 They called his name Benignus : and the boy 
 
 Thenceforth was Christ's. Beneath his parents' roof 
 
 At night they housed. Nowhere that child would sleep 
 
 Except at Patrick's feet. Till Patrick's death 
 
 Unchanged to him he clave, and after reigned 
 
 The second at Ardmacha. 
 
 Day by day 
 
 Their course they held ; ere long the hills of Mourne 
 Loomed through sea-mist : Ulidian summits next 
 
8 The Disbelief of MilcJw. 
 
 Before them rose : but nearer at their left, 
 Inland with westward channel wound the wave, 
 Changed to sea-lake. Nine miles with chant and hymn 
 They tracked the gold path of the sinking sun ; 
 Then, southward, varying with the varying breeze, 
 Ran up a bay 'twixt headland and green isle, 
 And landed. Dewy pastures sunset-dazed, 
 At leisure paced by mild-eyed milk-white kine, 
 Smiled them a welcome. Onward moved in sight 
 Swiftly, with shadow far before him cast, 
 Dichu, that region's lord, a martial man 
 And merry, and a speaker of the truth. 
 Pirates he deemed them first, and toward them faced 
 With wolf-hounds twain that watched their master's eye 
 To spring, or not to spring. The imperious face 
 Forbidding not, they sprang : but Patrick raised 
 His hand, and stone-like crouched they, chained and still 
 Then, Dichu onward striding fierce, the Saint 
 Between them signed the Cross ; and lo, the sword 
 Froze in his hand ; and Dichu stood like stone. 
 The amazement past, he prayed the man of God 
 His house to grace ; and, side by side, a mile 
 The hills they clomb. Ascending, Patrick turned, 
 His heart with prescience filled. Beneath, there lay 
 A gleaming strait ; beyond, a dim vast plain 
 With many an inlet pierced : a golden marge 
 Girdled the water-tongues with flag and reed ; 
 
The Disbelief of Mile ho. < 
 
 But, far diffused, a gentle sea-mist changed 
 
 The fair green flats to purple. * Night comes on ; ' 
 
 Thus Dichu spake, and waited. Patrick then 
 
 Advanced once more, and Sabhall soon was reached, 
 
 A castle half, half barn. There garnered lay 
 
 Much grain, and sun-imbrowned : and Patrick said, 
 
 ' Here where the earthly grain was stored for man 
 
 The bread of angels man shall eat one day/ 
 
 And Patrick loved that place, and Patrick said, 
 
 ' King Dichu, give thou to the poor that grain, 
 
 To Christ, our Lord, thy barn.' The strong man stood 
 
 In doubt ; but prayers of little orphaned babes 
 
 Whom he had saved, went up for him that hour : 
 
 Therefore that barn he gave ; and unto Christ 
 
 By Patrick was baptized. Where lay the corn 
 
 A convent later rose. There many a year 
 
 Contemplative the Saint abode : and oft 
 
 Beneath his sheltering roof the stranger dwelt, 
 
 Exile, or kingdom-wearied king, or bard, 
 
 That haply blind in age, yet tempest-rocked 
 
 By memories of departed glories, drew 
 
 With gradual influx into his old heart 
 
 Solace of Christian hope. 
 
 With Dichu dwelt 
 
 Patrick somewhile, intent from him to learn 
 The inmost of that people. Oft they spake 
 
i o The Disbelief of Milcko. 
 
 Of Milcho. c Once his thrall, against my will, 
 
 In earthly things I served him : for his soul 
 
 Needs therefore must I labour. Hard was he ; 
 
 Unlike those hearts to which the Truth makes way 
 
 Like message from a mother in her grave. 
 
 Yet what I can I must. Not heaven itself 
 
 Can force belief; for Faith is still good will.' 
 
 Loud Dichu laughed : ' Good will ! Milcho's good will ! 
 
 Neither to others, nor himself, good will 
 
 Hath Milcho ! Fireless sits he, winter through, 
 
 The logs beside his hearth : and as on them 
 
 Glimmers the rime, so glimmers on his face 
 
 The smile. Convert him ! Better far to hang him ! 
 
 Baptize him ! He will film your font with ice ! 
 
 The cold of Milcho's heart has winter-nipt 
 
 That glen he dwells in ! From the sea it slopes 
 
 Unfinished, savage, like some nightmare dream, 
 
 Raked by an endless east wind of its own. 
 
 On wolfs milk was he suckled, not on woman's ! 
 
 To Milcho speed ! Of Milcho claim belief ! 
 
 Milcho will shrivel his small eye and say 
 
 He scorns to trust himself his father's son, 
 
 Nor deems his lands his own by right of race, 
 
 But clutched by stress of brain ! Old.Milcho's God 
 
 Is gold. Forbear him, sir, or ere you seek him 
 
 Make smooth your way with gold.' 
 
The Disbelief of Mile ho. 1 1 
 
 Tims Dichu spake ; 
 
 And Patrick, after musings long, replied : 
 * Faith is no gift that gold begets or feeds, 
 More oft by gold extinguished. Unto God, 
 Unbribed, unpurchased, yearns the soul of man ; 
 Yet finds perforce in God his great reward. 
 Not less this Milcho deems I did him wrong, 
 His bond-slave fleeing. To requite that loss 
 Gifts will I send him, first by messengers 
 Ere yet I see his face.' 
 
 Then Patrick sent 
 
 His messengers to Milcho, speaking thus : 
 ' If ill befell thy herds through flight of mine 
 Fourfold that loss requite I, lest for hate 
 Of me, my Master's Word thou disesteem. 
 Likewise I sue thy friendship ; and I come 
 In few days' space, with gift of other gold 
 Than earth conceals, the Tidings of that God 
 Who made all worlds, and late His Face hath shown, 
 Sun-like to man. But thou, rejoice in hope !' 
 
 Thus Patrick, once by man advised in part, 
 Though wont to counsel with his God alone. 
 
 Meantime full many a rumour vague had vexed 
 Milcho much musing. Dealings large had he, 
 
12 The Disbelief of Milcho. 
 
 And distant. Died a chief? He sent and bought 
 
 The widow's all ; or sold on foodless shores 
 
 For usury the leanest of his kine. 
 
 Therefore his dark ships and the populous quays 
 
 With news still murmured. First from Imber Dea 
 
 Came whispers how a sage had landed late, 
 
 And how when Nathi fain had barred his way, 
 
 Nathi that spurned Palladius from the land, 
 
 That sage with levelled eyes, and kingly front 
 
 Had from his presence driven him with a ban 
 
 Cur-like and craven ; and how on bended knee 
 
 Sinell believed, the royal man well-loved 
 
 Descending from the judgment-seat with joy : 
 
 And how when fishermen his brethren's quest 
 
 For food had spurned, that sage had raised his rod, 
 
 And all the silver harvest of the stream 
 
 Lay black in broken nets and sand. His wrinkled brow 
 
 Wrinkling yet more, thus Milcho answer made : 
 
 ' Deceived are those that will to be deceived : 
 
 This knave has heard of gold in river-beds, 
 
 And comes, a deft sand-groper ; let him come ! 
 
 Ten years he'll toil ere gold enough he finds 
 
 To make a crooked torque.' 
 
 From Tara next 
 
 The news : * Laeghaire, the King, in sullen cloud 
 Sits close, or storm-like raves from court to court, 
 
The Disbelief of Mile ho. 1 3 
 
 Because the chiefest of the Druid race 
 
 Locru, and Luchat, prophesied long since 
 
 That one day from the sea a Priest would come 
 
 With doctrine and a rite, and hurl to earth 
 
 Idols, and sceptred monarchs from their thrones ; 
 
 And lo ! At Imber Boindi late there stept 
 
 A Priest from roaring waves with creed and rite, 
 
 And men before him bow.' Then Milcho spake : 
 
 * Not flesh enough from thy strong bones, Laeghaire, 
 
 These Druids, ravens of the woods, have plucked, 
 
 But they must pluck thine eyes ! Ah priestly race, 
 
 I loathe ye ! 'Twixt the People and their King 
 
 A new sore ye would rub ! ' Last came a voice : 
 
 ' This day in Eire thy saying is fulfilled, 
 
 Conn of the " Hundred Battles," from thy throne 
 
 Leaping long since, and crying, ".O'er the sea 
 
 The Prophet cometh, princes in his train, 
 
 Bearing for regal sceptres bended staffs, 
 
 Which from the land's high places, cliff and peak, 
 
 Shall drag the fair flowers down ! " ' Scoffing he heard : 
 
 ' Conn of the " Hundred Battles " ! Had he sent 
 
 His nation-quelling hordes to yonder steep 
 
 And rolled its boulders down, and built a mole 
 
 To fence my laden ships from spring-tide surge, 
 
 Far kinglier pattern had he shown, and given 
 
 More solace to the land.' > 
 
1 4 The Disbelief of Milcho. 
 
 He rose and turned 
 
 With sideway leer ; and printing with vague step 
 Irregular the shining sands, on strode . 
 Toward his cold home, alone ; and saw by chance 
 A little bird light-perched, that, being sick, 
 Plucked from the fissured sea-cliff grains of sand ; 
 And, noting, said, ' O bird, when beak of thine 
 From base to crown this huge cliff hath devoured 
 Then shall that man of creed and rite make null 
 The strong rock of my will ! ' Thus Milcho spake, 
 Feigning the peace not his. 
 
 Next day it chanced 
 
 Women he heard in converse. Thus the first : 
 ' If true the news, good speed for him, my boy ! 
 Poor slaves by Milcho scourged on earth shall wear 
 One day a monarch's crown ! Good speed for her 
 His little sister, not reserved like us 
 Under these loads to bend. ' To whom her mate : 
 ' Doubt not the prophet's tidings ! Not in vain 
 The Power Unknown hath made us ! Come He must, 
 Or send, and help His people on their way.' 
 They passed, and Milcho said, ' Through hate of me 
 All men believe ! ' And straightway Milcho's face 
 Grew bleaker than that crab-tree stem forlorn 
 That hid him, wanner than sea-sand that, wet, 
 Whitens around the foot down-pressed. 
 
 Time passed : 
 
The Disbelief of Mile ho. 1 5 
 
 One morn in bitter mockery Milcho mused : 
 
 * What better laughter than when thief from thief 
 
 Pilfers the pilfered goods ? Our Druid thief 
 
 Two thousand years hath milked and shorn this land ; 
 
 Now comes the thief outlandish that with him 
 
 Milk-pail and fleece would share ! O Bacrach old, 
 
 To hear thee shout " Impostor ! " ' Straight he went 
 
 To Bacrach's cell, hid in a skirt wind-shav'n 
 
 Of low grown wood, and met, departing thence, 
 
 Three sailors recent from a ship late-beached. 
 
 Within a corner huddled, on the floor, 
 
 The Druid sat, cowering, and cold, and mazed : 
 
 Sudden he rose, and cried, with conquering joy 
 
 Clothed as with youth restored : ' The God Unknown, 
 
 That God who all things made, hath walked the earth ! 
 
 This hour His Prophet treads the. isle ! Three men 
 
 Have seen him ; and their speech is true. To them 
 
 That Prophet spake : " Four hundred years ago, 
 
 Sinless God's Son on earth for sinners died : 
 
 Black grew the world, and graves gave up their dead." 
 
 Thus spake the Seer. Four hundred years ago ! 
 
 Mark well the time ! Of Ulster's Druid race 
 
 What man but yearly, those four hundred years, 
 
 Trembled that tale recounting which with this 
 
 Tallies as footprint with the foot of man ? 
 
 Four hundred years ago that self-same day 
 
1 6 The Disbelief of Mile ho. 
 
 Connor, the son of Nessa, Ulster's King, 
 
 Sat throned, his people judging. As he sat, 
 
 Under clear skies, behold, o'er all the earth 
 
 Swept a great shadow from the windless east ; 
 
 And darkness hung upon the air three hours ; 
 
 Dead fell the birds, and beasts astonished fled. 
 
 Then to his Chief of Druids, Connor spake 
 
 Whispering ; and he, his oracles searched out, 
 
 Shivering made answer, " From a land accursed, 
 
 O King, that shadow sweeps ; therein, this hour, 
 
 By sinful men sinless God's Son is slain." 
 
 Then Ulster's king, down-dashing sceptre and crown, 
 
 Rose, clamouring, " Sinless ! shall the sinless die ? " 
 
 And madness fell on him ; and down that steep 
 
 He rushed whereon the Emanian Palace stood, 
 
 And reached the grove, Lambraidhe, with two swords, 
 
 The sword of battle, and the sword of state, 
 
 And hewed and hewed, crying " Were I but there 
 
 Thus they should fall that Sinless One who slay ; " 
 
 And in that madness died. The men of Eire 
 
 This thing beheld ; nor ever in the land 
 
 Hath ceased the rumour, nor the tear for him 
 
 Who, wroth at justice trampled, martyr died. 
 
 And now we know that not for any dream 
 
 He died, but for the Truth : and whensoe'er 
 
 The Prophet of that Son of God who died 
 
The Disbelief of Mile ho. 1 7 
 
 Sinless for sinners, standeth in this place, 
 
 I, Bacrach, oldest Druid in this Isle, 
 
 Will rise the first, and kiss his vesture's hem.' 
 
 He spake ; and Milcho heard, and without speech 
 Departed from that house. 
 
 A later day 
 
 When the cold March sunset, gone almost ere come, 
 By glacial shower was hustled out of life, , 
 
 Under a blighted ash tree, near his house, 
 Thus mused the man : ' Believe, or Disbelieve ! 
 The will does both ! Then idiot who would be 
 For profitless belief to sell himself? 
 Yet disbelief not less might work our bane ! 
 For, I remember, once a sickly slave 
 111 shepherded my flock : I spake him plain ; 
 " When next, through fault of thine, the midnight wolf 
 Worries a sheep, on yonder tree you hang : " 
 The blear-eyed idiot looked into my face, 
 And smiled his disbelief. On that day week 
 Two lambs lay dead. I hanged him on a tree. 
 What tree ? this tree ! Why, this is passing strange ! 
 For, three nights since, I saw him in a dream : 
 Weakling as wont he stood beside my bed, 
 And, clutching at his wrenched and livid throat, 
 Spake thus, "Belief is safest.""' 
 
 c 
 
1 8 The Disbelief of Mikho. 
 
 Ceased the hail 
 
 To rattle on the ever barren boughs, 
 And friendlier sound was heard. Beside his door 
 Wayworn the messengers of Patrick stood, 
 And showed the gifts, and held his letter forth. 
 Then learned that lost one all the truth. That sage 
 By miracles confessed, that prophet vouched 
 By warnings old, that seer, by words of might 
 Subduing all things to himself that priest, 
 None other was than the uncomplaining slave 
 Five years by him afflicted ! In him rage 
 Burst forth, with fear commixed, as when a beast 
 Strains in the toils. * Can I alone stand firm ?' 
 He mused ; and then, ' Shall I, in mine old age 
 Byeword become the vassal of my slave ? 
 Shall I not rather drive him from my door 
 With wolf hounds and a curse ? ' As thus he stood 
 The gifts he marked, and bade men bear them in, 
 And homeward sent the messengers unfed. 
 
 But Milcho slept not all that night for thought, 
 And, forth ere sunrise issuing, paced a moor 
 Stone-roughened like the grave-yard of dead hosts, 
 Till noontide. Sudden then he stopt, and thus 
 Discoursed within ; ' A plot from first to last, 
 The fraudulent bondage, flight, and late return ! 
 
The Disbelief of Milcho. 1 9 
 
 For now I mind me of a foolish dream 
 Chance-sent, yet drawn by him awry. One night 
 Methought from rainy hills into my hall 
 Entered that boy, all fire. From hands and head, 
 From hair and mouth, forth rushed a flaming fire 
 White, like white light, and still the mighty flame 
 Into itself took all. With hands outstretched 
 I spurned it. On my cradled daughters twain 
 It turned, and they were ashes. Then in burst 
 The south wind through the portals of the house, 
 Tempest rose-sweet, and blew those ashes forth 
 Wide as the realm. At dawn I sent, and thus 
 That knave my vision glossed. " That fire is Faith 
 Faith in the God Triune, the God made Man, 
 Sole light wherein I walk, and walking burn ; 
 And they that walk with me shall -burn like me 
 By Faith. But thou that radiance wilt repel, 
 Housed through ill-will, in Error's endless night. 
 Not less thy little daughters shall believe 
 With glory and great joy : and, when they die, 
 Report of them, like ashes blown abroad, 
 Shall light far lands, and health to men of Faith 
 Stream from their dust." I drave the impostor forth: 
 Perjured ere long he fled, and now returns 
 To reap the air-sown harvest of a dream' 
 Thus mused he, while black shadow swept the moor. 
 
 c 2 
 
2O The Disbelief of Mile Jw. 
 
 So day by day darker was Milcho's heart, 
 Till, with the endless brooding on one thought, 
 Began a little flaw within that brain 
 For solid strength his boast. Was no friend nigh ? 
 Alas ! what friend had he ? All men he scorned ; 
 None truly knew. In each, the best and sweetest 
 Near him had ever pined, like stunted growth 
 By breath of glacier dwarfed. The fifth day dawned ; 
 And inly thus he muttered, darkly pale. 
 * Five days : in three the messengers returned : 
 In three in two the Accursed will be here, 
 Or blacken yonder Sleemish with his crew 
 Descending. Then those idiots, kerne and slave, 
 (The mighty flame into itself takes all) 
 Full swarm will fly to meet him ! Fool ! fool ! fool ! 
 The man hath snared me with those gifts he sent ; 
 Flse had I barred the mountains : now too late, 
 My people in revolt. Whole weeks that horde 
 Will throng my courts, demanding board and bed, 
 With hosts by Dichu sent my pang to flout, 
 And sorer make my charge. My granaries sacked, 
 My larder lean as ship for six months starved, 
 The man I hate will rise, and open shake 
 The invincible banner of his mad new Faith, 
 Till all that hear him shout, like winds or waves, 
 Belief, and I be left sole recusant ; 
 
The Disbelief of Mile ho. 2 1 
 
 Or else perhaps that Fury who prevails 
 At times o'er knee-joints of reluctant men, 
 By magic imped, may crumble into dust 
 By force my disbelief.' 
 
 His head he raised, 
 
 And lo, before him lay the sea, far ebbed, 
 Sad with a sunset all but gone : the reeds 
 Sighed in the wind, and sighed a sweeter voice 
 Oft heard in childhood now the last time heard : 
 ' Believe ! ' it whispered. Vain the voice ! That hour, 
 Stirred from the abyss, the sins of all his life 
 Around him rose like night not one, but all 
 That earliest sin which, like a dagger, pierced 
 His mother's heart ; that worst, when summer drouth 
 Parched the brown vales, and infants thirsting died, 
 While from full pail he gorged his swine with milk, 
 And flung the rest away. Sin-walled he stood : 
 God's Angels could not pierce that cincture dread, 
 Nor he look through it. Yet he dreamed he saw. 
 His life he saw ; its labours, and its gains ; 
 The manifold conquests of a Will oft tried ; 
 Victory, Defeat, Retrieval : last, that scene 
 Around him spread ; the wan sea and grey rocks ; 
 And now well knew he that on that same ledge 
 He, Milcho, thirty years gone by, had stood, 
 While pirates pushed to sea, upon that shore 
 
2 2 The Disbelief of Mile ho. 
 
 Leaving their spoil a scared and weeping boy, 
 (His price two yearling kids and half a sheep) 
 Thenceforth his slave. 
 
 Not sole he mused that hour. 
 The Demon of his House beside him stood 
 Upon that iron coast, and whispered thus ; 
 ' Masterful man art thou for wit and strength ; 
 Yet girl-like standst thou brooding ! Weave a snare! 
 For gold he comes this prophet All thou hast 
 Heap in thy house ; then fire it! In far lands 
 Make thee new fortunes. Frustrate thus shall he 
 On ruins stare, his destined vassal scaped.' 
 
 So fell the whisper ; and as one who hears 
 
 And does, the stiff-necked man obsequious bent 
 
 His strong will to a stronger, and returned, 
 
 And gave command, from barn and anchored ship 
 
 His stored up wealth, yea, all things that were his, 
 
 To heap within his castle. It was done. 
 
 Then filled he his huge hall with resinous beams 
 
 Seasoned for far sea-voyage, and the ribs 
 
 Of ocean-cleaving vessels deep in sea ; 
 
 Which ended, to his topmost tower he clomb, 
 
 And therein sat two days, with face to south, 
 
 Clutching a brand ; and oft through clenched teeth 
 
 Hissed out, ' Because I will to disbelieve.' 
 
The Disbelief of Milcho. 23 
 
 But ere the second sunset two brief hours, 
 Where comfortless leaned forth that western ridge 
 Long patched with whiteness by half melted snows, 
 There crept a gradual shadow. Soon the man 
 Discerned its import. There they hung he saw them 
 That company detested ; hung as when 
 Storm-boding cloud on mountain hangs half way 
 Scarce moving, and in fear the shepherd cries, 
 ' Would that the worst were come ! ' So dread to him 
 Those Heralds of fair Peace ! He gazed upon them, 
 With blood-shot eyes : then in a moment stood 
 Sole in his never festal hall, and flung 
 His lighted brand into that pile far forth, 
 And issuing faced the circle of his serfs 
 That, wondering, gathered round in thickening mass, 
 Eyeing that unloved House. 
 
 His place he chose 
 
 Beside that blighted ash, fronting those towers 
 Palled with red smoke, and muttered low, ' So be it! 
 Worse to be vassal to the man I hate,' 
 With hueless lips. His whole white face that hour 
 Was scorched ; and blistered was the dead tree's bark ; 
 Yet there he stood ; and in that fiery light 
 His life, no more triumphant, passed once more 
 In underthought before him, while on spread 
 The swift, contagious madness of that fire, 
 
2 4 The Disbelief of Mile ho. 
 
 And muttered thus, not knowing it, the man, 
 
 ' The mighty flame into itself takes all/ 
 
 Mechanic iteration. Not alone 
 
 Stood he that hour. The Demon of his House 
 
 By him once more and closer than of old, 
 
 Stood, whispering thus, ' Thy game is now played out ; 
 
 Henceforth a byeword art thou rich in youth 
 
 Self-beggared in old age/ And as the wind 
 
 Of that shrill whisper cut his listening soul, 
 
 The blazing roof fell in on all his wealth, 
 
 And, loud as laughter from ten thousand fiends, 
 
 Up rushed the fire. With arms outstretched he stood ; 
 
 Stood firm ; then forward with a wild beast's cry 
 
 He dashed himself into that raging flame, 
 
 And vanished as a leaf. 
 
 Upon a spur 
 
 Of Sleemish, eastward on its northern slope, 
 Stood Patrick and his Brethren, travel-worn, 
 When distant o'er the brown and billowy moor 
 Rose the white smoke, that changed ere long to flame, 
 From site unknown ; for by the seaward crest 
 That keep lay hidden. Hands to forehead raised, 
 Wondering they watched it. One to other spake ; 
 ' The huge Dalriad forest is afire 
 Ere melted winter's snows ! ' Another thus, 
 ' In vengeance o'er the ocean Creithe or Pict, 
 Favoured by magic, or by mist, have crossed, 
 
The Disbelief of Mile ho. 2 5 
 
 And fired old Milcho's ships.' But Patrick leaned 
 
 Upon his crosier, pale as the ashes wan 
 
 Left by a burned out city. Long he stood 
 
 Silent, till, sudden, fiercelier soared the flame 
 
 Reddening the edges of a cloud low hung : 
 
 And, after pause, vibration slow and stern, 
 
 Troubling the burthened bosom of the air, 
 
 Upon a long surge of the northern wind 
 
 Came up, a murmur as of wintry seas 
 
 Far borne at night. All heard that sound ; all felt it ; 
 
 One only knew its import. Patrick turned 
 
 1 The deed is done : the man I would have saved 
 
 Is dead ; because he willed to disbelieve/ 
 
 Yet Patrick grieved for Milcho, nor that hour 
 Passed further north. Three days on Sleemish hill 
 He dwelt in prayer. To Tara's royal halls 
 Then turned he, and the Royal House and Host 
 Subdued to Christ, save Erin's King, Laeghaire. 
 
 And Milcho's daughters twain to Christ were born 
 
 In Baptism, and each Emeria named : 
 
 Like rose-trees in the garden of the Lord 
 
 Grew they and flourished. Dying young, one grave 
 
 Received them at Cluainbrain. Healing thence 
 
 To many from their relics past ; to more 
 
 The spirit's happier healing, Love and Faith. 
 
26 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AT TAR A. 
 
 THE King is wroth with a greater wrath 
 
 Than the wrath of Nial or the wrath of Conn ! 
 
 From his heart to his brow the blood makes path, 
 And hangs there, a red cloud, beneath his crown. 
 
 Is there any who knows not, from south to north, 
 That Laeghaire to-morrow his birthday keeps ? 
 No fire may be lit upon hill or hearth 
 Till the King's strong fire in its kingly mirth 
 Up rushes from Tara's palace steeps ! 
 
 Yet Patrick has lighted his Paschal fire 
 
 At Slane it is holy Saturday 
 And bless'd his font 'mid the chaunting choir ! 
 
 From hill to hill the flame makes way. 
 While the King looks on it his eyes with ire 
 
 Flash red, like Mars, under tresses grey. 
 
Saint Patrick at Tara. 2 7 
 
 The great King's captains with drawn swords rose : 
 
 To avenge their Lord and the State they swore ; 
 
 The Druids rose and their garments tore ; 
 ' The strangers to us and our Gods are foes ! ' 
 Then the King to Patrick a herald sent, 
 
 Who said, * Come up at noon, and show 
 Who lit thy fire, and with what intent? 
 
 These things the great King Laeghaire would know.' 
 
 But Laeghaire had hid twelve men by the way, 
 W T ho swore by the sun the Saint to slay. 
 
 When the waters of Boyne began to bask 
 
 And fields to flash in the rising sun 
 The Apostle Evangelist kept his Pasch, 
 
 And Erin her grace baptismal won : 
 Her birthday it was : his font the rock, 
 He bless'd the land, and he bless'd his flock. 
 
 Then forth to Tara he fared full lowly : 
 
 The Staff of Jesus was in his hand : 
 Twelve priests paced after him chaunting slowly, 
 
 Printing their steps on the dewy land. 
 It was the Resurrection morn ; 
 The lark sang loud o'er the springing corn ; 
 The dove was heard, and the hunter's horn. 
 
28 Saint Patrick at Tar a. 
 
 The murderers stood close by on the way ; 
 Yet they saw nought save the lambs at play. 
 
 A trouble lurk'd in the King's strong eye 
 When the guest he counted for dead drew nigh. 
 He sate in state at his palace gate ; 
 
 His chiefs and nobles were ranged around ; 
 The Druids like ravens smelt some far fate ; 
 
 Their eyes were gloomily bent on the ground. 
 Then spake Laeghaire : ' He comes beware ! 
 1 Let none salute him, or rise from his chair ! ' 
 
 Like some still vision men see by night, 
 Mitred, with eyes of serene command, 
 Saint Patrick moved onward in ghostly white : 
 
 The Staff of Jesus was in his hand. 
 His priests paced after him unafraid, 
 And the boy, Benignus, more like a maid ; 
 Like a maid just wedded he walked and smiled, 
 To Christ new plighted, that priestly child. 
 
 They enter'd the circle ; their hymn they ceased ; 
 
 The Druids their eyes bent earthward still : 
 On Patrick's brow the glory increased, 
 
 As a sunrise brightening some breathless hill. 
 The warriors sat silent : strange awe they felt : 
 The chief bard, Dubtach, rose and knelt ! 
 
Saint Patrick at Tar a. 29 
 
 Then Patrick discoursed of the things to be 
 When time gives way to eternity, 
 Of kingdoms that fall, which are dreams not things, 
 And the Kingdom built by the King of kings. 
 Of Him he spake who reigns from the Cross ; 
 Of the death which is life, and the life which is loss ; 
 How all things were made by the Infant Lord, 
 And the small hand the Magian kings adored. 
 His voice sounded on like a throbbing flood 
 That swells all night from some far-off wood, 
 And when it was ended that wondrous strain 
 Invisible myriads breathed ' Amen ! ' 
 
 While he spake, men say that the refluent tide 
 
 On the shore by Colpa ceased to sink ; 
 They say the white deer by Mulla's side 
 
 O'er the green marge bending forbore to drink : 
 That the Brandon eagle forgat to soar ; 
 
 That no leaf stirr'd in the wood by Lee. 
 Such stupor hung the island o'er, 
 
 For none might guess what the end would be. 
 
 Then whisper'd the King to a chief close by, 
 ' It were better for me to believe than die ! ' 
 
 Yet the King believed not ; but ordinance gave 
 That whoso would mighf believe that word : 
 
30 Saint Patrick at Tara. 
 
 So the meek believed, and the wise, and brave, 
 
 And Mary's Son as their God adored. " 
 And the Druids, because they could answer nought, 
 Bow'd down to the Faith the stranger brought. 
 That day upon Erin God pour'd His Spirit 
 Yet none like the chief of the Bards had merit, 
 Dubtach ! He rose and believed the first, 
 Ere the great light yet on the rest had burst. 
 
THE STRIVING OF SAINT PATRICK ON 
 MOUNT CRUACHAN. 
 
 A YEAR and more had Patrick trod the Isle ; 
 
 And evermore God's work beneath his hand, 
 
 Since God had blessed that hand, ran out full-spherecl, 
 
 And brighter than a new-created star. 
 
 The Island race, in feud of clan with clan 
 
 Barbaric, gracious else, and high of heart, 
 
 Nor worshippers of self, nor dulled through sense, 
 
 Beholding, not alone his wondrous works, 
 
 But, wondrous more, the sweetness of his strength, 
 
 And how he neither shrank from flood nor fire, 
 
 And how he couched him on the wintry rocks, 
 
 And how he sang great hymns to One who heard, 
 
 And how he cared for poor men and the sick, 
 
 And for the souls invisible of men, 
 
 To him made way not simple hinds alone, 
 
 But chiefly wisest heads (for wisdom then 
 
 Prime wisdom saw in Faith) and, mixt with these, 
 
 Chieftains and sceptred kings. Nigh Tara, first, 
 
32 The Striving of 
 
 Scorning the King's command, had Patrick lit 
 
 His Paschal fire, and heavenward as it soared, 
 
 The royal fire, and all the Beltaine fires, 
 
 Shamed by its beam, had withered round the Isle 
 
 Like fires on little hearths, whereon the sun 
 
 Looks in his greatness. Later, to that pfein, 
 
 Central 'mid Eire, ' of Adoration ' named, 
 
 Down-trampled for two thousand years and more 
 
 By erring feet, in Apostolic might 
 
 The Saint had sped, and from the river kenned, 
 
 IM-pleased, the nation's idol lifting high 
 
 His head, and those twelve vassal gods around, 
 
 All mailed in gold and shining as the sun, 
 
 A pomp impure. Ill-pleased the Saint had seen them, 
 
 And raised the Staff of Jesus with a ban : 
 
 Then He, that demon, named of men Crom-dubh, 
 
 With all his vassal gods, into the earth 
 
 That knew her Maker, to their necks had sunk, 
 
 While round the island rang three times the cry 
 
 Of fiends tormented. 
 
 Not for this as yet 
 
 His strength had Patrick perfected : as yet 
 The depths he had not trodden ; nor had God 
 Drawn forth His total forces in the man 
 Hidden long since and sealed. For this cause he, 
 Who still his own heart in triumphant hour 
 
Saint Patrick on Mount Cruachan. 33 
 
 Suspected most, fearing lest spleen of pride, 
 
 Or aim not singly Godward, mar God's work, 
 
 And likewise from his handling of the Gael, 
 
 Knowing not less their weakness than their strength, 
 
 Paused on his conquering way, and lonely sat 
 
 In cloud of thought. His second Lent had come : 
 
 Its first three days went by; the fourth he rose, 
 
 And meeting his disciples that drew nigh 
 
 Vouchsafed this greeting only, ' Bide ye here 
 
 Till I return,' and straightway set his face 
 
 Alone to that great hill ' of eagles ' named, 
 
 Huge Cruachan, that o'er the western deep 
 
 Hung through sea-mist, with shadowing crag on crag, 
 
 High-ridged, and endless forest long since dead. 
 
 That forest reached, the angel of the Lord 
 Beside him, as he entered, stood and spake : 
 1 The gifts thy soul demands, demand them not ; 
 For they are mighty and immeasurable, 
 And over great for granting.' And the Saint, 
 ' This mountain Cruachan I will not leave 
 Alive till all be granted, to the last.' 
 
 Then knelt he on the clouded mountain's base, 
 And was in prayer ; and, wrestling with the Lord, 
 Demanded wondrous things immeasurable, 
 
34 The Striving of 
 
 Not easy to be granted, for the land ; 
 
 Xor brooked repulse ; and when repulse there came, 
 
 Repulse that quells the weak and crowns the strong, 
 
 Forth from its gloom like lightning on him flashed 
 
 Intelligential gleam and insight winged 
 
 That plainlier showed him all his people's heart, 
 
 And all the wound thereof : and as in depth 
 
 Knowledge descended, so in height his prayer 
 
 Rose, and far spread ; nor roused alone those Powers 
 
 Regioned with God ; for as the strength of fire, 
 
 When flames some palace pile, or city vast, 
 
 Wakens a tempest round it, dragging in 
 
 W'ild blast, and from the aggression mightier grows, 
 
 So wakened Patrick's prayer the demon race, 
 
 And drew their legions in upon his soul 
 
 From near and far. First came the Accursed encamped 
 
 On Connact's cloudy hills and watery moors ; 
 
 Old Umbhall's Heads, lorras, and Arran Isle, 
 
 And where Tyrawley clasps that sea-girt wood 
 
 Fochlut, whence earlier rang the children's cry 
 
 To demons' trump of doom. In stormy rack 
 
 They came, and hung above the invested mount 
 
 Expectant. But, their mutterings heeding not, 
 
 When Patrick still in puissance rose of prayer, 
 
 O'er all their armies prescience ran of fate, 
 
 Around the realm dispersed ; and, north and south, 
 
 From all the mountain-girdled coasts) for still 
 
Saint Patrick on Mount Cruachan. 35 
 
 Best site attracts worst Spirit) on they came, 
 
 From Aileach's shore and Uladh's hoary cliffs, 
 
 Which held the aeries of that eagle race 
 
 More late in Alba throned, ' Lords of the Isles/ 
 
 High chiefs whose bards, in strong transmitted line, 
 
 Filled with the name of Fionn, and thine, Oisin, 
 
 The blue glens of that never-vanquished land. 
 
 From those purpureal mountains that o'ergaze 
 
 Rock-bowered Loch Lene broidered with sanguine bead, 
 
 They came, and many a ridge o'er sea- lake stretched 
 
 That, autumn-robed in purple and in gold, 
 
 Pontinc vestment, still the memories guard 
 
 Of monks who reared thereon their mystic cells, 
 
 Finian and Kieran, Fiacre and Enda him 
 
 Of hermits sire, and that sea-facing Saint 
 
 Brendan, who, in his wicker boat of skins, 
 
 Before the Genoese a thousand years, 
 
 Found a new world ; and many more that now r 
 
 Under \vind-wasted Cross of Clonmacnoise 
 
 Await the day of Christ. 
 
 So rushed they on 
 
 From all sides, and, close met, in circling storm 
 Besieged the enclouded steep of Cruachan, 
 That scarce the difference knew 'twixt night and day 
 More than the sunless pole. Him sought they, him 
 Whom infinitely near they nlight approach, 
 
 D 2 
 
36 The Striving of 
 
 Not touch, while firm his faith their Foe that dragg'd 
 
 With both hands forth their realm's foundation stone, 
 
 Sole-kneeling on that wood-girt mountain's base. 
 
 Thus ruin filled the mountain : day by day 
 
 The forest torment deepened ; louder roared 
 
 The great aisles of the devastated woods ; 
 
 Black cave replied to cave ; and oaks, whole ranks, 
 
 Colossal growth of immeniorial years, 
 
 Sown ere Milesius landed, or that race 
 
 He vanquished, or that earliest Scythian tribe, 
 
 Fell in long line, like deep-mined castle wall, 
 
 At either side God's warrior. Slowly died 
 
 At last, far echoed in remote ravine, 
 
 The thunder : then crept forth a little voice 
 
 That shrilly whisper'd to him thus in scorn ; 
 
 'Two thousand years yon race hath walked in blood 
 
 Neck-deep ; and shall it serve thy Lord of Peace ? ' 
 
 That whisper ceased. Again from all sides burst 
 
 Tenfold the storm ; and as it waxed, the Saint 
 
 Waxed in strong heart; and, kneeling with stretched hands, 
 
 Made for himself a panoply of prayer, 
 
 And bound it round his bosom twice and thrice, 
 
 And made a sword of comminating psalm, 
 
 And smote at them that mocked him. Day by day, 
 
 Till now the second Sunday's vesper bell 
 
 Gladdened the little churches round the isle, 
 
Saint Patrick on Mount Cruachan. 3 7 
 
 That conflict raged : then, maddening in their ire, 
 Sudden the Princedoms of the dark, that rode 
 This way and that way through the tempest, brake 
 Their sceptres, and with one great cry it fell : 
 At once o'er all was silence : sunset lit 
 The world, that shone as though with face upturned 
 It gazed on heavens by angel faces thronged, 
 And answered light with light. A single bird 
 Carolled ; and from the forest skirt down fell, 
 Gem-like, the last drops of the exhausted storm. 
 
 Then bowed the Saint his forehead to the ground 
 Thanking his God ; and there in sacred trance, 
 Which was not sleep, abode, not hours alone, 
 But silent nights and days ; and, 'mid that trance, 
 God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments, 
 Immortal food. Awaking, Patrick felt 
 Yearnings for nearer commune with his God, 
 Though great its cost ; and gat him on his feet, 
 And, mile by mile, ascended through the woods 
 Till stunted were its growths ; and still he clomb, 
 Printing with sandall'd foot the dewy steep : 
 But when above the mountain rose the moon, 
 Brightening each mist, while sank in double night 
 The prone morass, he came upon a stone 
 Tomb-shaped, that flecked the steep : . a little stream 
 
38 The Striving of 
 
 Dropp'd by it from the summits to the woods : 
 Thereon he knelt ; and was once more in prayer. 
 
 Nor prayed unnoticed by that race abhorred. 
 No sooner had his knees the mountain touched 
 Than through their realm vibration went ; and straight, 
 His prayer detecting, back they trooped in clouds, 
 And o'er him closed, blotting with bat-like wing 
 And inky pall, the moon. Then thunder pealed 
 Once more, nor ceased from pealing. Over all 
 Night ruled, except when blue and forked flash 
 Revealed the on-circling waterspout, or plunge 
 Of rain beneath the blown cloud's ravell'd hem, 
 Or, huge on high, that lion-coloured steep 
 Which, like a lion, roared into the night, 
 Answering the roaring from sea-caves far down. 
 Dire was the strife. That hour the Mountain old, 
 An anarch throned 'mid ruins, flung himself 
 In madness forth on all his winds and floods, 
 An omnipresent wrath ! For God reserved, 
 Too long the prey of demons he had been ; 
 Possession foul and fell. Now nigh expelled 
 Those demons rent their victim freed. Aloft, 
 They burst the rocky barrier of the tarn 
 That downward dashed its countless cataracts, 
 Drowning far vales. On either side the Saint t 
 
Saint Patrick on Mount Cruachan. 39 
 
 A torrent rushed mightiest of all these twain 
 
 Peeling the softer substance from the hills, 
 
 Then- flesh, till glared, deep-trenched, the mountain's 
 
 bones ; 
 
 And as those torrents widened, rocks down rolled, 
 Showering upon that unsubverted head 
 Their spray ice-cold. Before him closed the flood, 
 And closed behind, till all was raging flood, 
 All but that tomb-like stone whereon he knelt. 
 
 Unshaken there he knelt with hands outstretched, 
 
 God's Athlete I For a mighty prize he strove ; 
 
 Nor slacked, nor any whit his forehead bowed : 
 
 Fixed was his eye and keen ; the whole pale face 
 
 Keen as that eye itself, though, shapeless yet, 
 
 The infernal horde to ear not eye addressed 
 
 Their battle. Back he drave them, rank on rank, 
 
 Routed, with psalm, and malison, and ban, 
 
 As from a sling flung forth. Revolt's blind spawn 
 
 He named them ; one time Spirits, now linked with brute, 
 
 Yea, bestial more and baser ; and as a ship 
 
 Mounts with the mounting of the wave, so he 
 
 O'er all the insurgent tempest of their wrath 
 
 Rode on triumphant. Days went by, and nights ; 
 
 Then came a lull ; and lo ! a whisper shrill, 
 
 Once heard before, again its poison cold 
 
4O The Striving of 
 
 Distilled ; ' Albeit to Christ this land should bow, 
 Some conqueror's foot one day her faith would quell.' 
 It ceased. Tenfold once more the storm burst forth : 
 Once more the ecstatic passion of his prayer 
 Met it, and, breasting, overbore, until 
 Sudden the Princedoms of the night that rode 
 This way and that way through the whirlwind, dashed 
 Their vanquished crowns of darkness to the ground 
 With one long cry. Then silence came ; and lo ! 
 The white dawn of the fourth fair Saturday 
 O'erflowed the world. Slowly the Saint upraised 
 His weary eyes. Upon the mountain lawns 
 Lay happy lights ; and birds sang ; and a stream 
 That any five-years' child might overleap, 
 Beside him lapsed crystalline between banks 
 With violets all empurpled, and smooth marge 
 Green as that spray which earliest sucks the spring. 
 
 Then Patrick raised to God his orison 
 On that fair mount, and planted in the grass 
 His crosier staff, and slept ; and in his sleep 
 God fed his heart with unseen sacraments, 
 Manna of might divine. Three days he slept ; 
 The fourth he woke. Upon his heart there rushed 
 Yearning for closer converse with his God 
 Though great the cost ; and on his feet he gat 
 
Saint Patrick on Mount Cruachan. 41 
 
 And high, and higher yet, that mountain scaled, 
 And reached at noon the summit. Far below 
 Basking the island lay, through rainbow shower 
 Gleaming in part, and shadowy moor, and ridge 
 Blue in the distance looming. Westward stretched 
 Infinite sea, with sacred light ablaze, 
 And high o'er head there hung a cloudless heaven. 
 
 Upon that summit kneeling, face to sea 
 
 The Saint, with hands held forth and thanks returned, 
 
 Claimed as his stately heritage that realm 
 
 From north to south : but instant as his lip 
 
 Printed with earliest pulse of Christian prayer 
 
 That clear aerial clime, Pagan till then, 
 
 The Host Accursed, sagacious of his act, 
 
 Rushed back from all the isle, arid round him met 
 
 With anger seven times heated, since their hour 
 
 (And this they knew) was come. Nor thunder din, 
 
 And challenge through the ear alone, sufficed 
 
 That hour their rage malign that, craving sore 
 
 Material bulk, his* bulk to rend their foe's 
 
 Through fleshly strength of that their murder-lust 
 
 Flamed forth in visual form, phantoms night- black, 
 
 Though bodiless, yet to bodied mass as nigh 
 
 As Spirits can reach. More thick than vultures winged 
 
 To' fields with carnage strewn, the Accursed thronged, 
 
42 The Striving of 
 
 Making thick night which neither earth nor sky 
 
 Could pierce, from sense expunged. In phalanx now, 
 
 Anon in breaking legion, or in globe, 
 
 With clang of iron pinion on they rushed 
 
 And spectral dart high-held. Nor quailed the Saint, 
 
 Contending for his people on that mount, 
 
 Nor spared God's foes ; for as old minster towers, 
 
 Besieged by midnight storm, send forth reply 
 
 In storm outrolled of bells, so sent he forth 
 
 Defiance from fierce lip, vindictive chaunt, 
 
 And blight and ban, and maledictive rite 
 
 Potent on face of Spirits impure to raise 
 
 These plague-spots three, Madness, Defeat, Despair ; 
 
 Nor stinted flail of taunt ' When first your coasts 
 
 My pinnace neared, as now upon the hills, 
 
 Hung ye in cloud \ as now, this Cross I raised ; 
 
 Ye fled before it, and again shall fly ! ' 
 
 So hurled he back their squadrons. Day by day 
 
 The hurricanes of war that mountain dinned : 
 
 Till now, on Holy Saturday, that hour 
 
 Returned which maketh glad the Church of God, 
 
 When over Christendom in widowed fanes 
 
 Two days by penance stripped, and dumb, as though 
 
 Some Antichrist had trodd'n them down, once more 
 
 Swells forth amid the new-lit paschal lights 
 
 The ' Gloria in Excelsis : ' sudden then 
 
 Ceased that great conflict, all save one low voice, 
 
Saint Patrick on Mount Cruachan. 43 
 
 Twice heard before, now edged with bitterer scoff, 
 1 That race thou lov'st, though fierce in wrath, is soft : 
 Plenty and peace will melt their faith one day : ' 
 Then with that whisper dying, died the night : 
 Then forth from darkness issued earth and sky : 
 Then fled the phantoms far o'er ocean's wave, 
 Thence to return not till the day of doom. 
 
 But he, their conqueror wept, upon that height 
 Standing ; nor of his victory had he joy, 
 Nor of that jubilant Isle to light restored, 
 Nor of that heaven relit ; so worked that scoff 
 Winged from the abyss ; and ever thus the man 
 With darkness communed, and that poison cold : 
 ' If Faith indeed should flood the land with peace, 
 And peace with gold, and gold the people's heart 
 Corrupt, till Faith one day, through Faith's reward 
 Or die or live diseased, the shame of Faith, 
 Then blacker were this land and more accursed 
 Than lands that knew no Christ.' And musing thus 
 The whole heart of the man was turned to tears, 
 A fount of bale, and chalice brimmed with death, 
 (For oft a barren thought more racks than truth 
 Proven and sure ; ) and, weeping, still he wept 
 
 Till drenched was all his sad monastic cowl 
 
 > 
 
 As sea-weed on the dripping shelf storm-cast 
 Latest, and tremulous still. 
 
44 The Striving of 
 
 As thus he wept 
 
 Sudien, beside him on that summit broad, 
 Ran out a golden beam, like sunset path 
 Gilding the sea : and, turning, by his side, 
 Victor, God's angel, stood with lustrous brow 
 Fresh from that Face no man can see and live. 
 He, putting forth his hand, with living coal 
 Snatched from God's altar, straight that dripping cowl 
 Made dry as Autumn sheaf. The angel spake ; 
 ' Rejoice, for fled are they that hate thy land, 
 And those are nigh that love it.' Then the Saint 
 His head upraised ; and lo ! in snowy sheen 
 Cresting high rock, and ridge, and airy peak, 
 Innumerable the Sons of God all round 
 Vested the invisible mountain with white light, 
 As when the foam-white birds of ocean throng 
 Sea-rock so close that none that rock may ken. 
 In trance the Living Creatures stood, with wings 
 That pointing crossed upon their breasts ; nor seemed 
 As new arrived, but native to that site, 
 Though veiled till now from mortal vision. Song 
 They sang to soothe the vexed heart of the Saint 
 Love-song of Heaven : and slowly as it died 
 Their splendours waned ; and through that vanishing light 
 Earth, sea, and heaven returned. 
 
 To Patrick then, . 
 
Saint Patrick on Mount Cruac/ian. 45 
 
 Thus Victor spake, ' Depart from Cruachan, 
 
 Since God hath given thee wondrous gifts, immense.' 
 
 And Patrick, ' Till the last of all my prayers 
 
 Be granted, I depart not though I die. 
 
 One said, " Too fierce that race to bend to faith." ' 
 
 Then spake God's angel, mild of voice, and kind : 
 
 ' Not all are fierce that fiercest seem, for oft 
 
 Fierceness is blindfold love, or love ajar. 
 
 Souls thou wouldst have : for every hair late wet 
 
 In this thy tearful cowl, and habit drenched, 
 
 God gives thee myriads seven of Souls, from sin 
 
 Redeemed, and doom ; and Souls, beside, as many 
 
 As o'er yon deep in legioned flight might hang 
 
 Far as thine eye can see. But get thee down 
 
 From Cruachan, for mighty is thy prayer.' 
 
 And Patrick answer made, ' Not great thy boon ! 
 
 Watch have I kept, and wearied are mine eyes, 
 
 And dim ; nor see they far o'er yonder deep.' 
 
 And Victor, * Have thou Souls from land to land 
 
 In cloud full-stretched ; but get thee down : this Mount 
 
 God's Altar is, and puissance adds to prayer/ 
 
 And Patrick, ' On this mountain wept have I ; 
 
 And therefore giftless will I not depart : 
 
 One said, " Although that people should believe 
 
 Yet conqueror's heel one day their faith would quell." ' 
 
 To whom the angel, mild of vbice, and kind : 
 
46 The Striving of 
 
 1 Conquerors are they that subjugate the soul : 
 
 This also God concedes thee ; conquering foe 
 
 Trampling this land, shall tread not out her Faith 
 
 Nor sap by fraud, so long as thou in heaven 
 
 Look'st on God's face ; nay, by that Faith subdued, 
 
 That foe shall serve and live. But get thee down 
 
 And worship in the vale/ Then Patrick said, 
 
 * Live they that list ! Full sorely wept have I, 
 
 Nor will I hence depart unsatisfied : 
 
 One said, " Grown soft, that race their Faith will shame ;" 
 
 Say therefore what the Lord thy God will grant, 
 
 Nor stint His hand ; since never scanter grace 
 
 Fell yet on head of nation-taming man 
 
 Than thou to me hast portioned till this hour.' 
 
 Then answer made the angel, soft of voice : 
 
 ' Not all men stumble when a Nation falls ; 
 
 There are that upright stand. God gives thee this : 
 
 They that are faithful to thy Faith, that walk 
 
 Thy way, and keep thy covenant with God, 
 
 And daily sing thy hymn, when cometh the Judge 
 
 With Sign blood-red facing Jehosaphat, 
 
 And fear lays prone the many-mountain ed world, 
 
 The same shall scape the doom.' And Patrick said, 
 
 ' That hymn is long, and hard for simple folk, 
 
 And hard for children.' And the angel thus: 
 
Saint Patrick on Mount Cruachan. 47 
 
 1 At least from " Christum ilium " let them sing, 
 
 And keep thy Faith : when cometh the Judge, the pains 
 
 Shall take not hold of such. Is that enough ? ' 
 
 And Patrick answered, ' That is not enough.' 
 
 Then Victor : ' Likewise this thy God accords : 
 
 The dreadful Coming and the Day of Doom 
 
 Thy land shall see not ; for before that day 
 
 Seven years, a great wave arched from out the deep, 
 
 Ablution pure, shall sweep the isle, and take 
 
 Her children to its peace. Is that enough ? ' 
 
 And Patrick answered, ' That is not enough.' 
 
 Then spake once more that courteous angel kind : 
 
 'What boon demand'st thou ? ' And the Saint, ' No less 
 
 Than this. Though every nation, ere that day, 
 
 Recreant from creed and Christ,, old troth forsworn, 
 
 In pride of life the scandal of the Cross 
 
 Should flee, as once the Apostles fled in fear, 
 
 This nation of my love, a priestly house, 
 
 Beside that Cross shall stand, fate-firm, like him 
 
 That stood beside Christ's Mother.' Straightway, as one 
 
 Who ends debate, the angel answered stern : 
 
 ' That boon thou claimest is too great to grant : 
 
 Depart thou from this mountain, Cruachan, 
 
 In peace ; and find that nation which thou lov'st, 
 
 That like thy body is, and thou her head, 
 
48 The Striving of 
 
 For foes are round her set in valley and plain, 
 
 And instant is the battle.' Then the Saint : 
 
 ' The battle for my people is not there, 
 
 With them, low down, but here upon this height 
 
 From them apart, with God. This Mount of God 
 
 Dowerless and bare I quit not till I die ; 
 
 And dying, I will leave a man elect 
 
 To keep its keys, and pray my prayer, and name 
 
 Dying in turn, his heir, successive line, 
 
 Even till the Day of Doom.' 
 
 Then heavenward sped 
 Victor, God's angel, and the man of God 
 Turned to his offering ; and all day he stood 
 Offering in heart that offering undefiled 
 Which Abel offer'd, and Melchisedek, 
 And Abraham, Patriarch of the faithful race, 
 In type, and which, in fulness of the times, 
 The Victim-Priest offer'd on Calvary, 
 And, bloodless, offers still in Heaven and Earth, 
 Whose impetration makes the whole Church one. 
 So stood he offering till the eve, and still 
 Offer'd ; and as he offer'd, far in front 
 Along the aerial summit once again 
 Ran out that beam like fiery pillar prone 
 Or sea-path sunset-paved ; and by his side 
 That angel stood. Then Patrick, turning not 
 His eyes in prayer upon the west close held, 
 
Saint Patrick on Mount Cruachan. 49 
 
 Demanded, ' From the Maker of all worlds 
 
 What answer bringst thou ? ' Thus the angel spake : 
 
 ' Down knelt in Heaven the Angelic Orders Nine, 
 
 And all the Prophets and the Apostles knelt, 
 
 And all the Creatures of the hand of God, 
 
 Visible, and invisible, down knelt, 
 
 While thou thy mighty mass, though altarless, 
 
 Offer'dst in spirit, and thine offering joined j 
 
 And all God's Saints on earth, or roused from sleep 
 
 Or on the wayside pausing, knelt, the cause 
 
 Not knowing ; likewise yearned the Souls to God : 
 
 And lo ! the Lord thy God hath heard thy prayer, 
 
 Since fortitude in prayer and this thou know'st' 
 
 (Smiling the Bright One spake) 'is that which lays 
 
 Man's hand upon God's sceptre. That thou sought'st 
 
 Shall lack not consummation. Many a race 
 
 Shrivelling in sunshine of its prosperous years, 
 
 Shall cease from faith, and, shamed though shameless, 
 
 sink 
 
 Back to its native clay ; but over thine 
 God shall the shadow of His Hand extend, 
 And through the night of centuries teach to her 
 In woe that song which, when the nations wake, 
 Shall sound their glad deliverance : nor alone 
 This nation, from the blind dividual dust 
 Of instincts brute, thoughts drtftless, warring wills 
 
 E 
 
50 - TJie Striving of Saint Patrick. 
 
 By thee evoked, and shapen by thy hands 
 
 To God's fair image, which confers alone 
 
 Manhood on nations, shall to God stand true ; 
 
 But nations far in undiscovered seas, 
 
 Her stately progeny, while ages waste, 
 
 The kingly ermine of her Faith shall wear, 
 
 Fleece uncorrupted of the Immaculate Lamb, 
 
 For ever : lands remote shall lift to God 
 
 Her fanes ; and eagle-nurturing isles hold fast 
 
 Her hermit cells: thy nation shall not walk 
 
 Accordant with the Gentiles of this world, 
 
 But as a chosen people wear the crown 
 
 Or bear the cross : and when the end is come, 
 
 When in God's Mount the Twelve great Thrones are set, 
 
 And round it roll the Rivers Four of fire, 
 
 And in their circuit meet the Peoples Three 
 
 Of Heaven, and Earth, and Hell, fulfill'd that day 
 
 Shall be the Saviour's word, what time He stretched 
 
 The crosier-staff forth from the glory-cloud, 
 
 And sware to thee, "When they that with Me walked 
 
 Sit with Me on their everlasting thrones, 
 
 Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine Israel, 
 
 Thy people thou shalt judge in righteousness." 
 
 Thou therefore kneel, and bless thy Land of Eire.' 
 
 Then Patrick knelt, and blessed the land, and said, 
 * Praise be to God who hears the sinner's prayer.' 
 
SAINT PATRICK AND THE TWO 
 PRINCESSES. 
 
 FEDELM THE RED ROSE,' AND ETHNA * THE FAIR. 
 
 LIKE two sister fawns that leap, 
 
 Borne, as though on viewless wings, 
 Down bosky glade and ferny steep, 
 
 To quench their thirst at silver springs, 
 From Cruachan, through gorse and heather, 
 Raced the Royal Maids together. 
 From childhood thus the Twain had rushed 
 
 Each morn to Clebach's fountain-cell, 
 Ere earliest dawn the East had flushed, 
 
 To bathe them in its well : 
 Each morn with joy their young hearts tingled ; 
 
 Each morn as conquering cloud or mist 
 The first beam with the wavelet mingled, 
 
 Mouth to mouth they kissed. 
 
 They stand by the fount with their unlooped hair 
 
 > 
 A hand each raises what see they there ? 
 
 E 2 
 
52 Saint Patrick and 
 
 A white form seated on Clebach stone ; 
 
 A kinglike presence : the monks stood nigh : 
 Fronting the dawn he sat alone ; 
 
 On the star of morning he fixed his eye. 
 That crosier he grasped shone bright ; but brighter 
 The sunrise flashed from Saint Patrick's mitre ! 
 
 They gazed without fear. To a kingdom dear, 
 
 From the day of their birth, those Maids had been ; 
 
 Of wrong they had heard ; but it came not near ; 
 They hoped they were dear to the Power Unseen. 
 
 They knelt when that Vision of Peace they saw ; 
 
 They knelt, not in fear, but in loving awe : 
 
 The ' Red Rose ' bloomed like that East afar ; 
 
 The * Fair One ' shone like that morning star. 
 
 Then Patrick rose : no word he said, 
 But three times made the sacred Sign ; 
 
 At the first, men say that the demons fled ; 
 
 At the third flocked round them the Powers divine 
 
 Unseen. Like children devout and good, 
 
 Hands crossed on their bosoms, the maidens stood. 
 
 ' Blessed and holy ! This land is Eire : 
 Whence come ye to her, and the King our sire ? ' 
 
the Two Princesses. 53 
 
 We come from a Kingdom far off, yet near, 
 Which the wise love well, and the wicked fear : 
 We come with blessing and come with ban, 
 We come from the Kingdom of God with man. 
 
 1 Whose is that Kingdom ? And say, therein 
 Are the chiefs all brave, and the maids all fair ? 
 
 Is it clean from reptiles, and that thing, sin ? 
 Is it like this kingdom of King Laeghaire ? ' 
 
 The chiefs of that Kingdom wage war on wrong, 
 And the clash of their swords is sweet as song ; 
 Fair are the maids, and so pure from taint, 
 The flash of their eyes turns sinner to saint ; 
 There reptile is none, nor the ravening beast ; 
 There light has no shadow, no end the feast. 
 
 * But say, at that feast hath the poor man place ? 
 
 Is reverence there for the old head hoar? 
 For the cripple that never might join the race ? 
 
 For the maimed that fought, and can fight no more ? ' 
 
 Reverence is there for the poor and meek, 
 
 And the great King kisses the worn, pale cheek ; 
 
 And the King's Son waits OQ the pilgrim guest ; 
 
 And the Queen takes the little blind child to her breast : 
 
54 Saint Patrick and 
 
 With a gold crown there is the just man crowned ; 
 But the false and the vengeful are branded and bound 
 In knots of serpents, and flung without pity 
 From the bastions and walls of God's saintly city. 
 
 Then the eyes of the Maidens grew dark, as though 
 That judgment of God had before them passed : 
 
 And the two sweet faces grew dim with woe 
 But the rose and the radiance returned at last. 
 
 4 Are gardens there ? Are there streams like ours ? 
 
 Is God white-headed, or youthful and strong ? 
 Hang rainbows there o'er the happy bowers ? 
 
 Are there sun and moon and the thrush's song ? ' 
 
 They have gardens there without noise or strife, 
 And there is the fruit of immortal life : 
 Four rivers circle that blissful bound ; 
 And Spirits float o'er it, and Spirits go round : 
 There, set in the midst, is the golden throne ; 
 And a rainbow Him girdeth that sits thereon : 
 Seven Virtues enweave it ; and lo ! therein 
 The beams are His Holy Ones washed from sin. 
 
 As he spake, the hearts of the Maids beat time 
 To music in heaven of peace and love ; 
 
the Two Princesses. 55 
 
 And the deeper sense of that lore sublime 
 
 Came out from within them, and down from above ; 
 By degrees came down ; by degrees came out : 
 Who loveth, and hopeth, not long shall doubt. 
 
 ' Who is your God ? Is there love on His brow ? 
 Oh how shall we love Him and find Him ? How ? ' 
 The pure cheek flamed like the dawn-touched dew- 
 There was silence : then Patrick began anew. 
 
 The princes who ride in your father's train 
 Your love have courted, but sued in vain ; 
 Look up, O Maidens ; make answer free : 
 What would ye have ; and what would ye be ? 
 
 4 Pure we would be as yon wreath of foam, 
 Or the ripple which now yon sunbeams smite ; 
 
 And joy we would have, and a songful home ; 
 And one to rule us, and Love's delight.' 
 
 In love God fashioned whatever is, 
 
 The hills, and the seas, and the skiey fires ; 
 
 For love He made them, and endless bliss, 
 Sustains, enkindles, uplifts, inspires : 
 
 That God is Father, and Son, and Spirit ; 
 
 And the true and spotless His peace inherit, 
 
56 Saint Patrick and 
 
 And God made man, with his great sad heart, 
 
 That hungers when held from God apart. 
 
 Your sire is a King on earth : but I 
 
 Would mate you to One who is Lord on high : 
 
 There maid is bride ; and her joy shall stand, 
 
 For the King's Son hath laid on her head His hand. 
 
 As he spake, the eyes of that lovely Twain 
 Grew large with a tearful but glorious light, 
 
 Like skies of summer, late cleared by rain, 
 
 When the full-orbed moon will be soon in sight. 
 
 ' That Son of the King is He fairest of men ? 
 
 That mate whom He crowns is she bright and blest ? 
 Does she chase the red deer at His side through the 
 glen? 
 
 Does she charm Him with song to His noontide rest? ' 
 
 That King's Son strove in a long, long war : 
 His People He freed ; yet they wounded Him sore ; 
 And still in His hands, and His feet, and His side, 
 The scars of His sorrow are 'graved, deep-dyed. 
 
 Then the breasts of the Maidens began to heave 
 Like harbour waves, when beyond the bar 
 
 The great waves gather, and wet winds grieve, 
 And the roll of the tempest is heard afar. 
 
the Two Princesses. 5 7 
 
 ' We will kiss, we will kiss those bleeding feet ; 
 
 On those bleeding hands our tears shall fall ; 
 And whatever on earth is dear or sweet, 
 
 For that wounded heart we renounce them all : 
 
 ' Show us the way to His palace-gate : ' 
 That way is thorny, and steep, and straight ; 
 By none can His palace-gate be seen, 
 Save, those who have washed in the waters clean. 
 
 They knelt ; on their "heads the wave he poured 
 
 Thrice, in the name of the Triune Lord : 
 
 And their foreheads he signed with the Sign adored. 
 
 On Fedelm the ' Red Rose/ on Ethna < The Fair,' 
 
 God's dew shone bright in that morning air ; 
 
 And they say that Saint Agnes, 'twixt sister and sister, 
 
 As the Cross touched each, bent over and kissed her. 
 
 Then sang God's new-born Creatures, ' Behold ! 
 
 We see God's City from heaven draw nigh : 
 But we thirst for the fountains divine and cold : 
 
 We must see the great King's Son, or die ! 
 Come, Thou that com'st ! Our hope is this, 
 
 That the body might die, and the soul, set free, 
 Swell out, like infant's lips, to the kiss 
 
 Of the Lover who filleth infinity ! ' 
 
58 Saint Patrick and 
 
 The City of God, by the water's grace, 
 
 Ye see : alone, they behold His Face, 
 
 Who have washed in the baths of Death their eyes, 
 
 And tasted His Eucharist Sacrifice. 
 
 ' Give us the Sacrifice ! ' Each bright head 
 
 Bent toward it as sunflowers bend to the sun : 
 They ate ; and the blood from the warm cheek fled : 
 
 The exile was over ; the home was won : 
 A starry darkness o'erflowed their brain : 
 
 Far waters beat on some heavenly shore : 
 Like the dying away of a low, sweet strain, 
 
 The young life ebbed, and they breathed no more 
 In death they smiled, as though on the breast 
 Of the Mother Maid they had found their rest. 
 
 The rumour spread : beside the bier 
 
 The King stood mute, and his camp, and court : 
 The Druids dark-robed drew surlily near : 
 
 And the Bards storm-hearted, and humbler sort : 
 The ' Staff of Jesus ' Saint Patrick raised : 
 
 Angelic anthems above them swept : 
 There were that muttered ; there were that praised : 
 
 But none who looked on that marvel wept. 
 
the Two Princesses. 59 
 
 For they lay on one bed, like Brides new-wed, 
 
 By Clebach well ; and, the dirge days over, 
 On their smiling faces a veil was spread, 
 
 And a green mound raised that bed to cover. 
 Such were the ways of those ancient days 
 
 To Patrick for aye that grave was given ; 
 And above it a church he built in their praise ; 
 
 For in them had Eire been spoused to heaven. 
 
6o 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDREN OF 
 
 FOCHLUT WOOD. 
 
 . 
 
 ONE day as Patrick sat upon a stone 
 
 Judging his people, Pagan children came, 
 
 All light and laughter, angel-like of mien, 
 
 Sueing for bread. He gave it, and they ate : 
 
 Then said he, ' Kneel ; ' and taught them prayer : but lo ! 
 
 Sudden the stag hounds' music dinned the wind, 
 
 And to the woodlands rushed they. Patrick spake ; 
 
 ' It was the cry of children that I heard 
 
 Borne from the black wood o'er the midnight seas. 
 
 Where are those children ? What avails though Kings 
 
 Have bowed before my Gospel, and in awe 
 
 Nations have knelt, unless mine eyes I set 
 
 On Fochlut Wood ? ' Thus speaking, he arose, 
 
 And, with the brethren journeying toward the West, 
 
 Stood on the confine of that forest old. 
 
 Then entered they that darkness ; and the wood 
 Closed as a cavern round them. O'er it leaned 
 The cloud, and hissing, ran the bitter wind, 
 
The Children of Fochlut Wood. 61 
 
 And moaned the trunks for centuries hollowed out 
 
 Yet stalwart still. There, rooted in the rock, 
 
 Stood the huge growths, by us unnamed, that frowned, 
 
 Perhaps on Partholan, the parricide, 
 
 When that first Pagan settler fugitive 
 
 Landed, a man foredoomed. Between the stems 
 
 The ravening beast now glared, now fled. Red leaves, 
 
 The last year's phantoms, rattled here and there. 
 
 The oldest wood that ever grew in Eire 
 
 Was Fochlut Wood, and gloomiest. Spirits of 111 
 
 Their palace made it, and its labyrinths sowed 
 
 With poisons. Many a cave, with horrors thronged, 
 
 Within it yawned, and many a chasm unseen 
 
 Waited the unwary treader. Cry of wolf 
 
 Pierced the cold air, and gibbering ghosts were heard ; 
 
 And o'er the black marsh went the wandering lights 
 
 That lure lost feet. A thousand paths their end 
 
 Found in the abyss. One only led to light : 
 
 That path was sharp with flints. 
 
 Then Patrick mused, 
 
 ' O life of man, how dark a wood art thou ! 
 Erring how many track thee till Despair, 
 Sad host, receives them in his crypt-like porch 
 At nightfall.' Mute he paced. The brethren feared ; 
 And fearing, knelt to God. Made strong by prayer, 
 Westward once more they trod that dark, sharp way, 
 
62 Saint Patrick and 
 
 Till deeper gloom announced the night, then slept 
 By angels guarded. But the Saint all night 
 His vigil kept The second day still on 
 Fared they, like mariners o'er strange seas borne, 
 That keep in mist their soundings when the rocks 
 Their passage vex, and breakers roar unseen. 
 At last Benignus cried, * To God be praise ! 
 He sends us better omens. See ! the moss 
 Makes green the crag ! ' Ere long another spake : 
 ' The worst is past ! This freshness in the air 
 A welcome wafts us from the great salt sea ; 
 Fair spreads the fern : the buds are on the spray, 
 And violets throng the grass.' 
 
 A few steps more 
 
 Brought them to where, with peaceful gleam, there spread 
 A forest pool, that mirror'd yew-trees twain 
 With beads like blood -drops hung. A sunset flash 
 Kindled a glory in the osiers brown 
 Encircling that still water. . From the reeds 
 A sable bird, gold-circled, slowly rose ; 
 But when the towering tree-tops he outsoared, 
 Eastward a great wind swept him as a leaf. 
 Serenely as he rose, a music soft 
 Swell'd from afar ; but, as that storm o'ertook him 
 The music changed to one on-rushing note, 
 O'ertaken by a second ; both, ere long, 
 
the Children of Fochlut Wood. 63 
 
 Blended in wail unending. Patrick's brow, 
 Listening that wail, was altered, and he spake : 
 * Those were the voices that I heard when stood 
 By night beside me in that southern land 
 God's angel, girt for speed. Letters he bare 
 Unnumbered, full of woes. One held he forth, 
 Inscribed, " The Wailing of the Irish Race ; " 
 And as I read that legend, on mine ear 
 Forth from a mighty wood on Erin's coast 
 There rang the cry of children, " Walk once more 
 Among us ; bring us help ! " ' Thus Patrick spake ; 
 Then westward towards that wailing paced with speed. 
 
 Ere long they came to where a river broad, 
 
 Swiftly amid the dense trees winding brimmed 
 
 The flower-enamelled margin, branch and bough 
 
 Down whirling 'mid its eddies. On the bank 
 
 Two maidens stood. Whiter than earliest streak 
 
 Of matin pearl dividing dusky clouds 
 
 Their raiment ; and, as oft in silent woods 
 
 White beds of wind-flower on an earth-breeze lean, 
 
 So on the river-breeze that raiment wan 
 
 Shivered, back blown. Slender they stood and tall, 
 
 Their brows with violets bound ; while shone, beneath, 
 
 The dark blue of their never-tearless eyes. 
 
 Then Patrick, * For the sake of Him who lays 
 
64 Saint Patrick and 
 
 His blessing on the mourners, O ye maids, 
 
 Reveal to me your grief if yours late sent, 
 
 Or sped in careless childhood/ And the maids : 
 
 ' Happy whose careless childhood 'scaped the wound ; ' 
 
 Then she that seemed the saddest added thus : 
 
 'Stranger! this forest is no roof of joy, 
 
 Nor we the only mourners ; neither fall 
 
 Bitterer the widow's nor the orphan's tears 
 
 Now than of old ; nor sharper than long since 
 
 That loss which maketh maiden widowhood. 
 
 In childhood first our sorrow came. One eve 
 
 Within our foster-parents' low-roofed house, 
 
 The winter sunset from our bed had waned : 
 
 I slept, and sleeping dreamed. Beside the bed 
 
 There stood a lovely Lady crowned with stars ; 
 
 A sword went through her heart. Down from that sword 
 
 Blood trickled on the bed, and on the ground. 
 
 Sorely I wept. The Lady spake : " My child, 
 
 Weep not for me, but for thy country weep ; 
 
 More deep her wound than mine. Cry loud for her ; 
 
 The cry of grief is Prayer." I woke, all tears ; 
 
 And lo ! my little sister, stiff and cold, 
 
 Sat with wide eyes upon the bed upright. 
 
 That starry lady with the bleeding heart 
 
 She too had seen, and heard her. Clamour vast 
 
 Rang out ; and all the wall was fiery red ; 
 
the Children of Fochhit Wood. 65 
 
 And flame was on the sea. A hostile clan, 
 
 Landing in mist, our ships and town had fired, 
 
 Our clansmen absent on a foray far, 
 
 And many an old man stricken, many a boy 
 
 To bondage dragged. Oh night with blood redeemed ! 
 
 Yea, on the third day o'er the green waves rushed 
 
 The vengeance winged, with axe and torch, to quit 
 
 Wrong with new wrong, and many a time since then. 
 
 That night sad women on the sea sands toiled, 
 
 Drawing from wreck and ruin, beam or plank 
 
 To shield their babes. Our foster parents slain, 
 
 Unheeded we, the children of the chief, 
 
 Roamed the great forest. There our dream we told 
 
 To children likewise orphaned. Upon them 
 
 Fear fell as though themselves had dreamed that dream, 
 
 And back from them redoubled upon us ; 
 
 Until at last from us and them rang out 
 
 (The dark wood heard it, and the midnight sea) 
 
 A great and bitter cry.' 
 
 * That cry went up, 
 
 O children, to the heart of God j and He 
 Down sent it, pitying, to a far-off land, 
 And on into my heart. By that first pang 
 Which left the eternal pallor in your cheeks. 
 O Maids, I pray ye, sing once more that song 
 
66 Saint Patrick and 
 
 Ye sang but late. I heard its long last note : 
 Fain would I hear the song that such death died. ' 
 
 They sang : not scathless those that sing such song ! 
 
 Grief, their instructress, of the Muses chief 
 
 To hearts by grief unvanquished, to their hearts 
 
 A melody had taught that neither spared 
 
 Singer nor listener. Pale when they began, 
 
 Paler it left them. He not less was pale 
 
 Who, out of trance awaking, thanked them thus : 
 
 * Now know I of that sorrow in you fixed ; 
 
 What, and how great it is, and bless that Power 
 
 Who called me forth from nothing for your sakes, 
 
 And sent me to this wood. Maidens, lead on ! 
 
 A chieftain's daughters ye ; and he, your sire, 
 
 And with him she who gave you your sweet looks 
 
 (Sadder perchance than you in songless age) 
 
 They, too, must hear my tidings. Once a Prince 
 
 Went solitary from his golden throne, 
 
 Tracking the illimitable wastes, to find 
 
 One wildered sheep, the meanest of the flock, 
 
 And on His shoulders to His Father's house 
 
 Bare it. Thenceforth " Good Shepherd " was His name. 
 
 My tidings these : heralds are we, footsore, 
 
 That bring the heart-sore comfort.' 
 
 On they paced, 
 
the Children of Fochhit Wood. 67 
 
 On by the rushing river without words. 
 
 Beside, the elder sister Patrick walked, 
 
 Benignus by the younger. Fair her face ; 
 
 Majestic his, and sweet. Her face was sad 
 
 And awe-struck ; his, with secret joy fulfilled, 
 
 Sent forth a gleam as when a morn-touched bay 
 
 Through ambush shines of woodlands. Soon they stood 
 
 Where sea and river met, and trod a path 
 
 Wet with salt spray, and drank the clement breeze, 
 
 And saw the quivering of the green gold wave, 
 
 And, far beyond, that fierce aggressor's bourn, 
 
 Fair haunt for savage race, a purple ridge 
 
 By rainy sunbeam gernmed from glen to glen, 
 
 Dim waste of wandering glories. The broad sun 
 
 Lay half sea-couched. A neighbouring height sent forth 
 
 Welcome of baying hounds ; and, close at hand, 
 
 They reached the chieftain's keep. 
 
 A white-haired man 
 
 And long since blind, there sat he in his hall, 
 By age untamed. At times a fiery flash 
 Went from his sightless eyes ; and oft the red 
 Burned on his forehead, while with fervid speech 
 Stirred by ill news or memory-stung, he banned 
 Foes, and false friend. Pleased by his daughters' tale, 
 At once he stretched his huge yet aimless hands 
 In welcome toward his guests. Beside him stood 
 F 2 
 
68 Saint Patrick and 
 
 (From thirty suitors won by that strong arm) 
 His mate of forty years. Pensive her face : 
 With parted youth the confidence of youth 
 Had left her. Beauty, too, though with remorse, 
 Its seat had half relinquished on a cheek 
 Long time its boast, and on that willowy form, 
 So shrinking now, where once in strength upsoared 
 The queenly presence. Tenderest grace not less 
 Haunted her life's dim twilight meekness, love 
 That humble love, all-giving, that seeks nought, 
 Self-reverent calm, and modesty in age. 
 An anxious eye she turned on him she loved ; 
 And, bending, kissed at times that wrinkled hand, 
 By years and sorrows made his wife far more 
 Than in her nuptial bloom. Five sons, their hope, 
 These two had lost in war. 
 
 That eve it chanced 
 
 High feast was holden in the chieftain's tower 
 To solemnise his birthday. In they flocked, 
 Each after each, the warriors of the clan, 
 Not without pomp heraldic and fair state 
 Barbaric, yet beseeming. Unco each 
 Seat was assigned for deeds or lineage old, 
 And to the chiefs allied. Where each had place 
 Above him waved his banner. Not for this 
 Unhonoured were the pilgrim guests. They sat 
 
the Children of Fochlut Wood. 69 
 
 Where, fed by pinewood and the seeded cone, 
 
 The loud hearth blazed. Bathed were the wearied feet 
 
 By maidens of the place and nurses grey, 
 
 And dried in linen fragrant still with flowers 
 
 Of years when those old nurses too were fair. 
 
 And now the board was spread, and carved the meat, 
 
 And jests ran round, and many a tale was told, 
 
 Some rude, but none opprobrious. Banquet done, 
 
 Page-led the harper entered, old, and blind : 
 
 The noblest ranged his chair, and spread the mat ; 
 
 The loveliest raised his wine cup, one light hand 
 
 Laid on his shoulder, while the golden hair 
 
 Commingled with the silver. ' Sing,' they cried, 
 
 The death of Deirdre ; or that desolate sire 
 
 That slew his son, unweeting ; or that Queen 
 
 Who from her palace pacing, with fixed eyes, 
 
 Stared at their Heads, in dreadful circle ranged, 
 
 Who mocked the friend they murdered. Leal and true, 
 
 The Bard who wrought that vengeance ! ' Then he sang. 
 
 'THE LAY OF THE HEADS: 
 
 The Bard returns to a stricken house : 
 What shape is that he rears on high ? 
 
 A withe of the Willow, setoround with Heads : 
 They blot that evening sky. 
 
70 Saint Patrick and 
 
 A Widow meets him at the gates : 
 What fixes thus that Widow's eye ? 
 
 She names the name ; but she sees not the man, 
 Nor beyond him that western sky. 
 
 ' Bard of the Brand, thou Foster-Sire 
 
 Of him they slew their friend my Lord 
 
 What Head is that the first that frowns 
 Like a traitor self-abhorred ? ' 
 
 Daughter of Orgill wounded sore, 
 
 Thou of the fateful eye serene, 
 Fergus is he. The feast he made 
 
 That snared thy Cuchullene. 
 
 'What Head is that the next half-hid 
 
 In curls full lustrous to behold ? 
 They mind me of a hand that once 
 
 I saw amid their gold.' 
 
 T is Manadh. He that by the shore 
 
 Held rule, and named the waves his steeds : 
 
 T was he that struck the stroke accursed 
 Headless this day he bleeds. 
 
 ' What Head is that close by so still, 
 With half-closed lids, and lips that smile ? 
 
 Methinks I know their voice : methinks 
 His wine they quaffed erewhile ! ' 
 
the Children of Fochlut Wood. 71 
 
 } T was he raised high that severed head : 
 
 Thy head he raised, my Foster-Child ! 
 That was the latest stroke I struck : 
 
 I struck that stroke, and smiled. 
 
 'What Heads are those that twain, so like, 
 Flushed as with blood by yon red sky ? } 
 
 Each unto each, his Head they spurned : 
 Red on that grass they lie. 
 
 * That paler twain, which face the East ? ' 
 
 Laegar is one; the other Hilt : 
 Silent they watched the sport ! they share 
 The doom, that shared the guilt. 
 
 * Bard of the Vengeance ! well thou knew'st 
 
 Blood cries for blood ! Q kind, and true, 
 How many, kith and kin, have died, 
 That mocked the man they slew ? ' 
 
 O Woman of the fateful eye, 
 
 The untrembling voice, the marble mould, 
 Seven hundred men, in house or field, 
 
 For the man they mocked, lie cold. 
 
 ' Their wives, thou Bard ? their wives ? their wives ? 
 
 Far off, or nigh, through Inisfail, 
 This hour what are thex ? Stand they mute 
 
 Like me ; or make their wail ? ' 
 
72 Saint Patrick and 
 
 O Eimer ! women weep and smile : 
 The young have hope, the young that mourn 
 
 But I am old : my hope was he ; 
 He that can ne'er return. 
 
 ' O Connal ! lay me in his grave : 
 Oh ! lay me by my Husband's side : 
 
 ' Oh ! lay my lips to his in death : ' 
 She spake, and, standing, died. 
 
 She fell at last : in death she fell : 
 She lay, a black shade, on the ground : 
 
 And all her women o'er her wailed 
 Like sea-birds o'er the drowned. 
 
 Thus to the blind chief sang that harper blind, 
 Hymning the vengeance ; and the great hall roared 
 With wrath of those wild listeners. Many a heel 
 Smote the rough stone in scorn of them that died 
 Not three days past so seemed it. Direful hands, 
 Together dashed, thundered the Avenger's praise. 
 At last the tide of that fierce tumult ebbed, 
 And silence came. Then from her lowly seat 
 Beside her husband's spake the gentle Queen: 
 1 My daughters, from your childhood ye were still 
 A voice of music in your father's house 
 Not wrathful music. Sing that song ye made 
 Or found long since, and yet in forest sing, 
 
the Children of Fochlut Wood: 73 
 
 If haply Power Unknown may hear and help.' 
 She spake, and at her word her daughters sang. 
 
 ' Lost, lost, all lost ! Oh tell us what is lost ? 
 
 Behold, this too is hidden ! Let him speak, 
 
 If any knows. The wounded deer can turn 
 
 And see the shaft that quivers in its flank ; 
 
 The bird looks back upon its broken wing : 
 
 But we, the forest children, only know 
 
 Our grief is infinite, and hath no name. 
 
 What woman-prophet, shrouded in dark veil, 
 
 Whispered a hope as sad as Fear ? Long since, 
 
 What Father lost his children in the wood ? 
 
 Some God ? And can a God forsake ? Perchance 
 
 His face is turned to nobler worlds new-made : 
 
 Perchance his palace owns some later bride 
 
 That hates the dead Queen's children, and with charms 
 
 Prevails that they are exiled from his eyes, 
 
 The exile's winter theirs the exile's song. 
 
 ' Blood, ever blood ! The sword goes raging on 
 O'er hill and moor ; and with it, iron-willed, 
 On drags the hand that holds it, and the man, 
 To slake its ceaseless thirst for blood of men ; 
 Fire takes the little cot beside the mere, 
 And leaps upon the upland village : fire 
 Up clambers to the castle on the crag ; 
 
74 Saint Patrick and 
 
 And whom the fire has spared the hunger kills ; 
 And earth takes all into her thousand graves. 
 
 * Ah me ! the little linnet knows the branch 
 
 Whereon to build ; the honey-pasturing bee 
 
 The wild heath knows, and how to shape its cell ; 
 
 Upon the poisonous berry no bird feeds ; 
 
 So well their mother, Nature, helps her own. 
 
 Mothers forsake not ; can a Father hate ? 
 
 Who knoweth but he yearns that Sire Unseen 
 
 To clasp his children ? All is sweet and sane, 
 
 All, all save man ! Sweet is the summer flower, 
 
 The day-long sunset of the autumnal woods ; 
 
 Fair is the winter frost ; and all the heart 
 
 Shakes to the bleating lamb. Oh then what thing 
 
 Might be the life secure of man with man, 
 
 The infant's smile, the mother's kiss, the love 
 
 Of lovers, and the untroubled wedded home ? 
 
 This might have been man's lot. Who sent the woe ? 
 
 Who formed him first ? Who taught him first the ill way ? 
 
 One creature, only, sins ; and he the highest ! 
 
 ' Oh Higher than the highest ! Thou Whose hand 
 Made us Who shaped'st that hand Thou wilt not clasp, 
 The eye Thou open'st not, the sealed-up ear ! 
 Be mightier than man's sin ; for lo, how man 
 
the Children of Fochlut Wood. 75 
 
 Seeks Thee, and ceases not : through noontide cave 
 
 And dark air of the dawn-unlighted peak 
 
 To Thee how long he strains the weak, worn eye 
 
 If haply he might see Thy vesture's hem 
 
 On utmost storm receding ! Yea, how oft 
 
 Against the blind and tremulous wall of cliff 
 
 Tormented by sea surge, his ear he leans 
 
 If haply o'er it name of Thine might creep ; 
 
 Or bends above the torrent-cloven abyss, 
 
 If falling flood might lisp it ! Power Unknown ! 
 
 He hears it not : Thou hear'st his beating heart 
 
 That cries to Thee for ever ! From the veil 
 
 That shrouds Thee, from the wood, the cloud, the void, 
 
 Oh, by the anguish of all lands evoked, 
 
 Look forth ! Though, seeing Thee, man's race should die, 
 
 One moment let him see Thee \ Let him lay 
 
 At least his forehead on Thy foot in death ! ' 
 
 So sang the Maidens : but the warriors frowned ; 
 And thus the blind King muttered, ' Bootless weed 
 Is plaint where help is none ! ' But wives and maids 
 And the thick-crowding poor, that many a time 
 Had wailed on war-fields o'er their brethren slain, 
 Went down before that music as the reeds 
 Before strong wind, then most when o'er them passed 
 Its last word, * Death ; ' and grief's infection spread 
 
76 Saint Patrick and 
 
 From least to first ; and weeping filled the hall. 
 
 Then on Saint Patrick fell compassion great. 
 
 He rose amid that concourse, and with voice 
 
 And words (now lost, alas, or all but lost), 
 
 Such that the Chief of sight amerced, beheld 
 
 The imagined man before him crowned with light, 
 
 Proclaimed that God who hideth not His face, 
 
 His people's King and Father, open flung 
 
 The portals of His realm, that, inward rolled 
 
 To their own music, with a golden tongue 
 
 Commanded all to enter. Who was He 
 
 Who called from nought the worlds? His name is Love! 
 
 In love those worlds he made. They have not lost, 
 
 The sun his splendour, nor the moon her light : 
 
 That miracle survives. Alas for thee ! 
 
 Thou better miracle, fair human love, 
 
 That splendour shouldst have been of home and hearth, 
 
 Now quenched by mortal hate ! Whence come our woes 
 
 But from our lusts ? Oh desecrated law 
 
 By God's own finger on our hearts engraved, 
 
 How well art thou avenged ! No dream it was, 
 
 That primal greatness, and that primal peace ! 
 
 Man in God's image at the first was made, 
 
 A God to rule below ! 
 
 He told it all 
 Creation, and that Sin which marred its face ; 
 
the Children of Fochlut Wood. 77 
 
 And how the great Creator, creature made, 
 
 Forth issuing passed the immeasurable gulf 
 
 Which finite still severs from infinite, 
 
 And, back returning, on His shoulder bore 
 
 Total creation, like a wildered sheep, 
 
 Even to His Father's feet ! He hid it not 
 
 God God for man incarnate died for man : 
 
 Dead, with His Cross he thundered on the gates 
 
 Of Death's blind Hades. Then, with hands outstretched, 
 
 His Holy Ones that, in their penance prison 
 
 From hope in him had ceased not, to the light 
 
 Flashed from His bleeding hands and branded brow 
 
 Through darkness soared and reign with Him in heaven. 
 
 Their brethren we : the children of one Sire. 
 
 Long time he spake. The winds their wail forbore ; 
 
 The sea lay mute. That wondrous tale complete, 
 
 Not sudden fell the silence ; for, as when 
 
 A huge wave forth from ocean toiling mounts 
 
 High-arched, in solid bulk, the beach rock-strewn, 
 
 Burying his hoar head under echoing cliffs, 
 
 And after pause refluent to sea returns, 
 
 Not all at once is stillness, countless rills 
 
 Or devious winding down the steep, or borne 
 
 In crystal leap from sea-shelf to sea-well, 
 
 And sparry grot replying ; gradual thus 
 
 With lessening cadence sank^that great discourse 
 
78 Saint Patrick and 
 
 While round him gazed Saint Patrick, now the old 
 Regarding, now the young, and flung on each 
 In turn his boundless heart, and gazing longed 
 As only Apostolic heart can long 
 To help the helpless. 
 
 * Fair, O friends, the bourn 
 We dwell in ! Holy King makes happy land : 
 Our King is in our midst. He gave us gifts ; 
 Laws that are Love, the sovereignty of Truth. 
 What, sirs, ye knew Him not ! But ye by signs 
 Foresaw His coming, as, when buds are red 
 Ye say " The spring is nigh us." Him, unknown, 
 Ye loved, your brother loving. Shepherd youths, 
 Who spread the pasture green beneath your lambs 
 And freshened it with snow-fed stream and mist ? 
 Who but that Love unseen ? Grey mariners, 
 Who lulled the rough seas round your midnight nets, 
 And sent the landward breeze ? Pale sufferers wan, 
 Rejoice ! His are ye ; yea, and His the most ! 
 Have ye not watched the eagle that upstirs 
 Her nest, and undersails her falling brood, 
 And stays them on her plumes, and bears them up 
 Till, taught by proof, their unguessed powers they learn 
 And breast the storm ? Thus God stirs up his People ; 
 Thus proves by pain. Ye too, O hearths well-loved ! 
 How oft your sin-stained sanctities ye mourned ! 
 
the Children of Fochlut Wood. 79 
 
 Lo, from the cradle reigns the Bethlehem Babe ! 
 Behold, henceforth the Virgin Mother spreads 
 Her shining veil above you ! 
 
 ' Speak aloud, 
 
 Chieftains world-famed ! I hear the ancient blood 
 That leaps against your hearts ! What ? Warriors ye ! 
 Danger your birthright, and your pastime death ! 
 Behold your foes ! Before you plain they stand : 
 111 passions, base ambitions, falsehood, hate : 
 On these wage war. A King is in your host. 
 His hands no roses plucked but on the Cross : 
 He came not hand of man in woman's tasks 
 To mesh In woman's hand, in childhood's hand, 
 Much more in man's, He lodged His conquering sword ; 
 Them too His soldiers named, and vowed to war. 
 Rise, clan of Kings, rise, champions of man's race, 
 Heaven's sun-clad army militant on earth, * 
 
 One victory gained, the realm decreed is ours. 
 The bridal bells ring out, for Low with High 
 In nuptials new is blended. It is past, 
 The sin, the exile, and the grief. O man, 
 Take thou, renewed, thy sister-mate : return, 
 And meet once more thy Maker, for he walks 
 Once, more within thy garden, in the cool 
 Of the world's eve !' 
 
 The words that Patrick spake 
 
So Saint Patrick and 
 
 Were words of power. Not futile did they fall : 
 But, probing, healed a sorrowing people's wound. 
 Round him they stood, as oft in Grecian days, 
 Some haughty city sieged, her penitent sons 
 Thronging green Pnyx or templed Forum hushed, 
 Stood listening to that People's one true Voice, 
 The man that ne'er had flattered, ne'er deceived, 
 Nursed no false hope. It was the time of Faith ; 
 Open was then man's ear, open his heart : 
 Pride spurned not then that chiefest strength of man, 
 The power, by Truth confronted, to believe. 
 Not savage was that wild, barbaric race : 
 Spirit was in them. On their knees they sank, 
 With foreheads lowly bent ; and when they rose 
 Such sound went forth as when late anchored fleet 
 By morning touched, shakes out its canvas broad 
 And sweeps into new waters. Man with man 
 Clasped hands ; and each in each a something saw 
 Till then unseen. As though flesh-bound no more, 
 Their souls had touched. One Truth, the Spirit's life, 
 Lived in them all, a vast and common joy. 
 And yet as when, that Pentecostal morn, 
 Each heard the Apostle in his native tongue, 
 So now, on each, that Truth, that Joy, that Life 
 Shone forth with diverse beam. Deep peace to one 
 Those tidings seemed, a still vale after storm ; 
 
the Children of Fochlut Wood. 81 
 
 To one a sacred rule, steadying the world ; 
 
 A third exulting saw his youthful hope 
 
 Written in stars ; a fourth triumphant hailed 
 
 The just cause, long oppressed. Some laughed ; some 
 
 wept : 
 
 But she, that aged chieftain's mournful wife, 
 Clasped to her boding breast his hoary head 
 Loud clamouring, ' Death is dead ; and not for long 
 That dreadful grave can part us.' Last of all, 
 He too believed. Full many a crafty scheme, 
 Or worse that head had shaped : behind them all 
 Nature held fast her own. 
 
 Oh happy night ! 
 
 Back through the gloom of centuries sin-defaced 
 With what a saintly radiance thou dost shine ! 
 They slept not, on the loud- resounding shore 
 In glory roaming. Many a feud that night 
 Perished ; and schemes of wrong, now mockery made, 
 Lay quenched in their own shame. Far shone the fires 
 Crowning dark hills with gladness: soared the song ; 
 And heralds sped from coast to coast to tell 
 How He the Lord of all, no Power Unknown, 
 But like a man rejoicing in his house, 
 Ruled the glad earth. That demon-haunted wood, 
 Sad Erin's saddest region, rang at last 
 With hymns of men and angels. Onward sped 
 
 G 
 
82 The Children of Fochlut Wood. 
 
 Over the long, unbreaking, azure waves 
 A mighty moon, full-faced, as though on winds 
 Of rapture borne. With earliest red of dawn 
 Northward once more above the waters rushed 
 The winged barks to that long hated shore 
 Not now with axe and torch. His name they bare 
 Who linked in one the nations. 
 
 On a cliff 
 
 Where Fochlut's wood blackened the northern sea 
 A convent rose. Therein those sisters twain 
 Whose cry had summoned Patrick o'er the deep, 
 Abode, no longer weepers. Pallid still, 
 In radiance now their faces shone ; and sweet 
 Their psalms amid the clangour of rough brine. 
 Ten years, in praise to God and good to men, 
 That happy precinct housed them. Grief her work 
 In life's young morn for them had perfected ; 
 Their eve was bright as childhood. When the hour 
 Came for their blissful transit, from their lips 
 Pealed forth ere death that great triumphant chant 
 Sung by the Virgin Mother. Ages passed ; 
 And, year by year, on wintry nights, that song 
 By mariners was heard, a cry of joy. 
 
SAINT PATRICK AND KING LAEGHAIRE. 
 
 ' THOU son of Calphurn, in peace go forth ! 
 
 This hand shall slay them whoe'er shall slay thee ! 
 The carles shall stand to their necks in earth 
 
 Till they die of thirst who mock or stay thee ! 
 
 1 But my father, Nial, who is dead long since, 
 
 Permits not me to believe thy word ; 
 For the servants of Jesus, thy heavenly Prince, 
 
 Once dead, lie flat as in sleep, interr'd ; 
 But we are as men through dark floods that wade ; 
 We stand in our black graves undismay'd ; 
 Our faces are turn'd to the race abhorred, 
 And ready beside us stand spear and sword, 
 Ready to strike at the last great day, 
 Ready to trample them back into clay. 
 
 ' This is my realm, and men call it Eire, 
 Wherein I have lived and live in hate 
 
 (Like Nial before me and Ere his sire) 
 
 > 
 Of the race Lagenian, ill-named the Great ! ' 
 
 G 2 
 
84 Saint Patrick and 
 
 Thus spake Laeghaire, and his host rush'd on, 
 A river of blood as yet unshed : 
 
 At noon they fought : and at set of sun 
 That King lay captive, that host lay dead ! 
 
 The brave foe loosed him, but bade him swear 
 
 He would never demand of them Tribute more. 
 
 So Laeghaire by the dread ' God-Elements ' swore, 
 By the moon divine and the earth and air ; 
 He swore by the wind and the broad sunshine 
 
 That circle for ever both land and sea, 
 By the long-back'd rivers, and mighty wine, 
 
 By the cloud far-seeing, by herb and tree, 
 By the boon spring shower, and by autumn's fan, 
 By woman's breast, and the head of man, 
 By night and the noonday Demon he swore 
 He would claim the Boarian Tribute no more. 
 
 But with time wrath wax'd ; and he brake his faith : 
 Then the Powers he had worshipp'd they wrought his 
 
 death ; 
 
 For the Wind and Sun-Strength by Cassi's side 
 Came down and smote on his head that he died. 
 Death-sick three days on his throne he sate ; 
 Then died, as his father died, great in hate. 
 
King L aeghaire. 8 5 
 
 They buried their King upon Tara's hill, 
 In his grave upright ; there stands he still : 
 Upright there stands he as men that wade 
 By night through a castle-moat, undismay'd ; 
 On his head is the crown, the spear in his hand, 
 And he looks to the hated Lagenian land. 
 
 Such rites in the time of wrath and wrong 
 
 Were Eire's : baptized, they were hers no longer : 
 
 For Patrick had taught her his sweet new song, 
 ' Though hate is strong, yet love is stronger.' 
 
86 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR; 
 
 OR, MAC KYLE OF MAN. 
 
 IN Uladh, near Magh Inis, lived a chief, 
 Fierce man and fell. From orphaned childhood he 
 Through lawless youth to blood-stained middle age 
 Had rushed as stormy morn to stormier noon, 
 All wrongs, except that still the poor he spared, 
 Working with iron will ; a child of death. 
 Thus spake he to his followers, while the woods 
 Snow-cumber'd creaked, their scales of icy mail 
 Ruffled by winter winds : ' At last he comes, 
 He that deceives the people with great signs, 
 And for the tinkling of a little gold 
 Preaches new Gods. Where rises yonder smoke 
 Beyond the pinewood, camps this Lord of Dupes : 
 How say ye ? Over Uladh shall he track, 
 As o'er the land beside, his venomous way ? 
 Forth with your swords ! and if that God he serves 
 Can serve him, let him prove it ! 
 
 Dark with wrath 
 
Saint Patrick and the Impostor. 87 
 
 Thus spake Mac Kyle ; and all his men approved, 
 
 Shouting, while downward fell the snows hard-caked, 
 
 Loosened by shock of forest-echoed palms, 
 
 Save Garban. Crafty he, and full of lies, 
 
 That thing which Patrick hated. Sideway first 
 
 Glancing, as though some secret foe were nigh, 
 
 He spake : ' Mac Kyle ! a counsel for thine ear ! 
 
 A man of counsel I, as thou of war ! 
 
 The people love this stranger. Patrick slain, 
 
 Their wrath will blaze against us, and demand 
 
 An eric for his head. Let us by craft 
 
 His craft unravel first : then safe our choice, 
 
 Exposed to slay him, or great ransom take. 
 
 Impostors lack not gold. Upon a bier 
 
 Lay me as dead : above me spread a cloth, 
 
 And make your wail : and when the seer draws nigh 
 
 Worship him, crying, " Lo, our friend is dead ! 
 
 Kneel, prophet, kneel, and pray that God thou serv'st 
 
 To raise him." If he kneels, no prophet he, 
 
 But like the race of mortals. From my face 
 
 Sweep then the cloth; and, laughing, I will rise.' 
 
 Thus counsell'd Garban ; and the counsel pleased ; 
 Yet pleased not God. Upon a bier, branch-strewn, 
 Their man they laid, and o'er him spread a cloth ; 
 Then, moving toward that slnoke behind the pines, 
 
88 Saint Patrick and the Impostor ; or, 
 
 To Patrick wept, * Behold our friend is dead ! 
 Great prophet kneel ; and pray the God thou serv'st 
 To raise him from the dead.' 
 
 The man of God 
 
 A sentence-speaking eye upon them fixed 
 ' Yea ! he is dead. In this ye speak no lie : 
 Behold, this day shall Garban's covering be 
 The covering of the dead. Remove that cloth.' 
 
 Then drew they from his face the cloth; and lo ! 
 Beneath it Garban lay, a corpse stone-cold. 
 
 Amazement fell upon that bandit throng, 
 
 The corpse contemplating, and on Mac Kyle 
 
 Grief for his friend, remorse, and strong belief, 
 
 A threefold power : for she that at his birth 
 
 (Her brief life faithful to that Law she knew) 
 
 Had died, in region where desires are crowned, 
 
 That hour was strong in prayer. ' From God he came/ 
 
 Thus cried they; ' and a work accursed we worked, 
 
 Tempting His prophet.' Patrick heard, and spake ; 
 
 1 Not me ye tempted, but the God I serve.' 
 
 At last Mac Kyle made answer : * I have sinned; 
 
 I, and this people, whom I made to sin : , 
 
 Now therefore to thy God we yield ourselves 
 
 Liegemen henceforth, his thralls as slave to Lord, 
 
Mac Kyle of Man. 89 
 
 Or horse to master. That which thou command's! 
 
 That will we do.' And Patrick said, ' Believe ; 
 
 Confess your sins ; and be baptized to God, 
 
 The Father, and the Son. and Holy Spirit, 
 
 And live true life.' Then Patrick where he stood 
 
 Above the dead, with hands uplifted preached 
 
 To these in anguish and in terror bowed 
 
 The tidings of great joy from Bethlehem's Crib 
 
 To Calvary's Cross. Sudden upon his knees, 
 
 Heart-pierced, as though that Head thorn-pierced, he 
 
 saw, 
 
 Fell that wild chief, and was baptized to God ; 
 And, lifting up his great strong hands, while still 
 The waters streamed adown his matted locks, 
 He cried, ' Alas, my master, and my sire ! 
 A mighty sin I sinned ; for in my heart 
 Fixed was my purpose, soon as thou hadst knelt, 
 To slay thee with my sword. Therefore judge thou 
 What ransom I 'must pay to quit my sin ? ' 
 Him Patrick answered, ' God shall be thy Judge : 
 Arise, and to the seaside flee, as one 
 That flies his foe. There shalt thou find a boat 
 Made of one hide : eat nought, and nothing take 
 Except one cloak alone : but in that boat 
 Sit thou, and bear the sin-mark on thy brow, 
 Facing the waves, earless ami rudderless ; 
 
9O Saint Patrick and the Impostor ; or, 
 
 And bind the boat chain thrice around thy feet, 
 And fling the key with strength into the main, 
 And wheresoever wind, and wave, and breath 
 Of God shall waft thee, there till death live thou, 
 Working the Will Divine.' The chief replied, 
 1 1, that commanded others, can obey ; 
 Such lore alone is mine : but for this man 
 That sinned my sin, alas, to see him thus ! ' 
 To whom the Saint, ' For him, when thou art gone, 
 My prayer shall rise. If God will raise the dead 
 He knows : not I/ 
 
 Then rose that chief, and rushed 
 Down to the shore, as one that flies his foe ; 
 Nor ate, nor drank, nor spake to wife or child, 
 But loosed a little boat, of one hide made, 
 And sat therein, and round his ankles thrice 
 The boat chain wound ; and flung the key far forth 
 Above the ridged sea foam. The Lord of all 
 Gave ordinance to the wind, and, as a leaf, 
 Swift rushed that boat, oarless and rudderless, 
 Over the on-shouldering, broad-backed, glaucous wave, 
 Slow-rising like the rising of a world, 
 And purple wastes beyond, with funeral plume 
 Crested, a pallid pomp. All night the chief 
 Under the roaring tempest heard the voice 
 That preached the Son of Man ; and when the morn 
 
Mac Kyle of Man. 9 1 
 
 Shone out, his coracle drew near the surge 
 
 Reboant on Manann's Isle. Not unbeheld 
 
 Rose it, and fell ; not unregarded danced 
 
 A black spot on the inrolling ridge, then hung 
 
 Suspense upon the mile-long cataract 
 
 That, overtoppling, changed grass-green to light, 
 
 And drowned the shores in foam. Upon the sands 
 
 Two white-haired Elders in the salt air knelt 
 
 Offering to God their early orisons, 
 
 Coninri and Romael. Sixty years 
 
 These two unto a hard and stubborn race 
 
 Had preached the Word ; and gaining by their toil 
 
 But thirty souls, had daily prayed their God 
 
 Some happier arm to send, ere yet they died, 
 
 To reap the ill-grown harvest of their youth. 
 
 Ten years they prayed, not doubting, and from God, 
 
 Who hastens not, this answer had received, 
 
 ' Ye shall not die until ye see his face.' 
 
 Therefore, each morning, peered they o'er the waves, 
 
 Keen-watching. These through breakers dragged the man, 
 
 Their wished-for prize, half-frozen, and nigh to death, 
 
 And bare him to their home, and fed, and warmed, 
 
 And heaped his couch with skins. Deep sleep he slept 
 
 Till evening lay upon the level sea 
 
 With roses like a bridal chamber strewn, 
 
 And shone the evening star. Rested, he waked 
 
92 Saint Patrick and the Impostor ; or> 
 
 And sought the shore. From earth, and sea/ and sky, 
 Then passed into his spirit the Spirit of Love ; 
 And there his vow he vowed, fierce chief no more, 
 But soldier of the cross. 
 
 The weeks ran on, 
 And daily to their pupil lore divine 
 Those Elders ministered, demanding still, 
 ' Son, understandst thou ? Gird thee like a man 
 To clasp, and hold, the total faith of Christ, 
 And give us leave to die.' The months fled fast : 
 Ere violets bloomed, the creed he knew ; and when 
 Far heathery hills purpled the autumnal air, 
 He sang the psalter whole. That tale he told 
 Had power, and Patrick's name. His strenuous arm 
 Labouring with theirs, their tardy harvest reaped, 
 Till wondering gazed their wearied eyes on barns 
 Knee-deep in grain. At last an eve there fell, 
 When, on the shore in commune, with such might 
 Discoursed that pilgrim of the things of God, 
 Such insight calm, and wisdom reverence-born, 
 Each on the other gazing in their hearts 
 Heard yet again that answer from the Lord, 
 1 Now is your task completed : ye shall die.' 
 
 Then on the red sand knelt those Elders twain 
 With hands upraised, and all their hoary hair 
 
Mac Kyle of Man. 93 
 
 Tinged like the foam-wreaths by that setting sun, 
 And sang their ' Nunc Dimittis.' At its close 
 High on the sandhills, 'mid the tall hard grass 
 That sighed eternal o'er the unbounded waste, 
 They found the place where first, that bark descried, 
 Their sighs to songs were changed. That spot they 
 
 marked, 
 
 And said, ' Our Resurrection place is here : ' 
 And, on the third day dying, in that place 
 The man who loved them laid them, at their heads 
 Planting one cross, because their hearts were one, 
 And one their lives. The snowy-breasted bird 
 Of ocean o'er their undivided graves 
 Oft flew with wailing note ; but they rejoiced 
 'Mid God's high realm glittering in endless youth. 
 
 These two with Christ, on him, their son in Christ, 
 Their mantle fell ; and strength to him was given. 
 Long time alone he toiled ; then round him flocked 
 Helpers from far. Ere long, by voice of all 
 He gat the Island's great episcopate, 
 And king- like ruled the region. This is he, 
 Mac Kyle of Uladh, bishop, monk, and Saint, 
 Saint Patrick's missioner in Manann's Isle, 
 Sinner one time, and, after sinner, Saint 
 World-famous. May his prayer for sinners plead ! 
 
94 
 
 PATRICK AND THE KNIGHT; 
 
 OR, THE INAUGURATION OF IRISH CHIVALRY. 
 
 * THOU shall not be a Priest/ he said ; 
 
 ' Christ hath for thee a lowlier task ; 
 Be thou His Soldier ! Wear with dread 
 
 His Cross upon thy shield and casque ! 
 Put on God's armour, faithful knight ! 
 
 Mercy with justice, love with law ; 
 Nor e'er except for truth and right 
 
 Thy sword, cross-hilted, dare to draw.* 
 
 He spake, and with his crosier pointed 
 Graved on the broad shield's brazen boss 
 
 (That hour baptized, confirm' d, anointed 
 Stood Erin's chivalry) the Cross : 
 
 And there was heard a whisper low 
 Prince of God's armies, was it thine ? 
 
 * Thou Sword, keep pure thy virgin vow, 
 
 And trenchant shalt thou be as mine ! ' 
 
95 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AT CASHEL; 
 
 OR, THE BAPTISM OF AENGUS. 
 
 WHEN Patrick now o'er Ulster's forest bound, 
 
 And Connact, echoing to the western wave, 
 
 And Leinster, fair with hill-suspended woods, 
 
 Had raised the cross, and where the deep night ruled, 
 
 Splendour had sent of everlasting light, 
 
 Sole peace of warring hearts, to Munster next, 
 
 Thomond and Desmond, Heber's portion old, 
 
 He turned ; and, fired by love that mocks at rest, 
 
 Through raging storm, pushed on the whole night long, 
 
 Intent the Annunciation Feast to hold 
 
 At Cashel of the Kings. The royal keep 
 
 High-seated on its rock, as morning broke. 
 
 Faced them at last ; and at the selfsame hour 
 
 Aengus, in his father's absence lord, 
 
 Rising from happy sleep and heaven-sent dreams, 
 
 Went forth, upon his youthful front that light 
 
 Which shines from spotless soul. With sudden start 
 
96 Saint Patrick at Casket ; or, \ 
 
 The prince stept back ; for, o'er the fortress court, 
 Like grove storm-levelled lay the idols huge, 
 False Gods and foul, that long had awed the land, 
 Prone, without hand of man. Oer-awed he gazed. 
 Then on the air there rang a sound of hymns, 
 And by the eastern gate Saint Patrick stood, 
 The brethren round him. On their shaggy garb 
 Auroral dews, struck by the rising sun, 
 Glittered, that diamond-panoplied they seemed, 
 And as a heavenly vision. At that sight 
 The youth, descending with a wondering joy, 
 Welcomed his guests : and, ere an hour, the streets, 
 Far down, shone forth like flowering meads in spring, 
 So thronged the folk in holiday attire 
 To see the man far-famed. ' Who spurns our Gods ? ' 
 Once they had cried in wrath : but, year by year, 
 Tidings of some deliverance great and strange, 
 Some life more noble, some sublimer hope, 
 Some regal race enthroned beyond the grave, 
 Had reached them from afar. The best believed, 
 Great hearts for whom nor earthly love sufficed, 
 Nor earthly fame. The meaner scoffed : yet all 
 Desired the man. Delay their thirst had edged. 
 
 Then Patrick, standing up among them, spake, 
 And God was with him. Not as when loose tongue 
 
the Baptism of Aengus. 97 
 
 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 the eye, 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 pause of doubt 
 
 Knew they. God laid on them the robe of Truth ; 
 
 Down fell at once 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. 
 
 Their great Chief had returned : the captive clan 
 
 Trod down the usurping foe. 
 
 Then rose the cry 
 H 
 
98 Saint Patrick at Cashel ; or, 
 
 ' Join us to Christ ! ' With eyes upon them set 
 Patrick replied, ' Know ye what thing ye seek, 
 Ye that would fain be house-mates with my King ? 
 Ye seek His Cross ! Yet if to Christ your heart 
 Be liegeful, name the place, 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 and kindled, Prince 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 ? 
 Can I this people shield from death, from sin, 
 Taking them up into my breast, like God ? 
 I trow not so ! Mine be the lowliest place, 
 Following that King who left his Father's throne 
 Lowest to walk/ And 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 Baptism of Aengus. 99 
 
 The full-voiced People flocked. So swarmed of old 
 Some race its borders leaving, instinct-urged, 
 (Sad coasts, man-hardening winter's flowerless realm) 
 On southern slopes, when now, their long march o'er, 
 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 
 Ailill, the younger brother of the Prince. 
 A milk-white horse he ruled. 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 all that face : 
 The maidens marked it well. So young that brow 
 None blushed to gaze upon it Brighter yet 
 Beamed he, his brother noting. On the verge 
 Of Cashel's Rock that hour Aengus stood, 
 By Patrick's side. When near the concourse drew 
 He gazed upon it, and with clasped hands cried, 
 * My Father, fair is sunrise, fair the sea, 
 The hills, the plains, the wipd-stirred wood, the maid ; 
 But what is like a People onward borne 
 H 2 
 
ioo Saint Patrick at Caskel ; or, 
 
 In gladness ? When that sight I see, my heart 
 Grows large as 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 ! ' 
 Thus spake he ; and the word found way to 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 
 By their own murmur companied, till now 
 Filled was 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 in-thronging crowds 
 Watching, the Apostle gave them welcome thus : 
 ' As though into the great Triumphant Church, 
 O guests of God, ye flock ! Her place is Heaven : 
 
the Baptism of Aengus. lor 
 
 Sirs ! we this day are militant below. 
 
 Not less, advance in faith. Behold your crowns 
 
 Obedience and Endurance.' 
 
 Then began 
 
 The Rite ; and first, his people's Chief and Head, 
 Beside the font Aengus stood ; his face, 
 Sweet as a maid'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 front 
 And massive book, forward Saint Patrick leaned, 
 Clasping the crosier staff. Then 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 
 The cleansing waters Patrick 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, the Prince's face they marked 
 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 stately form, 
 
 Had pierced it through. ' Why suffer'dst thou so long 
 
 > 
 
 The pain in silence ? ' Patrick said, heart-grieved : 
 
IO2 Saint Patrick at Cashel ; or, 
 
 And thus Aengus answered, ' O my Sire, 
 I thought, thus called to follow Him Whose feet 
 Were pierced with nails, haply the blissful Rite 
 Some little pain included.' 
 
 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, 
 Meeting, ascended, till the crosier's head 
 Glittered above the concourse, like a star. 
 At last, his hands disparting, down he drew 
 From highest heaven the blessing, speaking thus ; 
 1 For this cause may the blessing, Sire of Kings, 
 Cleave to thy seed for ever ! Spear and sword 
 Before them fall ! In glory may the race 
 Of Nadfrach's sons, Aengus, and Ailill, 
 Hold sway on Cashel's summit ! Be their Kings 
 Great-hearted men, potent to rule and guard 
 Their people ; just to judge them ; 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.' 
 
the Baptism of Aengus. io v 
 
 Thus solemn feast in Cashel of the Kings 
 Held they till all that land was clothed with Christ : 
 And when the parting came, from Cashel's steep 
 Thus with stretched arms Patrick the blessing sent : 
 ' The Blessing fall upon the pasture broad, 
 On fruitful mead, and every corn-clad hill, 
 And woodlands 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 build 
 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.' 
 
 Then forth he fared : 
 
 The People bare him through their kingdom broad 
 With banner and loud song : but o'er its bound 
 The women of that People followed still 
 A half day's journey with lamenting voice ; 
 Then silent stood, lifting their babes on high ; 
 And, crowned with twofold blessing, home returned. 
 
SAINT PATRICK AND OISIN. I. 
 
 THE CONTENTION OF SAINT PATRICK 
 WITH OISIN. 
 
 WHEN Patrick the faith to Oisin had preached 
 
 He believed, and in just ways trod ; 
 Yet oft for old days he grieved, and thus 
 
 Stormed oft at the Saint of God. 
 
 ' Woe, woe ! for the priestly tribe this hour 
 
 On the Feine Hill have sway ! 
 Glad am I that scarce their shapes I see ; 
 Half-blind am I this day. 
 
 ' Woe, woe, thou Palace of Cruachan ! 
 
 Thy sceptre is down and thy sword ; 
 The chase goes over thy grassy roof. 
 And the monk in thy courts is lord ! 
 
 ' Thou man with the mitre and vestments broad, 
 
 And the bearing of grave command, 
 
 Rejoice that Diarmid this day is dust ! 
 
 Right heavy was his clenched hand ! 
 
The Contention of Patrick with Oism. 105 
 
 Thou man with the bell ! I rede thee well 
 
 Were Diorraing living this day, 
 Thy book he would take, and thy bell would break 
 
 On the base of yon pillar gray ! 
 
 * Thou man with miraculous crosier-staff, 
 
 Though puissant thou art, and tall, 
 Were Goll but here, he would dash thy gear 
 In twain on thy convent wall ! 
 
 ' Were Conan living, the bald-head shrill, 
 With the scourge of his scoff and gibe, 
 He would break thy neck, and thy convent wreck, 
 And lash from the land thy tribe ! 
 
 4 But one of our chiefs thy head had spared 
 
 My Oscar my son my child : 
 He was storm in the foray, and fire in the fight, 
 But in peace he was maiden mild.' 
 
 Then Patrick answered : * Old man, old man, 
 
 That Pagan realm lies low. 
 This day Christ ruleth. Forget thy chiefs, 
 
 And thy deeds gone by forego ! 
 
io6 The Contention of Patrick with Oisln. 
 
 ' High feast thou hast on the festal days, 
 
 And cakes on the days of fast ' 
 ' Thou liest, thou priest, for in wrath and scorn 
 
 Thy cakes to the dogs I cast ! ' 
 
 ' Old man, thou hearest our Christian hymns : 
 Such strains thou hadst never heard ' 
 
 ' Thou liest, thou priest ! for in Letter Lee wood 
 I have listened its famed blackbird ! 
 
 ' I have heard the music of meeting swords, 
 And the grating of barks on the strand, 
 And the shout from the breasts of the men of help 
 That leaped from the decks to land. 
 
 * Twelve hounds had my sire, with throats like bells, 
 
 Loud echoed on lake and bay : 
 By this hand, they lacked but the baptism rite 
 To chaunt with thy monks this day ! ' 
 
 Oisin's white head on his breast dropt down, 
 Till his hair and his beard, made one, 
 
 Shone out like the spine of a frosty hill 
 Far seen in the wintry sun. 
 
The Contention of Patrick with Oisin. 107 
 
 ' One question, O Patrick ! I ask of thee, 
 Thou king of the saved and shriven : 
 My sire, and his chiefs, have they their place 
 In thy City, star-built, of heaven ? ' 
 
 ' Oisin, old chief of the shining sword, 
 
 That question est of the soul, 
 That City they tread not who loved but war : 
 Their realm is a realm of dole.' 
 
 ' By this head, thou liest, thou son of Calphurn ! 
 
 In heaven I would scorn to bide, 
 If my father and Oscar were exiled men, 
 And no friend at my side.' 
 
 ' That City, old man, is the City of Peace : 
 Loud anthems, not widows' wail ' 
 
 1 It is not in bello wings chiefs take joy, 
 But in songs of the wars of Fail ! 
 
 * Are the men in the streets like Baoigne's chiefs ? 
 
 Great-hearted like us are they ? 
 Do they stretch to the poor the ungrudging hand, 
 Or turn they their heads* away ? 
 
io8 The Contention of Patrick with Oisbi. 
 
 ' Thou man with the chaunt, and thou man with the 
 
 creed, 
 
 This thing I demand of thee : 
 My dog, may he pass through the gates of heaven? 
 May my wolf-hound enter free ? ' 
 
 ' Old man, not the buzzing gnat may pass, 
 
 Nor sunbeam look in unbidden : 
 The King there sceptred knows all, sees all : 
 From him there is nothing hidden.' 
 
 * It never was thus with Fionn, our king ! 
 
 In largess our Fionn delighted : 
 The hosts of the earth came in, and went forth 
 Unquestioned, and uninvited ! ' 
 
 1 Thy words are the words of madness, old man, 
 
 Thy chieftains had rule one day ; 
 Yet a moment of heaven is three times worth 
 The warriors of Eire for aye ! ' 
 
 Then Oisin uplifted his old white head : 
 
 Like lightning from hoary skies 
 A flash went forth 'neath the shaggy roofs 
 
 Low-bent o'er his sightless eyes : 
 
The Contention of Patrick with Oisln. 109 
 
 ' Though my life sinks down, and I sit in the dust, 
 
 Blind warrior and gray-haired man, 
 Mine were they of old, thou priest over bold, 
 Those chiefs of Baoigne's clan ! ' 
 
 And he cried, while a spasm his huge frame shook, 
 
 * Dim shadows like men before me, 
 My father was Fionn, and Oscar my son, 
 
 Though to-day ye stand vaunting it o'er me ! ' 
 
 Thus raged Oisin 'mid the fold of Christ, 
 
 Still roaming old deserts wide 
 In the storm of thought, like a lion old ; 
 
 Though lamblike at last he died. 
 
no 
 
 SAINT PA1RICK AND THE CHILDLESS 
 MOTHER. 
 
 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 Eire was then thick sown with Christian seed) 
 He sought it, and beneath 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, 
 N or mad'st thou any reverence ! ' At that word 
 1'he Saint arose, and left the meat, and went. 
 
The Childless Mother. 1 1 1 
 
 Dark was the earth ere that remembered spot ' 
 He reached : 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 knelt, 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, 
 Loud wailing as the Pagan mothers wail. 
 So wailed my mother once, while pain tenfold 
 Ran through my bodiless being. For her sake, 
 If pity dwells on earth of highest heaven, 
 This mourner may it comfort. Christian she, 
 And capable of pity.' 
 
 Then the Saint 
 Cried loud, ' O God, Thou seest this Pagan's heart, 
 
1 1 2 Saint Patrick and 
 
 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.' 
 So 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 moorland moved 
 What seemed a woman's if a human form. 
 That miserable phantom onward came 
 With cry succeeding cry that sank or swelled 
 As sank 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, for the reverence of her woe, 
 Forbore. At last he spake low-toned as when 
 Best listener knows not when soft strain begins. 
 ' Daughter ! the sparrow falls not to the ground 
 Without his Maker. He that made thy son 
 Hath sent His Son all woes of men to bear, 
 And every foe subdue the latest, Death.' 
 Then rolled that woman on the Saint an eye 
 
the Childless Mother. i i , 
 
 As when the last survivor of a host 
 
 Glares on some pitying conqueror. ' Ho 1 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 scorn she turned ; 
 
 And as on blackening tarn gust follows gust, 
 
 So followed 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, severe, Saint 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 upon it stands ; yet in 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 ; 
 i 
 
H4 Saint Patrick and 
 
 And o'er it went her wandering palms, as though 
 
 Some stone-blind mother o'er an infant's face 
 
 An agonising hand should spread, 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 some 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 by wave half drowned. Hour followed hour : 
 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 lay mute, 
 And where the skiey madness late had raged 
 
the Childless Mother. 115 
 
 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 distant lands 
 
 Christian thou found'st thine own, and found'st the cross 
 
 On Christian graves : and ill thy heart endured 
 
 That tomb so dear should lack its reverence meet. 
 
 To him thou gaVst 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, 
 Mine hands have risen : but thou no prayer hast raised 
 For him, thy dearest ; nor from founts of God, 
 Though brimful, hast thou drawn for lips that need. 
 Arise, and kneel, and hear thy loved one's cry : 
 Too long he waiteth. Blessed are the dead: 
 
1 1 6 Saint Patrick and 
 
 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-scaled 
 
 Not yet their God can see. Prayer speeds the time : 
 
 The living help the dead ; all praise to Him 
 
 Who blends His children in a league of help, 
 
 Nor separate makes our good. Eternal Love ! 
 
 Not thine the will that love with life should cease, 
 
 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 
 
 Far o'er the grave. O woman, 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.' 
 
the Childless Mother. 1 1 7 
 
 Then that which Kings desired to know, and seers 
 And prophets vigil-blind that Crown of Truths, 
 Scandal of fools, and conqueror of the world, 
 To her, that midnight mourner, he divulged, 
 Record authentic : how in sorrow and sin 
 Had groaned the earth ; 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, henceforth, death-freed, the self-same gates 
 Entering, the everlasting throne shall share. 
 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 breast 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, 
 
1 1 8 Saint Patrick and 
 
 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 unto 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: 
 
 1 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,. 
 
the Childless Mother. 1 1 9 
 
 Uprushed the strength of prayer, as when the cloud 
 Uprushes past some beetling mountain wall 
 From billowy deep unseen. Long time she prayed ; 
 While heaven and earth grew silent as that night 
 When rose the Saviour. Sudden ceased the prayer : 
 Then 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, 
 The dusky shadow of her youth renewed, 
 That woman stood, with hands upraised to heaven : 
 And Patrick instant spake, ' Give thanks to God, 
 And speed thee home ; and sleep : and since thy son 
 No children left, two orphans take to thee, 
 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 her door she reached, a zone of white 
 Loosening along the dusky-vested dawn 
 Revealed a widening light. ^ That light ere long 
 
1 20 The Childless Mother. 
 
 Lay, unawakening, 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 had heaved 
 
 Rocking a sleeping Infant. 
 
121 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AND OISIN. II. 
 THE DEATH OF OSCAR. 
 
 ' SING us once more of Gahbra's fight, 
 Old bard, that fight where fell thy son : ' 
 
 Thus Patrick spake to vexed Oisin, 
 And the old man's wrath was gone. 
 
 ' Thou of the crosier white ! whoe'er 
 
 Had seen that plain with carnage spread, 
 
 Or friend or foe, had wept for Eire, 
 And for her princes dead ! 
 
 * There lay the arms of mighty chiefs ; 
 
 There kings in death with helms unbound. 
 A field of doom it was ; a place 
 By deadly spells girt round! 
 
 * Upon his left hand leaned my son : 
 
 His shield lay broken by his side : 
 His right hand clutched his sword : the blood 
 Rushed from him like a tide. 
 
1 2 2 The Death of Oscar. 
 
 1 1 stayed my spear-shaft on the ground : 
 O'er him I stooped on bended knee : 
 
 On me my Oscar turned his eyes : 
 He stretched his hands to me. 
 
 * To me my Oscar spake my son 
 The dying man, and all but dead : 
 
 "Thou liv'st ! For this I thank the Gods ! 
 O father ! " thus he said. 
 
 ' " Rememberest thou that day we fought 
 Far westward at the Sith of Mor ? " 
 
 Caoilte spake : " I healed thee then, 
 Though deep thy wounds and sore : 
 
 ' " No cure there lives for wounds like these." ' 
 Here ceased the lamentable sound. 
 
 Five steps the old man moved apart ; 
 Then dashed him on the ground. 
 
 * My Oscar stared upon his wounds ; 
 
 To fields long past his thoughts took flight : 
 " My son," I cried, " thou hadst not died 
 
 If Fionn had ruled the fight ! " 
 
The Death of Oscar. 
 
 1 Patrick ! I have sung thee lays, 
 Emprize of others, or my own ; 
 
 Where he was bravest, all were brave ; 
 But his, and his alone, 
 
 ' The gracious ways, the voice that smiled, 
 The heart so loving and so strong : 
 
 The women laughed my harp to hear ; 
 They wept at Oscar's song ! 
 
 * All night we watched the dying man : 
 To staunch his blood we strove in vain : 
 
 We heard the demon-loaded wind 
 Along the mountain strain. 
 
 ' All night we propped him with our spears 
 To staunch his blood we strove in vain : 
 
 Till, drenched in falling floods, the moon 
 Went down beyond the plain. 
 
 ' Alas ! the dawning of that morn, 
 My Oscar's last ! With barren glare 
 
 It flashed along the broken arms, 
 And the red pools here and there. 
 
1 24 The Death of Oscar. 
 
 Then saw we, pacing from afar, 
 A kingly form, a shape of woe : 
 
 King Fionn it was that toward us moved 
 With measured footsteps slow : 
 
 ' King Fionn himself ; and far behind 
 Came many warriors more of Fail, 
 
 Down-gazing on Baoigne's clan, 
 Death-cold, and still, and pale. 
 
 ' There lay all dumb the men of might ; 
 
 There, foot to foot, the foemen, strewn 
 Like seaweed lines on stormy shores, 
 
 Or forests overblown ! 
 
 * Oh ! then to hear that cry far borne 
 
 On gales new-touched with morning frost ! 
 
 As though he heard it not, the King 
 Came, striding o'er that host, 
 
 ' Seeking the bodies of his sons. 
 
 So on he strode through fog and mist ; 
 And we to meet him moved ; for now 
 
 That Fionn it was we wist. 
 
Tlie Death of Oscar. 125 
 
 ' " All hail to thee, King Fionn ! all hail ! " 
 He answered naught, but onward passed 
 
 Until he reached that spot where lay 
 My Oscar sinking fast. 
 
 * " Late, late thou com'st : yet thou art here." 
 
 Then answered Fionn, " Alas the day ! 
 My reign is done since thou art gone, 
 And all this host is clay." 
 
 ' My Oscar gazed upon his face : 
 
 He heard the words his grandsire said : 
 
 He heard, nor spake : his hand down fell 
 And his great spirit fled. 
 
 * Then all the warriors, far and near, 
 
 Save one that wept, and Fionn, my sire, 
 Three times upraised a cry that rang 
 O'er all the land of Eire. 
 
 ' Fionn turned from us his face that hour : 
 We knew that tears adown it crept : 
 
 Never, except for Bran his hound, 
 
 > 
 
 The King till then had wept. 
 
1 26 The Death of Oscar. 
 
 1 He shed no tear above his son ; 
 
 Tearless he saw his brother die : 
 He wept to see my Oscar dead, 
 
 And the warriors weeping nigh. 
 
 6 This is the tale of Gahbra's fight, 
 
 Where all the monarch s warred on one ; 
 
 Where they that wrecked him shared his fate, 
 And Erin's day was done. 
 
 * On Gahbra's field the curse came down : 
 Our voice is changed from that of men : 
 
 We sigh by night ; we sigh by day : 
 We learned that lesson then. 
 
 1 Oh ! many a prince was laid that day 
 In narrow cairn and lonely cave ; 
 
 But all the far-famed Rath thenceforth 
 Became my Oscar's grave. 
 
 * Patrick, I pray the Lord of Life 
 Patrick, do thou his grace implore 
 
 That death may still my heart ere long : 
 This night my pain is sore.' 
 
127 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AT THE FEAST OF 
 KNOCK CAE; 
 
 OR, THE FOUNDING OF MUNGRET. 
 
 IN Luimneach, ere he reached it, fame there ran 
 
 Of Patrick's words and works. Before his feet 
 
 Ailill had fallen, loud wailing, with his wife, 
 
 And cried, ' Our child by savage beasts is slain : 
 
 But thou, O prophet, if that God thou serv'st 
 
 Be God, to life 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 Ailbhe, bishops twain, 
 
 And bade them raise the child. They heard and knelt ; 
 
 And Patrick knelt between them : and these three 
 
128 Saint Patrick at 
 
 Upheaved a mighty strength of prayer ; and lo ! 
 All pale, yet shining, rose the child, and sat, 
 Lifting small hands, and to the people preached, 
 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 wondrous 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 Luimneach 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 beach leaves lose their silken gloss, and maids 
 From whitest brows depose the hawthorn white, 
 In place the rose enthroning. Earliest gleams 
 
the Feast of Knock Cae. 1 29 
 
 Glimmered on leaves that shook like wings of birds : 
 
 Saint Patrick marked them well. To Fiacc he turned 
 
 * 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 sin they less, 
 
 Who, if they saw, seeing would disbelieve. 
 
 Hark to that note ! Oh foolish woodland choirs ! 
 
 Ye sing but idle loves : and, idler yet, 
 
 The bards sing war war only ! ' 
 
 Answered thus 
 
 The monk bard-loving : ' Sing it ! Aye, and make ! 
 The keys of all the tempests hang on zones 
 Of those cloud-spirits ! 'Tis theirs to 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 cheerless hall : 
 He nought complained ; but issuing forth ere morn 
 Sang in dark wood a keen and venomed song 
 That raised on the King's countenance death-spots three ; 
 Who saw him named them Scorn, Dishonour, Shame, 
 And blighted the three oak trees nigh his door. 
 What next ? Before a month that realm in blood 
 Lay drowned : and fire went o'er the opprobrious house ! ' 
 Thus spake the youth, and blushed at his own zeal 
 
 K 
 
1 30 St. Patrick at 
 
 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 ; 
 And 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, and 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 reverence made me, mocked my quest. He said, 
 " Fiacc thou wouldst have ? 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 : 
 
the Feast of Knock Cae. 131 
 
 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. Holy hymns 
 
 Quenched soon thy songs of battle.' 
 
 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, the laws of Eire 
 Deep-sifting, and recasting for all time, 
 111 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, thy * Senchus Mohr,' 
 Like his, that Hebrew lawgiver's, who sat 
 Throned on the clouded Mount, while far below 
 Waited in awe the Tribes. 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 harpstrings.' ' All are wise,' 
 
 K 2 
 
132 St. Patrick at 
 
 Shouted the younger, ' save that war they wage 
 
 On thee, the wisest. In their music bath 
 
 Cleanse they man's heart, not less, and thus thy way, 
 
 Though hating thee, prepare. The bards are wise 
 
 For all except themselves. Shall God not save them, 
 
 He who would all men save ? 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 them that walked obedient ! ' l 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 itself ! Seest thou yon forest floor, 
 
 And 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. A hamlet in the woods 
 Soon reached they. Here, upon 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. 
 
the Feast of Knock Cae. 133 
 
 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 Laimbhe. To his heart close clasped 
 
 O'er it he muttered spells with flatteries mixt : 
 
 4 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 forked 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, l 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 
 
I 34 St. Patrick at 
 
 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 
 A battle-axe she caught, and in both hands 
 High raised it, crying, * Wouldst thou slay my babes ? ' 
 He answered, ' I would save them. Woman, hear ! 
 Seest thou yon floating shape ? A worm it died : 
 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 
 
the Feast of Knock Cae. 1 35 
 
 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 : ' Yon child, by all the rest 
 Cherished as though some infant God he were, 
 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, 
 And hath decreed 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 faith therein 
 By vision last. Woman, these things are hard ; 
 But thou to Luimneach come in three days' time, 
 Likewise thy husband ; there, by Bangui's Well, 
 All shalt thou know.' 
 
 Ere long that festal mount 
 
 They reached. Long companies with bannered line 
 Its slope ascended. 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, 
 
136 St. Patrick at 
 
 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, Lunga's lake shines out 
 In sunlight flashing ! ' At his word drew near 
 The men of Eire. Then 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 Dei-ball's laugh, 
 Of Patrick questioned 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. 
 
the Feast of Knock Cae. 137 
 
 Meantime, high up on that thyme-scented hill 
 By shadows swept, and lights, and rapturous winds, 
 Lonan the feast prepared, and, with the chief, ; 
 Mantan, a deacon. Tables fair were spread ; 
 And tents with branches gay. Beside those tents 
 Stood the sweet-breathing, mournful, dark- eyed kine 
 With hazel-shielded horns, and gave their milk 
 To merry maidens. Halfway down the sun 
 Had fallen, when, Patrick near the summit now, 
 Upon him burst a wandering troop, wild-eyed, 
 With scant and quaint array. O'er sunburnt brows 
 Sere wreaths they wore ; 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 us 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 litde wether at his back/ 
 
138 St. Patrick at 
 
 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 the little wether gave. 
 
 With both his hands outstretched, and liberal smile, 
 
 He gave it, though, with eye askance, that grace 
 
 His aged mother grudged. 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, ' Of many things 
 Careful art thou ; not less that church thou raisest 
 Shall not be of the honoured in the land ; 
 And in its chancel waste the mountain kine 
 Above thy grave shall couch.' 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, 
 Mine honour cherish, 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 
 
the Feast of Knock Cae. 139 
 
 That Nessan serves shall be his mother's grave.' 
 Then Nessan he baptized, and on him bound 
 Ere long the deacon's grade, and o'er his church 
 At Mungret, later placed him. 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 
 Close joined, 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 
 Sudden on Patrick in its breadth to view 
 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 his name sustains, and saw the flood 
 
 v 
 
 At widest stretched, and that green Isle hard by, 
 
140 St. Patrick at 
 
 And northern Thomond. From its coasts her sons 
 
 Rushed countless forth in skiff and coracle 
 
 Smiting blue wave to white, and Sheenan's sound 
 
 Was in their clamour lost. Then fell from God 
 
 Power upon Patrick ; and in spirit he saw, 
 
 Invisible to flesh, that river's mouth, 
 
 And the ocean way, and, far beyond, that land 
 
 The Future's heritage, and prophesied 
 
 Of Brendan that ere long in wicker boat 
 
 Should over-ride the mountains of the deep, 
 
 Shielded by God, and tread no fable then 
 
 Fabled Hesperia of the Grecian bards ; 
 
 And him, the hermit saint, 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 sunset paved with fire the wave : that hour, 
 
 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 vale, 
 
 On sea-like plain and on the showery ridge, 
 
 On river-ripple, cliff, and murmuring deep, 
 
 On seaward peaks, harbours, and towns, and ports ; 
 
the Feast of Knock Cae. 1 4 1 
 
 A blessing on the sand beneath the ships : 
 On all descend the blessing ! ' Thus he prayed, 
 Great-hearted ; and from all the echoing hills 
 And waters came the people's vast ' Amen ! ' 
 
142 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AND OISIN. III. 
 \ 
 
 OISIN' S YOUTH. 
 
 1 PATRICK ! thy priests do ill to jeer, 
 
 Not me, but Oscar's self, and Fionn : 
 Wise are they ; but the dead are dear : 
 This deed is not well done. 
 
 ' Who dares to say the King lies bound 
 By angel hosts in bonds abhorred ? 
 Had these lain bound, great Fionn had found 
 And freed them with his sword ! 
 
 * Had Fionn but heard thine Eve lament 
 
 The apple stol'n the curse on men 
 For eric apples he had sent, 
 Shiploads threescore and ten ! 
 
 * Likewise that Serpent slain had he ! 
 
 Fionn ever said this way was best, 
 To kill the bad that killed should be, 
 And be loving to the rest 
 
Oisms Youth. 143 
 
 Patrick, a pact with thee I make : 
 
 Because my warriors they deride, 
 With thee to heaven my father take, 
 
 And leave thy priests outside ! 
 
 ' Patrick, this other boon I crave, 
 
 That I to thee in heaven may sing 
 Full loud the glories of the brave, 
 And Fionn, my sire and King ! ' 
 
 ' Oism, in heaven the praises swell 
 
 To God alone from Soul and Saint : ' 
 
 * Then, Patrick, 1 their deeds will tell 
 
 In a little whisper faint ! 
 
 ' Who says that Fionn his sentence waits 
 
 In some dark realm, the thrall of sin ? 
 Fionn would have burst that kingdom's gates, 
 Or ruled himself therein ! ' 
 
 ' Old man, for once thy chiefs forget ' 
 (Thus oft the Saint his rage beguiled) : 
 
 * Sing us thine own glad youth, while yet 
 
 A stripling, or a chilti.' 
 
144 Oisms Youth. 
 
 1 O Patrick, glad that time and dear ! 
 
 It wrought no greatness, gained no gain ; 
 Not less those things that thou wouldst hear 
 Thou shalt not seek in vain. 
 
 * My mother was a princess, turned 
 
 By magic to a milk-white doe : 
 Such tale, a wondering child, I learned. 
 True was it ? Who can know ? 
 
 ' I know but this, that, yet a boy, 
 
 I raced beside her like the wind : 
 We heard the hunter's horn with joy, 
 And left the pack behind 
 
 * A strength was mine that knew no bound, 
 
 A witless strength that nothing planned : 
 When came the Jiour, the deed I found 
 Scarce sought for in my hand. 
 
 1 Forth from a cave I stept at Beigh : 
 
 O'er ivied cliffs the loose clouds rushed 
 With them I raced, and reached ere they 
 The loud seas sandhill-hushed. 
 
Oisms Youth. 145 
 
 ' By Brandon's cliff an eagle brown 
 
 O'erhung our wave-borne coracle : 
 I hurled at him my lance, and down 
 Like falling stars he fell. 
 
 ' On that green shore of Ardrakese 
 
 An untamed horse I made my slave, 
 And forced him far o'er heaving seas, 
 And reinless rode the wave. 
 
 ' Methinks my brow I might have laid 
 
 Against a bull's, and there and then 
 Backward have pushed him up the glade, 
 And down the rocky glen ! 
 
 * So ran my youth through dark and bright 
 
 In deeds half jest. Their time is gone : 
 The glorious works of thoughtful might 
 For Oscar were and Fionn. 
 
 When met the hosts in mirth I fought : 
 My war-fields still with revel rang : 
 
 My sword with such a^God was fraught 
 That while it smote it sang. 
 
 L 
 
146 Oisms Youth. 
 
 ' My spear, unbidden, to my hand 
 
 Leaped, hawk-wise, for the battle's sake 
 Forth launched, it flashed along the land 
 With music in its wake. 
 
 ' A shield I bore so charged and stored 
 
 With rage and yearnings for the fight, 
 When foes drew near it shook, and roared 
 Like breakers in the night : 
 
 * But when at last the iron feast 
 
 Of war its hungry heart had stilled, 
 It murmured like a whispering priest 
 Or frothing pail new-filled.' 
 
 ' Say, knew'st thou never fear or awe ? ' 
 Thus Patrick ; and the Bard replied, 
 
 ' Yea, once : for once a man I saw 
 Who net in battle died. 
 
 ' I sang the things I loved the fight 
 
 The chance inspired that all decides ; 
 That pause of death, when Fate and Flight 
 Drag back the battle tides : 
 
Oisiri's Youth. 147 
 
 ' The swords that blent their lightnings blue ; 
 
 The midnight march ; the city's sack ; 
 The advancing ridge of spears that threw 
 
 The levelled sunrise back. 
 
 * And yet my harp could still the storm, 
 
 Redeem the babe from magic blight, 
 Restore to human heart and form 
 The unhappy spell-bound knight. 
 
 * And some could hear a sobbing hind 
 
 Among my chords j and some would swear 
 They heard that kiss of branch and wind 
 That lulled the wild-deer's lair ! 
 
 * I sang not lies : where base men thronged 
 I sat not, neither harped for gold : 
 
 My song no generous foeman wronged, 
 No woman's secret told. 
 
 1 1 sang among the sea-side flocks 
 When sunset flushed the bowery spray, 
 
 Or when the white moon scaled the rocks 
 And glared upon the \>ay. 
 
 L 2 
 
148 Oisms Youth. 
 
 1 My stately music I rehearsed 
 
 On shadowing cliffs, when, far below, 
 
 In rolled the moon-necked wave, and burst, 
 And changed black shores to snow. 
 
 ' But now I tread a darker brink : 
 Far down, unfriendlier waters moan : 
 
 And now of vanished times I think ; 
 Now of that bourn unknown. 
 
 * I strike my harp ; I make good cheer ; 
 
 Yet scarce myself can catch its sound : 
 I see but shadows bending near 
 
 When feasters press around. 
 
 ' Say, Patrick of the mystic lore, 
 Shall I, when this old head lies low, 
 
 My Oscar see, and Fionn, once more, 
 And run beside that Doe ? ' 
 
149 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AND KING EOCHAIDH. 
 
 EOCHAIDH, son of Cruimther, 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, 
 
 Keine, 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 winged 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 
 
 Passes with time into the shadow land, 
 
 If childless, twice defeated. Beauty wed 
 
 To mate unworthy, suffers worse. eclipse 
 
 1 111 choice between two ills ! ' thus spleenful cried 
 
150 King EocJiaidJis Choice. 
 
 Eochaidh ; 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. 
 
 In woods she walked 
 
 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. * 111 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, from winter's coldest cave 
 Might well have called the spring. It ceased : she turned : 
 Beside her Patrick stood. His hand he raised 
 To bless her. Awed though glad, upon her knees 
 
King EochaidJis Choice. 1 5 1 
 
 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, but 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, unknown, 
 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 substance found it. * 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 winged 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 
 
1 5 2 King EochaidKs Choice. 
 
 Desire, but live with Him in endless prayer, 
 
 And tend Him in His poor.' Aloud she cried, 
 
 1 The nearest to the Highest, this is love ; 
 
 Such bridal lot I choose.' 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 resist he might : 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 towers of stone ; the rest, 
 
 Not high, but spreading wide, of wood compact j 
 
 For thither many a forest hill had sent 
 
 His wind-accustomed daughters, converse old 
 
 With cloud and dews relinquishing thenceforth 
 
 To echo back the revels of a King. 
 
 Mosaic was the work, beam laced with beam 
 
 In quaint device : high up, o'er many a door 
 
King Eochaidtis Choice. 1 5 3 
 
 Shone blazon rich of vermeil, or of green, 
 
 Or shield of bronze, glittering with veined 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 l 
 
 Trending toward eastern Alba. From his throne 
 
 Above the semicirque of grassy seats 
 
 Whereon by Brehons and by Ollambs girt 
 
 Daily he 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) 
 The Apostle of the Lord to King and court 
 Proclaimed 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, 
 Eochaidh round him stared. A little while, 
 And from him passed the amazement. Buoyant once more, 
 
 And bright like trees fresher for thunder-shower, 
 
 > 
 1 The Giant's Causeway. 
 
154 King Eochaidtis Choice. 
 
 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 than a 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. To cloud that heaven was changed, 
 Cloud that on borne to Claire'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, him whose hosts 
 Number my warriors fourfold. Three long years 
 Beyond those purple mountains in the west 
 Hostage he lies.' Lightly Eochaidh spoke. 
 And turned ; but shaken chin that grief betrayed 
 Which lived beneath his lightness. 
 
 Sudden thronged 
 
 High on the neighbouring hills a jubilant troop, 
 Their banners waving, while with horn and harp 
 The midway vale resounded. Patrick spake : 
 * Rejoice ! thy son returns ! not sole he comes, 
 
King Eochaidtis Choice. 155 
 
 But in his hand a princess, fair and good, 
 
 A kingdom for her dowry. Aodh's realm, 
 
 By me late left, welcomed with loyal joy 
 
 The tidings of deliverance. Near and far 
 
 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 
 
 Man's race ; the Babe of Bethlehem freed the slave. 
 
 Thy thrall for His sake loose ! " 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, thou know'st 
 
 Henceforth, if empty words that faith I preach. 
 
 Or truth, and armed with power.' 
 
156 King EochaidKs Choice. 
 
 That night was passed 
 In feasting and in revel, high and low 
 The common joy partaking. 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 rage invoked, 
 Nor grief condoled, nor sealed with slumber's balm 
 Tempestuous spirits, triumphs three of song, 
 But raised to rapture, mirth. Far spread that hall 
 Glowing with hangings steeped in every tinct 
 The boast of Erin's dyeing- vats, now plain, 
 Now prank'd 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), or traced by broiderer's hand 
 With legends of Ferdiadh and of Meave, 
 Even to the golden fringe. The warriors paced 
 Exulting. Oft their merit's prize they showed, 
 Poniard or cup, tribute ordained of tribes 
 
King EochaidJis Choice. 157 
 
 From age to age, Eochaidh's right, to them 
 With equal right devolving. On 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 jewell'd 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 
 
 With Patrick spake. Displeased he heard announced 
 His daughter's high resolve : but still his looks 
 Went wandering to his son. ' My boy ! Behold him 1 
 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\hey not long since ? 
 
158 King Eochaidtis Choice. 
 
 Our Druids came before them, and, belike, 
 
 Shall after them abide ! With these new seers 
 
 Patrick I count not. 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 eyes of earth 
 
 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 poor the man with me will bide : 
 
 He's brave, and haply soon in fight may fall ! 
 
 When Cormac dies ' the music, as he spake, 
 
 Forth bursting drowned his words. 
 
 A week passed by : 
 To Patrick, then preparing to depart, 
 Thus spake Eochaidh 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 surfer all my people to believe, 
 Just terms exacted. Briefly these they are : 
 First, after death, admittance frank I crave 
 Into thy Heavenly Kingdom : next, till death 
 For me exemption from that Baptism Rite, 
 
King EochaidJis Choice. 159 
 
 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,-Eochaidh's heart 
 
 Knowing, which miracle had hardened more, 
 
 Made answer, ' King, a man of jests art thou, 
 
 Entrance to heaven demanding, yet the gate 
 
 Thyself close barring ! In thy daughter's prayers 
 
 Belike thou trustest, that where others creep 
 
 Thou shalt the golden bastions over-fly. 
 
 Far otherwise than in that way thou weet'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. Vare thee well.' 
 
1 60 King EockaidKs Choice. 
 
 Thus speaking, by the hand he took the maid, 
 And led her through the concourse. At her feet 
 Low fell the poor, 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 borne 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 
 At Patrick's feet had knelt. 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 her spotless throne assumes ; 
 Forth from the 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, 
 That veil he flung which woman parts from man 
 To make her more than woman. Nigh to death 
 
Saint Patrick and King Eochaidk. 1 6 1 
 
 The Saint forgat not her. With her remained 
 Kerne ; but Patrick dwelt far off at Saul. 
 
 The years went by : yet neither chance nor change, 
 
 Nor war, nor peace, nor warnings from the priests, 
 
 Nor whispers 'mid the omen-mongering crowd, 
 
 Might from Eochaidh charm his wayward will, 
 
 Nor reasonings of the wise that still preferred 
 
 Safe port to victory's pride. He reasoned too, 
 
 Reckoning on restless fingers every point 
 
 That clenched his mail of proof. ' On Patrick's word 
 
 Ye tell me Baptism is the gate of Heaven.: 
 
 So be it ! I have Patrick's word no less 
 
 That I shall enter Heaven. What need I more ? 
 
 If, after death, I find 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. If this be hard, the prophet's pledge 
 
 For honour's sake his Master must redeem, 
 
 And unbaptized receive me. Dupes ye are ! 
 
 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 dazzled eyes seemed taller than it was : 
 M 
 
1 62 Saint Patrick and King Eochaidh. 
 
 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 wailed ; 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 
 Except the King. The leech beside the bed 
 Sobbed where he stood, yet sware, ' The fit will pass : 
 Ten years the King may live/ Eochaidh frowned : 
 ' Shall I, thy fame to patch, 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 spring-tide. He must die ere long ; 
 And not to him did Patrick open heaven. 
 
Saint Patrick and King Eochaidh. 163 
 
 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 ; 
 Then like an infant slumbered till the sun, 
 Sinking beneath a great cloud's fiery skirt, 
 Smote his old eyelids. Waking, in his ears 
 Whispered the ripening cornfields '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, 
 
1 64 Saint Patrick and King Eochaidh. 
 
 And looks upon my brow.' A little sigh 
 Then breathed the King, and died. 
 
 Three days, as when 
 
 The thunder clingeth to dark 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 Eochaidh's son, 
 Behind him all the chieftains cloaked in black, 
 And on his left his daughter knelt, the nun, 
 Behind her all the sisterhood, white-veiled, 
 Like tomb-stones after snow-storm. Far away, 
 At ' Saul of Patrick ' dwelt the Saint when first 
 The King had sickened. Message none he sent, 
 Though knowing all ; and when the end had come, 
 And heralds now besought him day by day, 
 No answer made he till o'er eastern seas 
 Advanced the third fair morning. Then he rose, 
 And took the Staff of Jesus, and at eve 
 Stood by the old dead King, and on his brow 
 Fixed a sad eye. Aloud the people wept ; 
 Kneeling, the warriors eyed their Lord askance ; 
 The nuns their hymn intoned. Above that hymn 
 
Saint Patrick and King Eochaidh. 165 
 
 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 to earth once more, 
 
 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 : 
 
1 66 Saint Patrick and King Eochaidk. 
 
 '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 
 
 That stayed the on-rushing whirlwind : yet mine eyes 
 
 Perforce looked in, and many a thousand years 
 
 Upon them branded lay that woful sight, 
 
 Now washed from them for ever.' Patrick spake: 
 
 * This day a twofold choice I give thee, son : 
 
 For fifteen years o'er all the Land of Eire 
 
 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. l 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. 
 
Saint Patrick and King Eochaidk. 167 
 
 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.' The 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, 
 Spake thus : the first, ' 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 j Faith's invisible germ 
 Quickened with parting breath ; and Baptism given, 
 It may be, by an angel's hand unseen ! ' 
 
1 68 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AND OISIN. IV. 
 OfSSN'S QUESTION. 
 
 O PATRICK, taught by Him, the Unknown, 
 These questions answer ere I die : 
 
 Why, when the trees at evening moan, 
 Why must an old man sigh ? 
 
 No kinsmen of my stock are they 
 Though reared was I in sylvan cell : 
 
 Love-whispers once they breathed : this day 
 They mutter but 'Farewell!' 
 
 What mean the floods ? Of old they said 
 ' Thus, thus, ye chiefs, ye clans, sweep on ! ' 
 
 They whiten still their rocky beds : 
 Those chiefs and clans are gone. 
 
 What Power is that which daily heaves 
 O'er earth's dark verge the rising sun, 
 
 As large, the Druid, Alph, believes, 
 As Tork or Mangerton ? 
 
Oislris Question. 169 
 
 A woman once in youthful flower 
 
 Her infant laid upon my knee : 
 What was it shook my heart that hour ? 
 
 I live Oh, where is he ? 
 
 What thing is Youth, which speeds so fast ? 
 
 What thing is Life, which lags so long ? 
 Trapped, trapped we are by age at last, 
 
 In a net of fraud and wrong ! 
 
 I cheated am by eld, or cheat, 
 
 Heart-young as leaves in sun that bask : 
 Is that fresh heart a counterfeit, 
 
 Or this grey shape a mask ? 
 
 Some say 'tis folly to be moved : 
 ' The dog, he dieth why not thou ? ' 
 
 They lie ! We loved ! The ill reproved 
 Is Oscar nothing now ? 
 
 O Patrick of the crosier staff, 
 
 The wondrous Book, and anthems slow, 
 
 If thou the riddle knoVst but half, 
 > 
 
 Help those who nothing know ! 
 
1 70 Oisms Question. 
 
 Who made the worlds? the soul? Man's race? 
 
 The man that knoweth, he is man ! 
 I, once a Prince, will serve in place, 
 
 Clansman of that man's clan ! 
 
SAINT PATRICK AND THE FOUNDING OF 
 ARMAGH CATHEDRAL. 
 
 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 to God ere yet he died. 
 
 Then by him stood God's angel, speaking thus, 
 
 ' Not here, but northward.' He replied, ' Oh would 
 
 This spot might favour find with God ! Behold ! 
 
 Fair is it, and as meet a church to clasp 
 
 As is a true heart in a virgin breast 
 
 To hold 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 to thine shall pass : 
 
 But thou to Macha get thee/ 
 
172 St. Patrick and 
 
 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 
 All 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 Ere, 
 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 had borne him through the floods. 
 His rest was nigh. That hour a stream they crossed, 
 Deep stream, 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 
 
the Founding of A rmagh Cathedra I. 173 
 
 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 town new-fired. Yet, none the less, 
 Spring-touched, the blackbird sang ; green, grassy lawns 
 The cowslips changed to 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 that on the bosom lay 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, 
 
147 St- Patrick and 
 
 Though wild." ' And Patrick, ' Spirits twain are theirs 
 
 The stranger, and the poor, at every door 
 
 A gracious welcome meets. The youngest child 
 
 Officious is in service : maids the bath 
 
 Prepare ; men fill the wine-cup. Then, forth borne, 
 
 Cities they fire, and rich in spoil depart, 
 
 Greed mixt 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. Clans remote 
 
 To them are alien worlds. They know not yet 
 
 That clans are made of men.' 
 
 ' This know they shall/ 
 Patrick made answer, * when a race far off 
 Tramples their race to clay ! His plague of war 
 God loosens upon earth that men 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, 
 1 O Father, not alone with sign and ban 
 Hast thou rebuked their madness. Oftener far, 
 
the Founding of Armagh Cathedral. 1 75 
 
 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, 
 ' His axe let no man sharpen.' On those hands 
 Gazing, they wept, soon as thy voice they heard. 
 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, 
 Fill'd 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 j murmured household wheel ; 
 Soft eyes looked o'er it through the dusk ; at work 
 The labourers carolled ; matrons glad and maids 
 Bare us the steadied pail, and children flowers : 
 Last, from her castle paced the Queen, and led 
 In either hand her sons, whom thou hadst blessed, 
 Thenceforth thy priests to stand. The land believed ; 
 And not through ban, or wtfrd, sharp-edged, or soft, 
 
1 76 St. Patrick and 
 
 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 high 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 early spring the grave old oaks 
 Push forth their sprays, wine-red : their strength matured, 
 Matured is then their verdure.' Patrick paused, 
 Then, brooding, spake, as one who thinks, not speaks : 
 ' A priest there was who with me ten years walked, 
 Warrior in youth and Bard. 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 : 
 
the Fo^t,nd^ng of Armagh Cathedral. 177 
 
 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, 
 
 Upon their left hand stretched a mighty land 
 Of forest-girdled hills, mother of streams : 
 Beyond it sank the day ; while roxmd 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, 
 But 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, 
 
 N 
 
1 78 St. Patrick and 
 
 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 ; and no man 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 ! Doubtless '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 
 Went by the hours, 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 
 For coverlet upon the warm dry grass, 
 Honouring the stranger guests. For them too mean 
 They deemed their low-roofed cots. Glad-hearted rose 
 The Christian hymn not timid : loud it rang 
 Above the woods. Ere long, their happy 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 : 
 
the Founding of Armagh Cathedral. 1 79 
 
 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 j ' 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 onward journeyed till, at set of sun, 
 Shone out the roofs of Macha, and that tower 
 Where Daire dwelt, its lord. 
 
 Then Patrick sent 
 
 To Daire embassage, vouchsafing prayer 
 As sire might pray of son : ' Yon hill give thou 
 To Christ, that we may build His church thereon.' 
 And Daire answered, with a brow of storms, 
 
 N 2 
 
i So St. Patrick and 
 
 1 Your master is a mighty man, we know. 
 Garban, that lied to God, he slew through prayer, 
 And many a lake hath banned, 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 1 By others answer we will send.' 
 
 So Daire sent to Patrick men of might, 
 Fierce men, the battle's nurslings. Thus they spake : 
 c High region for high heads ! If build ye must, 
 Build on the plain : the hill is Daire'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 a little church he built 
 
 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 j and there he served the Lord. 
 
 But Daire scorned the Saint, and grudged his gift, 
 Though small ; and half in spleen, and half in greed. 
 
the Founding of A rmagh Cathedral. \ 8 1 
 
 Sent down two stately coursers, all night long 
 
 To graze the deep, sweet pasture round the church : 
 
 111 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 Daire 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, giving thus 
 
 Command ; ' The coursers sprinkle, and the King ; ' 
 
 And straightway as from death the King arose, 
 
 And rose from death the coursers. 
 
 Daire 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 offerirlg of those days, 
 
1 82 St. Patrick and 
 
 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, 
 Lifted the cup, pledging the safe return. 
 This offering Daire 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 Daire, homeward riding with knit brow, 
 Muttered, ' Churl's welcome for a kingly boon ! ' 
 And, drinking all that night the stormy breath 
 Of others' anger blent with his, cried loud, 
 ' 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 Daire stamped his foot, like war-horse stung 
 
 By gadfly ; musing next, and mute he sat 
 
 A space ; and lastly roared great laughter peals, 
 
the Founding of Armagh Cathedral. 183 
 
 Till roared in mockery back the palace roof, 
 And clashed his hands together, shouting loud : 
 ' 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 Daire, 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 Daire 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 Daire's garment lay like light 
 Wandering on dusky ripple ; one, upraised, 
 Held in the fiery, high-necked horse that champed 
 The bit, and tossed his great head nigh to hers. 
 Close thronged the kernes. 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 Daire, and aloud he cried, 
 ' A kingly man, ot mind immoveable 
 
1 84 St. Patrick and 
 
 Art them ; 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 Daire spake ; and Patrick, at his word 
 Rising, gave thanks to God, and to the King 
 A 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 offer'd 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 wondrous 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 
 
the Founding of Armagh Cathedral. 185 
 
 That through the thickets flashed. 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 
 Watched the green copse, and through it many a shaft 
 Launched at the 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 broad trees 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, sirlging as he went, 
 
1 86 St. Patrick and 
 
 ' 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, and there the fawn he laid. 
 
 But Daire 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, 
 
 Their reasons oft forget. Benignus seek, 
 
 If haply God has shown him for what cause 
 
 I wrought this thing.' Then Daire 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 
 
 That deed set forth. c 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 crowned monarch dear the child 
 
the Founding of A rmagh Cathedral. 1 8 7 
 
 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. For this cause he, our Sire, 
 Revered the anguish of that mother doe, 
 And inly vowed that where her offspring couched 
 His 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 
 
1 88 The Founding of Armagh Cathedral. 
 
 Stood God's new altar ; and ere many years 
 Far o'er the woodlands rose the Church high-towered, 
 Peace preaching to a torn and 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 Daire ; at its font was joined to Christ ; 
 And, midway 'twixt that altar and that font, 
 Rejoined his beauteous mate a later day. 
 
1 89 
 
 ST. PATRICK AND OISIN. V. 
 
 OISIWS VISION. 
 
 As, dim through snowy flakes, the dawn 
 Peered o'er the moorlands frore, 
 
 The old, snow-headed Bard, Oisin, 
 Sat by the convent door. 
 
 His chin he propped on that clenched hand 
 
 Of old in battles feared : 
 And like a silver flood, far-kenned, 
 
 Down streamed to earth his beard. 
 
 That sun his eyes could see no more 
 
 Their thin lids loved to feel : 
 It rose ; and on his cheek a tear 
 
 Began to uncongeal. 
 
 Then slowly thus he spake : ' Three times 
 
 This thought has come to me, 
 Patrick, that I am older thrice 
 
 Than I am famed to be : 
 
190 Oisms Vision. 
 
 1 For on the ruins of that house, 
 
 Once stately to behold, 
 Where feasted Fionn the King, there sighs 
 
 A wood of alders old. 
 
 ' And on my Oscar's grave three elms 
 Have risen, and mouldered three ; 
 
 And on my Father's grave, the oak 
 Is now a hollow tree. 
 
 1 Patrick, of me they noised a tale, 
 
 That down beneath a lake 
 A hundred years I lived, unchanged, 
 
 For a Faery Lady's sake : 
 
 ' They said that, home when I returned, 
 The men I loved were dead ; 
 
 And that the whiteness fell that hour 
 Like snow upon my head. 
 
 ' A song of mine, a dream in youth, 
 That tale misdeemed for true : 
 
 Far other dream was mine in age : 
 A dream that no man knew. 
 
Oisms Vision. 191 
 
 * For though I sang of things loved well, 
 
 I hid the things loved best : 
 Patrick, to thee that later dream 
 
 At last shall be confessed. 
 
 ' On Gahbra's field my Oscar fell : 
 Last died my Father, Fionn : 
 
 The wind went o'er their grassy mounds ; 
 I heard it, and lived on. . 
 
 * I loved no more the lark by Lee, 
 
 Nor yet the battle-cry ; 
 And therefore in a dell, one day, 
 
 I laid me down to die. 
 
 ' The cold went on into my heart : 
 
 Methought that I was dead : 
 Yet well I knew that angels waved 
 
 Their wings above my head. 
 
 ' They said, " This man, for Erin's sake 
 
 Shall tarry here an age, 
 Till Christ to Erin comes shall sleep 
 
 In this still hermitage^ : 
 
1 92 Oisiris Vision. 
 
 1 " That so, ere yet that great old time 
 
 Is wholly gone and past, 
 Her manlier with her saintly day 
 
 May blend in bridal fast. 
 
 1 " And since of deadly deeds he sang 
 
 Above him we will sing 
 The Death that saved : and we from him 
 
 Will keep the gadfly's wing. 
 
 ' " For him an age, for us an hour, 
 
 Here, like a cradled child, 
 Shall sleep the man whose hand was red, 
 
 Whose heart was undented." 
 
 ' Patrick ! That vision, was it truth ? 
 
 Or fancy's mocking gleam ? 
 That I should tarry till He came 
 
 'Twas not, 'twas not a dream ! 
 
 * And wondrous is mine age, I know ; 
 
 For whiter than the thorn 
 Was this once-honoured head, ere yet 
 
 The men now white were born : 
 
Oisiris Vision. 193 
 
 ' And on my Oscar's grave three elms 
 
 Have risen, and mouldered three ; 
 And on my father's grave, the oak 
 
 Is now a hollow tree/ 
 
 Then said the monks, ' His brain is hurt : ' 
 
 But Patrick said, < They lie ! 
 Thou God that lov'st thy grey-haired child, 
 
 Would I for him might die ! ' 
 
 And Patrick cried, ' Oisin ! the thirst 
 
 Of God is in thy breast ! 
 He who has dealt thy heart the wound 
 
 Ere long will give it rest ! ' 
 
194 
 
 THE ARRAIGNMENT OF SAINT PATRICK, 
 
 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 
 From cup half gelid yet, some drops distills 
 
The Arraignment of St. Patrick. 195 
 
 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 ; trees of kindlier grace 
 
 And swifter to believe Spring's ' tidings good ' 
 
 Took the sweet lights upon a breast bud-swoH'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 ; farm-yard stored 
 With stacks that all the winter fast had held 
 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 the young wheat ; and where from craggy height 
 Pushed the grey ledge, the woodland host recoiled 
 As though from Parthian flight ; while many a bird, 
 Barbaric from the inviolate forest launched 
 
 o 2 
 
196 The A rraig nmen t of St. Patrick. 
 
 Wild- warbled scorn on all that life reclaimed, 
 
 Mute garth new orchard. Child of distant hills, 
 
 A proud stream, swollen by midnight rains, down leapexl 
 
 From rock to rock. The precinct new it spurned 
 
 With airy dews silvering the bramble green 
 
 And more the beech-stock redd'ning. 
 
 Twas the hour 
 
 Of rest, and every monk was glad at heart, 
 For each had wrought with might. Both hands upheld, 
 Mochta, the Priest, had thundered against sin, 
 Wrath-roused, as when some Prince too late returned 
 Stares at the sea-side village all in flames, 
 The slave-thronged ship escaped. The Bishop, Ere, 
 Old feuds had reconciled by Brehon Law 
 W r here 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, beam on beam 
 On bending neck had borne, while Cruimther felled 
 The oaks, and from the anvil Laeban showered 
 The bickering sparks. A little way removed, 
 Beneath a pine three vestals sat close-veiled : 
 A song these childless sang of Bethlehem's Child, 
 
The Arraignment of St. Patrick. 197 
 
 Low-toned, and worked their Altar-cloth 7 a Lamb 
 All white on golden blazon ; near it bled 
 The Bird that with her own blood feeds her young. 
 Red drops her holy breast affused. These three 
 Were daughters of three Kings. The best and fairest, 
 King Daire'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 outs oared 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, by bells awaked, 
 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 flattery thus to shun, 
 
 > 
 Whom most he loved with mockery to attempt, 
 
The Arraignment of St. Patrick. 
 
 Whispered a brother, ' Speak to Patrick thus, 
 
 " When all men praised thee, Secknall made reply, 
 
 4 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 win : 
 
 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 stone-dead. My second hear, 
 
 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 the sand must draw, and one the stone, 
 
The Arraignment of St. Patrick. 199 
 
 And one the lime. Honouring the seven great Gifts, 
 
 Oft in one valley churches seven you raise. 
 
 Who serveth you fares hard ! ' The Saint replied, 
 
 * Second as first ! I came not to this land 
 
 To crave scant offering, 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, 
 
 1 Yet man to man will whisper, and the face 
 
 Of all this people darken like a sea 
 
 Black with the coming storm.' He answered, ' Son, 
 
 I know this people better. They are fierce 
 
 In anger ; neither flies direct their thought ; 
 
 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 burthen is 
 
 To him ; and those who most have given to Christ 
 
 The most His fulness share.' 
 
 Secknall replied, 
 
 ' Low lies my second charge ; a third remains, 
 Which, as a shaft from seasoned bow, not green, 
 May pierce the mark. With convents still you sow 
 The land : in other countries sparse and small, 
 To cities here they swell. A hundred monks 
 
2OO The Arraignment of St. Patrick. 
 
 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 Cruimther 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, 
 
 That part in turn repaying, till man's 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 ! 
 
The Arraignment of St. Patrick. 201 
 
 Its splendour 'gainst the dark must fight or die : 
 
 So wars the Faith I preach against the world ; 
 
 And nations fitted least for this world's gain 
 
 Her triumph most can speed. Three hundred years, 
 
 Well used, of Eire should make a northern Rome. 
 
 Cruimther ! 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, confession make I. 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 crumbling slope, 
 Low, as he drops to landward. 'Twas a throng 
 Awed, yet tumultuous, wild-eyed, wondering, fierce, 
 
2O2 7* he Arraignment of St. Patrick. 
 
 That, round a harper standing, stave on stave 
 
 As ended each, applauded. " 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 that high power, elsewhere by priests 
 
 Wielded but here by them, to us shall pass : 
 
 Yet we love them for good they might confer." 
 
 Then didst thou turn on me an eye of might 
 
 (Such as on Malach, when the babe boar-slain 
 
 Thou badst him raise by miracle of prayer), 
 
 And saidst, " 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, 
 
 My hymn I made. '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 now, 
 They lay, the entombing waters. Shook, like hers, 
 His slight form wavering 'mid the gusts of song. 
 
The Arraignment of St. Patrick. 203 
 
 He sang the Saint of God, create from nought 
 
 To work God's Will. As others gaze on earth, 
 
 Her vales, her plains, her blue seas mountain-girt, 
 
 So gazed the Saint for ever upon God 
 
 That 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, His 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, unawed 
 
 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 ; 
 
2O4 The Arraignment of St. Patrick. 
 
 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'erfiowed their beings. He from each 
 
 His secret won ; to each God's secret told. 
 
 He touched them, and they lived. In each, the flesh 
 
 To soul subdued, the affections, vassals proud, 
 
 By conscience ruled, and conscience lit by Christ, 
 
 The whole man stood a hierarchy 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 winged 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 Ere, 
 Whose ever-listening countenance that hour 
 Beyond its wont was listening ; Cruimther near, 
 The workman Saint, his many-wounded hands 
 
The Arraignment of St. Patrick. 205 
 
 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 like a rain of angels streamed o'er earth. 
 
 In marvel gazed the twelve : yea, clans far off 
 
 Stared from their hills, deeming the woods aflame. 
 
 When passed that glory, upon Secknall's hymn 
 
 Discourse arose. Its radiance from his face 
 
 Had, like the sunset's, vanished as he spoke ; 
 
 ' Father, what sayst thou ? ' Patrick made reply, 
 
 ' My son, the hymn is good ; for Truth is good, 
 
 And Fame, obsequious often to base heads, 
 
 For once is loyal, and its crown hath laid 
 
 Where honour's debt was due.' Then both his hands 
 
 Secknall in triumph raised, 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 
 
206 The Arraignment of St. Patrick. 
 
 Low-bowed, with hands upon his bosom held. 
 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 
 To stand I seem, I fall not at the end.' 
 
 Then in a circle kneeling prayed the twelve. 
 
 But when they rose, Secknall with serious brow 
 
 Advanced, and knelt, and kissed Saint Patrick's foot, 
 
 And said, ' O Father, at thy hest that hymn 
 
 I made, long labouring, and thy crown it stands : 
 
 Thou, therefore, grant me gifts, for strong thy prayer.' 
 
 And Patrick said, ' The house wherein thy hymn 
 Is sung ere noontide meal shall lack not bread : 
 
The Arraignment of St. Patrick. 207 
 
 And if men sing it in a house new-built, 
 
 Where none hath dwelt, nor bridegroom yet, nor bride, 
 
 Nor hath the cry of babes been heard therein, 
 
 Upon that house the watching of the Saints 
 
 Of Eire, and Patrick's watching, shall be fixed 
 
 Even as the stars.' And Secknall said, ' What more ? ' 
 
 Then Patrick added, ' They that night and mom 
 Down-lying and uprising, sing that hymn, 
 They too that softly whisper it, nigh death, 
 If pure of heart, and liegeful unto Christ, 
 Shall see God's face ; and, since the hymn is long, 
 For children and the poor, its grace shall rest 
 Full measure on the last three lines ; and thou 
 Of this dear company shalt die the first, 
 And first of Eire's Apostles.' Then his cheek 
 Secknall laid down once more on Patrick's foot, 
 And answered, * Deo Gratias.' 
 
 Thus in mirth, 
 
 And solemn talk, and prayer, that brother band, 
 In the golden age of Faith, with great free heart 
 Gave thanks to God that blissful eventide, 
 A thousand and four hundred years and more 
 Gone by. But now clear rang the compline bell, 
 And two by two they wended towards their church 
 Across a space for cloister set upart, 
 
208 TJie Arraignment of St. Patrick. 
 
 Yet still with wood-flowers sweet, and scent beside 
 
 Of sod that evening turned. The night came on ; 
 
 A dim ethereal twilight o'er the hills 
 
 Deepened to dewy gloom. Against the sky 
 
 Stood ridge and rock unmarked amid the day : 
 
 A few stars o'er them shone. As bower on bower 
 
 Let go the waning light, so bird on bird 
 
 Let go its song. Two songsters still remained, 
 
 Each feebler than a fountain soon to cease, 
 
 And claimed somewhile across the dusking dell 
 
 Rivals unseen in sleepy argument, 
 
 Each, the last word : a pause ; and then, once more, 
 
 An unexpected note : a longer pause ; 
 
 And then, past hope, one other note, the last. 
 
 A moment more the brethren stood in prayer : 
 
 The rising moon upon the church-roof new 
 
 Glimmered ; and o'er it sang an angel choir, 
 
 { Venite Sancti.' Entering, soon were said 
 
 The psalm, * He giveth sleep,' and hymn * Lastare ; ' 
 
 And in his solitary cell each monk 
 
 Lay down, rejoicing in the love of God. 
 
 The happy years went by. When Patrick now 
 And all his company were housed with God, 
 That hymn, at morning sung, and noon, and eve, 
 Even as it lulled the waves of warring clans, 
 
The Arraignment of St. Patrick. 209 
 
 So lulled with music lives of toil-worn men, 
 And charmed their ebbing breath. One time it chanced 
 When in his convent Kevin with his monks 
 Thrice sang that hymn, the board prepared, a guest 
 Foot-sore and hungered, murmured, * Wherefore thrice ? ' 
 And Kevin answered, ( Speak not thus, my son, 
 For while we sang it, visible to all, 
 Saint Patrick was among us. At his right 
 Benignus stood, and, all around, the Twelve, 
 God's light upon their brows ; while Secknall knelt, 
 Demanding meed of song. Moreover, son, 
 That self-same day and hour, twelve months gone by, 
 Patrick, our Patriarch, died ; and happy Feast 
 Is that he holds, by two short days alone 
 Severed from his, of Hebrew Patriarchs last, 
 And chief. The Holy House at Nazareth 
 He ruled benign, God's Warder with white hairs, 
 And still his feast, that silver star of March, 
 When snows afflict the hill and frost the moor, 
 With temperate beam gladdens the vernal church- 
 All praise to God who draws the Twain so near.' 
 
210 
 
 SAINT PATRICK AND OISIN. VI. 
 OISIN'S GOOD CONFESSION. 
 
 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. 
 
Oislris Good Confession. 211 
 
 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." 
 
2 1 2 Oisin s Good Confession. 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 4 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, and 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 ! 
 
Oislris Good Confession. 2 1 
 
 4 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 happier 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 : 
 And light was his from heaven 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 : 
 
214 Oism s Good Confession. 
 
 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. 
 
215 
 
 THE CONFESSION OF SAINT PATRICK. 
 
 AT Saul then, by the inland-spreading sea, 
 
 There where began my labour, comes the end. 
 
 I, blind and witless, will'd it otherwise : 
 
 God will'd it thus. When prescience fell of death 
 
 I said, * My Resurrection place I choose ' 
 
 (O fool, for ne'er since boyhood choice was mine 
 
 Save choice my will to subject unto God) 
 
 'At great Ardmacha.' Thitherward I turned ; 
 
 But in my pathway, with forbidding hand 
 
 Victor, God's angel stood. ' Not so,' he said, 
 
 * For in Ardmacha stands thy princedom fixed, 
 
 Age after age, thy teaching, and thy law, 
 
 But not thy grave. Return thou to that shore 
 
 Thy place of small beginnings, and thereon 
 
 Sing thou to God thy little hymn, and die.' 
 
 Yea, Lord, my mouth would praise Thee ere I die, 
 The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit, 
 Who knitteth in His Church the just to Christ : 
 
2 1 6 The Confession of Saint Patrick. 
 
 Help me, my sons mine orphans soon to be 
 
 Help me to praise Him ; ye that round me sit 
 
 On those grey rocks ; ye that have faithful been, 
 
 Honouring, despite dishonour of my sins, 
 
 His servant : I would praise Him yet once more, 
 
 Though mine the stammerer's voice, or as a child's ; 
 
 For it is written, ' Stammerers shall speak plain 
 
 Sounding Thy Gospel/ * They whom Christ hath sent 
 
 Are Christ's Epistle, borne to ends of earth, 
 
 Writ by His Spirit, and plain to souls elect : ' 
 
 Lord, am not I of Thine Apostolate ? 
 
 Yea, by abjection Thine, by suffering Thine ! 
 
 Till I was humbled, I was as a stone 
 
 In deep mire sunk. Then, stretched from heaven, Thy 
 
 Hand 
 
 Slid under me in might, and lifted me, 
 And fixed me in Thy Temple, where Thou would'st. 
 Wonder, ye great ones, wonder, ye the wise ! 
 On me, the last and least, this charge was laid, 
 This crown, that I in humbleness and truth, 
 Should walk this nation's servant till I die. 
 
 Therefore, a youth of sixteen years, or less, 
 
 With others of my land, by pirates seized, 
 
 I walked on Erin's shore. Our bonds were just ; 
 
The Confession of Saint Patrick. 2 1 7 
 
 Our God we had forsaken, and His Law, 
 
 And mocked His priests. Tending a stern man's swine 
 
 I trod those Dalaraida hills that look 
 
 Eastward to Alba. Six long years went by ; 
 
 But, sent from God, Memory, and Faith, and Fear 
 
 Moved on my spirit as winds upon the sea, 
 
 And the Spirit of Prayer came down. Full many a day 
 
 Climbing the mountain tops one hundred times 
 
 I flung upon the storm my cry to God. 
 
 Nor frost, nor rain might harm me, for His love 
 
 Burned in my heart. Through love my fast I made ; 
 
 And, in my fasts, one night this voice I heard, 
 
 ' Thou fastest well : soon shalt thou see thy Land.' 
 
 Later, once more thus spake it ; * Southward fly, 
 
 Thy ship awaits thee.' Many a day I fled, 
 
 And found the black ship dropping down the tide, 
 
 And entered with those Gentiles, by Thy grace 
 
 Vanquished, though first they spurned me, and was free. 
 
 It was Thy leading, Lord ; the Hand was Thine ! 
 For now when, perils past, I walked secure, 
 Kind greetings round me, and the Christian Rite, 
 There rose a clamorous yearning in my heart, 
 And memories of that land so far, so fair, 
 And lost in such a gloom. And through that gloom 
 The eyes of little children shone on me, 
 
2 1 8 The Confession of Saint Patrick. 
 
 So ready to believe. Naked of old 
 
 Such children saw I, in and out the waves 
 
 Dancing in circles upon Erin's shores 
 
 Like creatures never fallen ! Thought of such 
 
 Passed into thought of others. From my youth 
 
 Both men and women, maidens most, to me 
 
 As children seemed : and oh the pity then 
 
 To mark how oft they wept, how seldom knew 
 
 Whence came the wound that galled them ! As I walked, 
 
 Each wind that passed me whispered, ' Lo, that race 
 
 Which trod thee down ! Requite with good their ill ! 
 
 Their tongue thou know'st : old man to thee, and youth, 
 
 For counsel came, and lambs would lick thy foot ; 
 
 And now the whole land is a sheep astray 
 
 That bleats to God.' 
 
 Alone one night I mused, 
 Burthened with thought of that vocation vast. 
 O'er-spent asleep I sank. In visions then, 
 Satan my soul with dire temptation plagued. 
 Methought, beneath a cliff I lay, and lo ! 
 Thick-legioned demons o'er me drew a rock, 
 Dreadful as falling mountain. Near, more near, 
 O'er me it blackened. Sudden from my heart 
 This thought leaped forth ; ' Elias ! Him invoke ! ' 
 That name invoked, vanished the rock ; and I, 
 On mountains stood, watching the rising sun, 
 
The Confession of Saint Patrick. 219 
 
 As stood Elias once on CarmePs crest, 
 
 Gazing on heaven unbarred, and that white cloud, 
 
 A thirsting land's salvation. 
 
 Might Divine ! 
 
 Thou taught'st me thus my weakness \ and I vowed 
 To seek Thy strength. To Tours I turned my face, 
 There where in years gone by Thy soldier-priest 
 Martin had ruled, my kinsman in the flesh. 
 Dead was the lion ; but his lair was warm : 
 In it I laid me, and a conquering glow 
 Rushed up into my heart. Discourse I heard 
 Of Martin still, his valour in the Lord, 
 His rugged warrior zeal, his passionate love 
 For Hilary, his vigils, and his fasts, 
 And all his pitiless warfare on the Powers 
 Of darkness : and one day in secrecy, 
 With Ninian, missioned then to Alba's shore, 
 I peered into his branch-enwoven cell, 
 Half way between the river and the rocks, 
 From Tours a mile and more. 
 
 So passed eight years 
 
 Till strengthened was my heart by discipline. 
 Then spake a priest, ' Brother, thy will is good,) 
 Yet rude thou art of learning as a beast \ 
 Fare thee to great Germanus of Auxerres 
 Who lightens half the West ! ' I heard, and went, 
 
22O The Confession of Saint Patrick. 
 
 And to that Saint was subject fourteen years. 
 
 He from my mind the veil removed ; ' Lift up/ 
 
 He said, ' thine eyes ; ' and like a mountain land, 
 
 The Queenly Science stood before me plain, 
 
 From rocky buttress up to peak of snow : 
 
 The great Commandments first, Edicts, and Laws 
 
 That prop our mortal life : then high o'er these 
 
 The forest huge of Doctrine, one, yet many, 
 
 Forth stretching in innumerable aisles, 
 
 And, at the end of each, a glittering star : 
 
 Lastly, the Life God-hidden. Day by day 
 
 That first and second realm, with him for guide, 
 
 I tracked, and learned to shun the abyss flower-veiled, 
 
 And difficult heights to climb. This too he taught, 
 
 Himself long time a ruler and a prince, 
 
 The regimen of States from chaos won 
 
 To order, and to Christ. Prudence I learned, 
 
 And sageness in the government of men, 
 
 By me sore needed soon. O stately man, 
 
 In all things great, in action and in thought, 
 
 And plain as great ! To Britain called, the Saint 
 
 Trod down that great Pelagian Blasphemy, 
 
 Chief portent of the age. But better far 
 
 Loved he his cell. There sat he vigil-worn, 
 
 In cowl and dusky tunic hued like earth 
 
 Whence issued man and unto which returns : 
 
The Confession of Saint Patrick. 221 
 
 I marvelled at his wrinkled brows, and hands 
 Still tracing, enter or depart who would, 
 From morn to night his parchments. 
 
 There, once more, 
 
 O God, Thine eye was on me, or my hand 
 Once more had missed the prize. Temptation now 
 In softness whisper'd, ' Wisdom's home is here : 
 Here bide untroubled.' Almost I had fallen ; 
 But, by my side, in visions of the night, 
 God's angel, Victor, stood as one that hastes, 
 On travel sped. Unnumbered letters lay 
 Clasped in his hands. One stretched he forth, inscribed 
 ' The Wailing of the Irish.' As I read 
 The wail of babes, from Erin's western coast 
 And Fochlut's forest, and the wintry sea, 
 Shrilled o'er me, crying, ' Holy youth, return ! 
 Walk thou among us ! ' I could read no more. 
 
 Thenceforth rose up renewed mine old desire : 
 My kinsfolk mocked me. * What ! too scant past woes ! 
 Slave of four masters, and the best a churl ! 
 Thy Gospel they will trample under foot, 
 And rend thee ! Late to them Palladius preached ; 
 They as a leper drave him from their shores.' 
 In agony I stood of staggering mind 
 And warring wills. Then, lo ! at dead of night 
 
222 The Confession of Saint Patrick. 
 
 I heard a mystic voice, till then unheard, 
 
 I knew not if within me, or close by, 
 
 That swelled in passionate pleading, nor the words 
 
 Grasped I, so great they seemed and wonderful, 
 
 Till sank that tempest to a whisper ; ' He 
 
 Who died for thee is He that in thee groans/ 
 
 Then fell, methought, scales from mine inner eyes ; 
 
 Then saw I terrible that sight, yet sweet 
 
 Within me saw a Man that in me prayed 
 
 With groans unutterable ; and lo, that Man 
 
 Was as a bishop habited, and girt 
 
 For mission far. My heart that word recalled, 
 
 1 The Spirit helpeth our infirmities : 
 
 That which we lack we know not : but the Spirit 
 
 Himself for us doth intercession make 
 
 With groanings which may never be revealed.' 
 
 That hour my vow was vowed; and he approved, 
 My master and my guide. ' But go/ he said, 
 ' First to that island in the Tyrrhene Sea, 
 Where live the high Contemplatives to God :] 
 There learn perfection ; there that Inner Life 
 Win thou, sole strength amid the world's loud storm 
 Nor fear lest God on such delay should frown ; 
 For Heavenly Wisdom is compassionate : 
 Slowly before man's weakness moves it on, 
 
The Confession of Saint Patrick. 223 
 
 Softly : so moved of old the Wise Men's Star, 
 Which curbed its lightning ardours and forbore, 
 Honouring the pensive tread of hoary Eld, 
 Honouring the burthened slave, the camel line 
 Long-linked, with level head and foot that fell 
 As though in sleep, printing the silent sands.' 
 Thus smiling spake Germanus, large in lore. 
 
 So in that island-Eden, I sojourned, 
 
 Lerins, and saw where Vincent lived, and his, 
 
 Life fountained from on high. That life was Love j 
 
 For all their mighty Knowledge food became 
 
 Of Love Divine, and took, by Love absorbed, 
 
 Shape from his flame-like body. Hard their beds; 
 
 Ceaseless their prayers. A sterile soil they tilled : 
 
 Beneath their hands it blossomed like the rose : 
 
 O'er thymy hollows blew the nectared airs ; 
 
 The blue sea flashed through olives. They had fled 
 
 From praise of men ; yet cities far away 
 
 Their hermits seized to fill the bishop's throne. 
 
 I saw the light of God on faces calm 
 
 That blended with man's meditative might 
 
 Simplicity of childhood, and, with both 
 
 The sweetness of that flower-like sex which wears 
 
 Through love's subjection twofold crowns of love. 
 
 Oh blissful time ! In that bright island bloomed 
 
224 The Confession of Saint Patrick. 
 
 The third high region on the Hills of God, 
 Above the rock, above the wood, the cloud : 
 There laughs the luminous air, there bursts anew 
 Spring bud in summer on suspended lawns ; 
 There the bell tinkles while once more the lamb 
 Trips by the snow-fed runnel : there green vales 
 Are lost in purple heavens. 
 
 Transfigured Life ! 
 
 This was thy glory, that, without a sigh, 
 Who loved thee yet could leave thee. Thus it fell 
 One morning I was on the sea, and lo ! 
 An isle to Lerins near, but fairer yet, 
 Till then unseen. A grassy vale sea-lulled 
 In wound, balm-breathing, with high-fruited trees, 
 And stream through lilies gliding. By a door 
 There stood a man in prime, and others sat 
 Not far, some grey ; and one, a weed of years, 
 Like withered garland lay. An old man spake : 
 1 See what thou seest, and scan the mystery well. 
 The man who stands so stately in his prime 
 Is of this company the eldest born. 
 The Saviour in his earthly sojourn, risen, 
 Perchance, or ere His passion, who can tell, 
 Stood up at this man's door ; and this man rose, 
 And let Him in, and made for Him a feast ; 
 And Jesus said, " Tarry, till I return." 
 
The Confession of Saint Patrick. 225 
 
 Moreover, others are there on this isle, 
 Both men and maids, who saw the Son of Man, 
 And took Him in, and shine in endless youth; 
 But we, the rest, in course of nature fade, 
 For we believe, yet saw not God, nor touched.' 
 Then spake I, ' Here till death my home I make, 
 Where Jesu trod.' And answered he in prime, 
 1 Not so ; the Master hath for thee thy task. 
 Parting, thus spake he : " Here for Mine elect 
 Abide thou. Bid him bear this crosier staff. i 
 
 My blessing on it rests : the same shall drive 
 The foes of God before him." ' Answer thus 
 I made, ' That .crosier staff I will not touch 
 Until I take it from the nail-pierced Hand.' 
 From these I turned, and clomb a mountain high, 
 Hermon by name ; and there was this my God, 
 In visions of the Lord, or in the flesh ? 
 I spake with Him, the Lord of Life, Who died : 
 He from the glory stretched the Hand nail-pierced, 
 And placed in mine this crosier staff, and said 
 ' Upon that day when they that with me were 
 Sit with me on their everlasting Thrones, 
 Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine Israel, 
 Thy people thou shalt judge in righteousness.' 
 
 So then to Rome I fled ; there knelt I down 
 
 Q 
 
226 The Confession of Saint Patrick. 
 
 Above the bones of Peter and of Paul, 
 
 And saw the mitred embassies from far, 
 
 And saw Celestine with his head high held 
 
 As though the Blessed Sacrament it bare ; 
 
 Chief Shepherd of the Saviour's flock on earth. 
 
 Tall was the man, and swift ; white-haired ; with eye 
 
 Starlike, and voice a trumpet clear that pealed 
 
 God's blessing o'er the city and the globe ; 
 
 Yea, and whene'er his palm he lifted, still 
 
 Blessing before it ran. Upon my head 
 
 Both hands he laid, and l Win,' he said, ' to Christ 
 
 One realm the more ! ' Moreover, to my charge 
 
 Relics he gave, unnumbered, without price ; 
 
 And when those relics lost had been, and found, 
 
 And at his feet I wept, he chided not ; 
 
 But, smiling, said, ' Thy glorious task fulfilled, 
 
 House them in thy new country's stateliest church 
 
 With cresset fan- of ever-burning lamps, 
 
 And never-ceasing anthems.' 
 
 Northward then 
 
 Returned I, missioned. Yet once more, but once, 
 That old temptation proved me. When they sat, 
 The Elders, making inquest of my life, 
 Sudden a certain brother rose, and said, 
 ' Shall this man be a Bishop, who hath sinned ? ' 
 My dearest friend was he. To him alone, 
 
The Confession of Saint Patrick. 227 
 
 One time a sin had I revealed by me 
 
 Through ignorance wrought when fifteen years of age ; 
 
 And after thirty years, behold, once more, 
 
 That sin had found me. He my mission knew ; 
 
 When in mine absence, slander sought my name, 
 
 Mine honour he had cleared. Yet now yet now 
 
 That hour the iron passed into my soul : 
 
 Yea, well nigh all was lost. I wept, ' Not one, 
 
 No heart of man there is that knows my heart, 
 
 Or in its anguish shares.' 
 
 Yet, O my God ! 
 
 I blame him not : from Thee that penance came : 
 Not for man's love should Thine Apostle strive, 
 Thyself alone his great and sole reward. 
 Thou laid'st that hour a fiery hand of love 
 Upon a faithless heart ; and it survived. 
 
 At dead of night a vision gave me peace. 
 
 Slowly upon the breast of darkness shone 
 
 Strange characters, a writing unrevealed : 
 
 And, from that gloom a solemn voice, though sad, 
 
 Spake thus : * Ill-pleased, this day have We beheld 
 
 The face of the elect without a name.' 
 
 It said not, ' Thou hast grieved,' but * We have grieved; 
 
 With import plain, ' O thou of little faith ! 
 
 Am I not nearer to thee than thy friends ? 
 
 Q2 
 
228 The Confession of Saint Patrick. 
 
 Am I not inlier with thee than thyself? ' 
 Then I remembered, ' He that touches you 
 Doth touch the very apple of mine eye.' 
 Serene I slept. At morn I rose and ran 
 Down to the shore, and found a boat, and sailed. 
 
 That hour true life's beginning was, O Lord, 
 Because the work Thou gav'st into my hands 
 Prospered between them. Yea, and from the work 
 Went forth the puissance. Strength in me was none, 
 Nor insight, till the occasion : then Thy sword 
 Flamed in my grasp, and beams were in mine eyes 
 That showed the way before me, and nought else. 
 Thou mad'st me know Thy Will. As taper's light 
 Veers with a wind man feels not, o'er my heart 
 Hover'd thenceforth some Pentecostal flame 
 That bent before that Will. Thy Truth, not mine, 
 Lightened this People's mind ; Thy Love their hearts 
 Melted; Thy Hope upbore them as on wings. 
 Valiant that race, and simple, and to them 
 Not hard the godlike venture of belief : 
 Conscience was theirs. Tortuous too oft in life, 
 Their thoughts, when passionate most, then most were true 
 Heart-true. With naked hand the naked Truth 
 Firmly they clasped. In them Belief was Act. 
 A tribe from Thy far East they called themselves : 
 
The Confession of Saint Patrick. 229 
 
 Their clans were Patriarch households, rude through war: 
 
 Old Pagan Rome had known them not : their Isle 
 
 Virgin to Christ had come. Oh how unlike 
 
 Her sons to those old Roman Senators, 
 
 Scorn of Germanus oft, who breathed the air 
 
 Fouled by dead Faiths successively blown out, 
 
 Or Grecian sophist with his world of words, 
 
 That, knowing all, knew nothing ! Praise to Thee 
 
 Lord of the night-time as the day, Who keep'st 
 
 Reserved in blind barbaric innocence, 
 
 Pure breed, when boastful lights corrupt the wise, 
 
 With healthier fruit to bless a later age. 
 
 I to that people all things made myself 
 For Christ's sake, on that good already theirs 
 Building the good they lacked. In courts of Kings 
 I stood : before mine eye their eye went down 
 For Thou wert with me. Gentle with the meek, 
 I suffered not the proud to mock my face : 
 Thus by the anchors twain of Love and Fear, 
 Since Love, not perfected, from Fear gains strength, 
 I bound to Thee this nation. Parables 
 I spake in ; parables in act I wrought 
 Because the people's mind was in the sense. 
 At Imbher Dea they scoffed Thy Word : Thy staff 
 Lifting, I smote with barrenness that flood 
 
230 The Confession of Saint Patrick. 
 
 Then learned they that the world was Thine, not ruled 
 By Sun or Moon, their famed 'God-Elements :' 
 Yea, like Thy Fig-tree cursed, that river banned 
 Witnessed Thy Love's stern pureness. From the grass 
 The little three-leaved herb, stooping, I plucked, 
 And preached the Trinity. Thy Staff I raised, 
 And bade not ravening beast but reptile foul 
 Flee to the abyss, like that blind herd of old ; 
 Then spake I ; ' Be not babes, but understand : 
 Thus in your spirit, lift the Cross of Christ 
 Banish base lusts ; so God shall with you walk 
 As once with man in Eden/ With like aim 
 Convents I reared for holy maids, then sought 
 The marriage feast, and cried, ' If God so near 
 Draws to Himself those virgin hearts, and yet 
 Blesses the bridal troth, and infant's font, 
 How white a thing should be the Christian home ! ' 
 Marvelling, they learned what heritage their God 
 Possessed in them ; how wide a realm, how fair. 
 
 Lord, save in one thing only, I was weak 
 
 I loved this people with a mother's love, 
 
 For their sake sanctified my spirit to thee 
 
 In vigil, fast, and meditation long, 
 
 On mountain and on moor. Thus, Lord, I wrought, 
 
 Trusting that so Thy lineaments divine, 
 
The Confession of Saint Patrick. 231 
 
 Deeplier upon my spirit graved, might pass 
 
 Thence on that hidden burthen which my heart, 
 
 Still from its substance feeding, with great pangs 
 
 Strove to bring forth to Thee. Oh, loyal race ! 
 
 Me too they loved. Upon the roads all night 
 
 They waited me ; and, as I preached, the day 
 
 To those high listeners, seemed a little hour. 
 
 Have I not seen ten thousand brows at once 
 
 Flash in the broad light of some Truth new risen, 
 
 And felt like him, that Martyr old, who cried, 
 
 Girt round with death, ' At last do I begin 
 
 To be a Christian.' Foes of amcient years 
 
 Have I not seen embrace ? Him saw I not, 
 
 That white-haired man who dashed him on the ground, 
 
 Crying aloud, ' My buried Son, forgive ! 
 
 Thy Sire hath touched the hand 'that shed thy blood ? ' 
 
 Fierce Chiefs knelt down in penance ! Lord ! how oft 
 Shook I the tear-drop sparkles from my gown ! 
 'Twas the forgiveness taught them all the debt, 
 High-hearted penitents ! How many a youth 
 Contemned the praise of men ! How many a maid, 
 Oh not in narrowness, but Love's sweet pride 
 And new-born shyness, jealous for a mate 
 Himself not jealous, spurned terrestrial love, 
 Glorying in Love's fair oneness ! Race high-dowered, 
 
232 The Confession of Saint Patrick. 
 
 The Gospel was as some remembered thing 
 
 To them ; God's Kingdom seemed their native haunt. 
 
 Prophesied then their daughters and their sons : 
 
 Each man before the face of each his hand 
 
 Lifted on high, and said, ' The Lord hath risen ! ' 
 
 Then, like a stream from ice released, forth fled 
 
 And wafted far the tidings, flung them wide, 
 
 Shouted them loud from rocky ridge o'er bands 
 
 Marching far down to war. The sower sowed 
 
 With happier hope ; the reaper bending sang 
 
 1 Thus shall God's Angels reap the field of God 
 
 When we are ripe for heaven.' Lovers new-wed 
 
 Drank of that water changed to wine, thenceforth 
 
 On earth heaven's sweetness breathing. Unto such 
 
 More late, whate'er of brightness time or will 
 
 Infirm had dimmed, shone back from infant brows 
 
 By Baptism lit. Each age its garland found : 
 
 Fair shone on trustful childhood faith divine : 
 
 Eld, once a weight of wrinkles, now upsoared 
 
 In venerable lordship of white hairs, 
 
 Seer-like and sage. Healed was a Nation's wound : 
 
 All men believed who willed not disbelief; 
 
 And sat in that oppugnancy steel-mailed. 
 
 They cried, * Before thy priests our bards shall bow, 
 
 And all our clans put on thy great Clan Christ ! ' 
 
The Confession of Saint Patrick. 233 
 
 For your sake, O my brethren, and my sons, 
 These things have I recorded. Something I wrought : 
 Strive ye in loftier labours ; strive, and win : 
 Your victory shall be mine ; my crown are ye. 
 My part is all but done. For Truth I lived : 
 I to this people gave that Truth I knew ; 
 My witnesses ye are I sold it not : 
 Freely did I receive, freely I gave ; 
 Baptizing, or confirming, or ordaining, 
 I sold not things divine. Of mine own store 
 Ofttimes the hire of fifteen men I paid 
 For guard on perilous ways. When prince or chief 
 Laid on God's altar ring, or torque, or gold, 
 I sent them back. Too fortunate, too beloved, 
 I said, * Can he Apostle be who bears 
 Such scanty marks of Christ's Apostolate, 
 Hunger, and thirst, and scorn of men ? For this, 
 Those pains they spared I spared not to myself, 
 The body's daily death. I make not boast : 
 What boast have I ? If God His servant raised, 
 He knoweth not ye how oft I fell j how low ; 
 How oft in faithless longings yearned my heart 
 For faces of His Saints in mine own land, 
 Remembered fields far off. This, too, He knoweth, 
 How perilous is the path of great attempts, 
 
234 The Confession of Saint Patrick. 
 
 How oft pride meets us on the storm-vexed height, 
 Pride, or its fleshly scourge. O Lord, in Thee 
 My hope ! Thy hand, that in its hold so long 
 Hath stayed me, will not loose me till I die ; 
 And, thanks to God, the sheltering grave is near. 
 
 How still this eve ! The morn was racked with storm : 
 
 'Tis past ; the skylark sings ; the tide at flood 
 
 Sighs a soft joy : alone those lines of weed 
 
 Report the wrath foregone. Yon watery plain 
 
 Far shines, a mingled sea of glass and fire, 
 
 Even as that beatific sea outspread 
 
 Before the Throne of God. 'Tis Paschal Tide ; 
 
 O sorrowful, O blissful Paschal Tide ! 
 
 Fain would I die on Holy Saturday ; 
 
 For then, as now, the storm is past the woe ; 
 
 And, somewhere 'mid the shades of Olivet, 
 
 Lies sealed the sacred cave of that repose 
 
 Watched by the Holy Women. Earth, that sing'st, 
 
 Since first He made thee, thy Creator's praise, 
 
 Sing, sing thy Saviour's ! Myriad-minded sea, 
 
 Even now the secret thrills on thy bright lips 
 
 That shake, yet speak not. Thou that mad'st the worlds, 
 
 Man, too, Thou mad'st \ within Thy hands the life' 
 
 Of each was shapen, and new-woven ran out, 
 
 New-willed each moment. What makes up that life ? 
 
The Confession of Saint Patrick. 235 
 
 Love infinite, and nothing else save love ! 
 
 Help ere need came, deliverance ere defeat j 
 
 At every step an Angel to sustain, 
 
 An Angel to retrieve. My years are gone : 
 
 Sweet were they with a sweetness felt but half 
 
 Till now ; not half discerned. Those blessed years 
 
 I would re-live, deferring thus so long 
 
 The Vision of Thy Face, if thus with gaze 
 
 Cast backward I might see that guiding hand 
 
 Step after step, and kiss it. 
 
 Happy Isle ! 
 
 Be true ; for God hath graved on thee His name ; 
 God, with a wondrous ring, hath wedded thee ; 
 God on a throne divine hath 'stablished thee : 
 Light of a darkling world ! Lamp of the North ! 
 My race, my realm, my great inheritance, 
 To lesser nations leave inferior crowns j 
 Speak ye the thing that is ; be just, be kind ; 
 Live ye God's Truth, and in its strength be free ! 
 
 This day to Him, the Faithful and the True, 
 For Whom I toiled, my spirit I commend. 
 That which I am, He knoweth : I know not now ; 
 But I shall know ere long. If I have loved Him, 
 
 I seek but this for guerdon of my love, 
 
 > 
 With holier love to love Him to the end. 
 
236 The Confession of Saint Patrick. 
 
 If others I have vanquished to His love 
 
 Would God that this might be their meed and mine, 
 
 In witness for His love to pour our blood 
 
 A glad stream forth, though vultures or wild beasts 
 
 Rent our unburied bones. Thou setting sun, 
 
 That sink'st to rise,. that time shall come at last 
 
 When in thy splendours thou shalt rise no more ; 
 
 And, darkening with the darkening of thy face, 
 
 Who worshipped thee with thee shall cease ; but those 
 
 Who worshipp'd Christ shall shine with Christ abroad, 
 
 Eternal beam, and Sun of Righteousness, 
 
 In endless glory. For His sake alone 
 
 I, bondsman in this land, re-sought this land. 
 
 All ye who name my name in later times, 
 
 Say to this people that their Patriarch gave 
 
 Pattern of pardon, ere in words he preached 
 
 That God who pardons. Wrongs if they endure 
 
 In after years, with fire of pardoning love 
 
 Sin-slaying, bid them crown the head that erred ; 
 
 For bread denied let them give Sacraments, 
 
 For darkness light, and for the House of Bondage 
 
 The glorious freedom of the sons of God : 
 
 This is my last confession ere I die. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Preface, page x. Ancient lives of Saint Patrick. 
 
 The earliest life of Saint Patrick is Fiacc's Hymn. The third has 
 been attributed to Saint Benignus. The fourth, attributed to Saint 
 Aileran, bears internal evidence of having been written how 
 long we know not before the year 774.* The fifth life was written 
 by Probus. Colgan regards Probus as an Irish monk of the sixth 
 or seventh century. The sixth life was written by Jocelyn, a monk 
 of Furness, in the early part of the twelfth century. In the * Tri- 
 partite Life ' many persons are spoken of as still living who died 
 within the sixth century : but other events of a later period are also 
 referred to ; so that ' it may well be believed that we have not got 
 this life in its original form, and that many additions were made to 
 it by transcribers.' Saint Evin, to whom the Tripartite life is at- 
 tributed, was a Munster man, descended from the celebrated 
 King, Oilioll Olium, who died A.D. 234. ' It is probable,' remarks 
 O'Curry, 'that Saint Evin was living in 504, and that he had 
 seen and conversed with Saint Patrick, who had only died eleven 
 years before this time, or in 493.' 
 
 Preface, page xix. He was of noble birth. 
 
 Saint Patrick, in his epistle to Coroticus, ' states that he was of 
 noble birth according to the flesh, and that his father, Calphur- 
 
 See ' Life of Saint Patrick,' by M. Cusack, p. 52. 
 
238 Notes. 
 
 nius, was a Roman Decurio.' * His mother, Conchessa, or 
 Conceis, was the sister of St. Martin of Tours. The family of 
 the Saint is affirmed by the earliest authorities to have belonged 
 to ' Britain ; ' but whether that term refers to Great Britain, 
 to Brittany, or to other portions of France, is not ascertained. It 
 appears that at the time of his birth his parents were residing at 
 ' Alcluaid, ' now Dumbarton. 2 
 
 Preface, page xxvii. Ireland 'j vast and almost unknown stores. 
 
 Not a few of the early Irish Legends will be found in that charm- 
 ing book, The Story of the Irish before the Conquest ;' by M. C. 
 Ferguson, as well as in * Lays of the Western Gael,' by S. Fer- 
 guson, Esq. 
 
 Page 3- When now at Imber Dea. 
 A river in Wicklow. 
 
 Page 3. Hills of Dalaraide. 
 In South Antrim. 
 
 Page 5. The Imber Domnand. 
 The Malahide River. 
 
 Page 7. The second at Ardmacha. 
 Now Armagh. 
 
 Page 8. Changed to sea-lake. 
 Strangford Lough. 
 
 Page 10. Of Milcho. Once his thrall, &c. 
 
 ' St. Patrick's master was King of North Dalaraida ; he is thus 
 mentioned in the Annals of the Four Masters, A. D. 388 : ' Milcho, 
 
 1 See 'Life of Saint Patrick,' by M. Cusack, p. 73. 
 
 2 Ibid. p. 86. 
 
Notes. 239 
 
 son of Hua Buain, King of North Dalaraida." The scholiast on 
 St. Fiacc's Hymn states that Milcho dwelt in Arcuil, a valley in 
 the north of Dalaraida, near Mount Mis, now Sleemish. . . . 
 This district is now called the Valley of the Braid from a river of 
 that name. The site where Saint Patrick had the vision in which 
 he was commanded to fly from his master is still marked by the 
 ruins of an ancient church.' Life of Saint Patrick, by M. Cusack, 
 p. 131. 
 
 Page 25. Tara's royal halls. 
 
 The palace of the Ard-Righ, or Chief King of all Ireland, in 
 Meath. 
 
 Page 28. The Staff of Jesus. 
 The name of Saint Patrick's Crosier. 
 
 Page 28. Yet they saw nought but the lambs at play. 
 
 As Saint Patrick journeyed to Tara he composed and recited a 
 hymn to preserve him from the snares placed in his way by King 
 Laeghaire. It goes by the name of Saint Patrick's Lorica, or 
 Breastplate, and portions of it are still -repeated among their night 
 prayers by the Irish peasantry. It was ' sometimes called the Feth 
 fiadha, or instruction of the deer, in consequence of the escape of 
 the Saint and his companions when they appeared to Laeghaire like 
 deer.' 1 It is a touching memorial of that critical day, and a vivid 
 expression of Saint Patrick's devotion. It is as follows : 
 
 SAINT PATRICK'S LORICA. 
 
 I bind to myself this day 
 
 The strong virtue of the Invocation of the Trinity, 
 The Faith of the Trinity in Unity, 
 The Creator of the Elements. 
 
 \ 
 1 ' Life of Saint Patrick, ' by M. F. Cusack, p. 263. 
 
240 Notes. 
 
 I bind to myself this day 
 
 The virtue of the Incarnation of Christ, and His Baptism, 
 The virtue of His Crucifixion with His Burial, 
 The virtue of His Resurrection with His Ascension, 
 The virtue of His Coming to the Sentence of the Judgment. 
 
 I bind to myself this day 
 
 The virtue in the Love of Seraphim, 
 
 In the Obedience of Angels, 
 
 In the Hope of Resurrection unto Reward, 
 
 In the Prayers of the Patriarchs, 
 
 In the Predictions of Prophets, 
 
 In the Preaching of Apostles, 
 
 In the Faith of Confessors, 
 
 In the Purity of Virgins, 
 
 In the Deeds of Righteous Men. 
 
 I bind to myself this day 
 The strength of Heaven, 
 The light of the sun, 
 The whiteness of snow, 
 The force of fire, 
 The flashing of lightning, 
 The swiftness of wind, 
 The depth of the sea, 
 The stability of the earth, 
 The hardness of rocks. 
 
 I bind to myself this day 
 The Power of God to guide me, 
 The Might of God to uphold me, 
 The Wisdom of God to teach me, 
 The Eye of God to watch over me, 
 The Ear of God to hear me, 
 The Word of God to give me speech, 
 The Hand of God to protect me, 
 
Notes. 24 1 
 
 The Way of God to lie before me, 
 
 The Shield of God to shelter me, 
 
 The Host of God to defend me 
 
 Against the snares of Demons, 
 
 Against the temptations of vices, 
 
 Against the lusts of Nature, 
 
 Against every man who meditates injury to me, 
 
 Whether far or near, 
 
 Whether alone or with many. 
 
 I have invoked all these Virtues 
 
 Against every hostile, savage Power 
 
 Warring upon my Body and my Soul, 
 
 Against the Incantations of False Prophets, 
 
 Against the black laws of Gentilism, 
 
 Against the false laws of Heresy, 
 
 Against the deceits of Idolatry, 
 
 Against the spells of Women, Magicians, and Druids, 
 
 Against every knowledge which blinds the Soul of Man. 
 
 Christ protect me this day 
 
 Against poison, against burning, 
 Against drowning, against the wounding, 
 That I may receive abundant reward. 
 
 Christ be with me, Christ before me, 
 Christ be after me, Christ within me, 
 Christ beneath me, Christ above me, 
 Christ at my right hand, Christ at my left, 
 Christ in the fort, 
 Christ in the chariot seat, 
 Christ in the poop, 
 
 Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me, 
 Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks to me, 
 Christ in every eye that sees mfe, 
 Christ in every ear that hears me. 
 R 
 
242 Notes. 
 
 I bind to myself this day 
 
 The strong virtue of the Invocation of the Trinity, 
 The Faith of the Trinity in Unity, 
 The Creator of the Elements, 
 
 Domini est Salus : 
 
 Domini est Salu? : 
 
 Christi est Sahis : 
 Salus tua, Domine, sit semper nobiscum. 
 
 Page 31. Mount Cruachan. 
 
 Now called Croagh Patrick, a mountain on the coast near West- 
 port. 
 
 Page 35. More late in Alba. 
 Scotland, 
 
 Page 35. Rock-bmvered Loch Lent. 
 Killarney. 
 
 Page 51. From Cruachan. 
 The palace of the Kings in Connaught. 
 
 Page 60. The children of Fochlut Wood. 
 
 This wood extended along the coast near the present town of 
 Killala. 
 
 Page 69. The Lay of the Heads. 
 
 The substance of this bard song will be found in an ancient Irish 
 poem, of which a literal translation is given in ' The Dean of 
 Lismore's Book,' page 58. The author of it, Connal Cearnach Mac 
 Edirskeol (or O'Driscol), is thus described : ' He was the most 
 ancient of all the Ossianic poets. He was contemporary with 
 Cuchullain (also spelt Cuchullin), who flourished, according to Irish 
 historians, in the first century. Cuchullain was his foster-son, and, 
 upon his being slain, Connal took vengeance on his enemies by 
 putting them all to death.' This story is narrated in one of the 
 most beautiful collections of old Irish legends, where it ends thus : 
 
Notes. 243 
 
 'Conal was beyond sea; but the widowed Eimer sent to ac- 
 quaint him, that he might avenge Cuchullain. This great knight 
 of the Red Branch found the head of the hero used as a hurling ball. 
 He contended with, and slew, those who had so insulted the 
 remains of his friend.' 
 
 Page 86. In Uladh. 
 Southern Antrim. 
 
 Page 88. Not me ye tempted \ but the God I serve. 
 
 The love of Truth which was among Saint Patrick's most marked 
 characteristics, is illustrated by some of the earliest legends respect- 
 ing him in the 'Tripartite Life.' Thus we find the following: 
 ' Conceis was his mother's name. She was of the Franks, and a 
 sister to Martin (of Tours). In Nemtur, moreover, the man Saint 
 Patrick was born ; and the stone on which Saint Patrick was born 
 would shed forth water when any one swore a false oath upon it, as 
 if it were lamenting the false testimony. If the oath was true, 
 however, the stone would remain in its natural condition.' * 
 
 Page 89. There shalt thoufind a boat. 
 
 This incident, recorded in the ' Tripartite Life,' may have sug- 
 gested several passages in the Medieval Legends. Thus also in 
 Professor O'Curry's ' Lectures on the MS. materials for Irish 
 History ' will be found an Irish legend belonging to a very early 
 period, and exactly corresponding with the Spanish legend so 
 beautifully rendered in Archbishop Trench's poem, ' The Monk 
 and the Bird.' It is well known how fond the Spanish poets were 
 of turning to account the legends connected with * Saint Patrick's 
 Purgatory.' The Irish missionaries carried with them to many 
 countries the recollections connected with their great Saint. 
 
 > 
 
 1 ' Life of St. Patrick,' by M. F. Cusack, p. 372. 
 R 2 
 
244 Notes. 
 
 Page 94. Thou shall not be a Priest, he said. 
 
 Conall Creevan, a brother of Laeghaire, King of Ireland, was one 
 of Saint Patrick's earliest converts, and became his devoted fol- 
 lower. He asked permission to become a Priest ; but the Saint 
 commanded him to remain a soldier. The shield marked with the 
 sign of the Cross was ever after called ' Sciath-Bachlach,' or the 
 Shield of the Crozier. This is stated by Dr. O'Donovan to be the 
 earliest authentic notice found of armorial bearings in Ireland. 
 
 Page 104. The Contention. 
 
 On the mountains and the wild shores of Western Ireland are 
 still recited, in the Gaelic, to eager listeners legends relating to 
 Fionn Mac Cumbal and his son Oisin, known to the English 
 reader chiefly under the names of Fingal and Ossian. Many 
 poems on this subject are included in 'The Dean of Lismore's 
 Book,' a work consisting of ancient Gaelic poetry, selected from a 
 MS. collection made about A.D. 1514, by Sir James MacGregor, 
 Dean of Lismore, an island in Argyllshire. The early Irish settle- 
 ments in Western Scotland are largely referred to by the chroniclers 
 and archaeologists of Scotland. W. F. Skene, Esq. , in his learned 
 introduction to the Dean's book, informs us (though for Scotland as 
 well as for Ireland he claims Ossianic poetry) that, during the 
 four centuries in which the great Celtic house of the * Lord of the 
 Isles ' held sway, there existed ' not only a close political connection 
 between the Western Highlands and Islands and Ireland, but the 
 literary influence was equally close and strong ; the Irish sennachies 
 and bards were heads of a school which included the Western 
 Highlands, and the Highland sennaehies were either of Irish 
 descent, or, if of native origin, resorted to bardic schools in Ireland 
 for instruction in the language and accomplishments of their art.' 
 
 Among the Ossianic poems chanted in Ireland, not a few 
 consist of dialogues between Oisin and Saint Patrick. They de- 
 scend from a very remote antiquity, though they have been much 
 modified in the course of ages. The bard, last of his race and 
 
Notes. 245 
 
 clan, is represented as the guest of Saint Patrick in one of his 
 convents. He accepts the Christian faith, though with misgivings, 
 for he fears that he is thus false to the friends of his youth ; and 
 often his wrath blazes out against the monks, who have no faith in 
 the chiefs of Inisfail. The Saint beguiles his outbreaks by praying 
 him to sing the old glories of the land. 
 
 Fionn, the father of Oisin, was the great commander of the Irish 
 Feine, a standing army elected from all parts of the country, and 
 invested with privileges which made it almost a kingdom within a 
 kingdom. Individually, he belonged to the Feine of Leinster, the 
 celebrated 'Baoigne clan.' Alarmed by the regal attributes 
 assumed by Fionn, all the provincial kings of Ireland banded them- 
 selves together against him, and the battle of Gahbra, near Tara, 
 in Meath, was fought, A.D. 286. In that battle almost all the 
 chiefs of both sides perished, including Oscar, Oisin's son, who 
 commanded the Feine. Oscar is always represented as the gentlest,- 
 not less than the bravest of the Feine the Hector of the Irish 
 Troy. 
 
 Fionn and Oisin flourished, despite these poetic disputations, 
 nearly two centuries before the time of Saint Patrick ! Some have 
 supposed, accordingly, that the Patrick of the Ossianic poems was 
 some precursor of the Irish apostle. But the chronological dis- 
 crepancy would probably have proved no counterweight to the 
 strength of that instinct which made the national imagination insist 
 on connecting the heroic with the saintly period of Ireland. A 
 theme full of pathos and interest was presented by the blind old 
 warrior bard, divided between his devotion to his father and his 
 son on the one hand, and his reverence, on the other, for the 
 teachers of the better faith between old affections and new con- 
 victionspatriotic recollections and religious hopes. 
 
 Page 127. In Limneach. 
 
 Limerick. The far-famed Monastery of Mungret was within 1 
 three miles of Limerick. % 
 
246 Notes. 
 
 Pa S e 1 3S- By SanguFs Well. 
 Now called Saint Patrick's Well, close to Limerick. 
 
 Page 139. To that Hill he went. 
 Knock Patrick. 
 
 Page 139. Thai green Isle.\ 
 Foynes Island. 
 
 Page 140. Isle of blue ocean and the river's mouth. 
 
 Scattery. There were seven churches on this small island, of 
 which considerable remains still exist. 
 
 Page 140. Of Brendan. 
 
 His legend will be found among the Poems of F. D. Mac Carthy, 
 to whom we are so deeply indebted for his admirable translations 
 from Calderon. 
 
 Page 140. And Sheenarfs sound. 
 The Shannon. 
 
 Page 149. Clochar. 
 Now Clogher. 
 
 Page 171. At Cluaincain in Ross. 
 Carrickmacross in the south of the county Monahan. 
 
 Page 171. But thou to Macha get thee. 
 Armagh. 
 
 Page 175. Beside his gate sitting in silence. 
 
 In ancient Ireland a singular custom prevailed. In some cases 
 of alleged injury, the defendant had a right to sit down at the gate 
 of the person asserting his claim, and to remain there without 
 speech or food, till the claimant had relented. The weaker party 
 was then said to have ' bound ' the stronger 'with his fast.' 
 
Notes. 247 
 
 Page 175. His axe let no man sharpen. 
 
 The fate of this tormentor of his slaves is thus recorded in the 
 Tripartite Life, page 479- ' Trian himself proceeded to bind and 
 maltreat the slaves who reported him. His horses bore him off in 
 the chariot, and his driver, so that they went into the lake. He 
 will not arise out of that lake till the vespers of the Day of Judg- 
 ment ; and it will not be to happiness even then.' 
 
 Page 20 1. Of Eire would make a second Rome. 
 
 Everywhere we can see how keenly Saint Patrick appreciated 
 the special spiritual characteristics of the race to which he had 
 devoted himself, and how clearly he saw that its true sphere of 
 greatness was that of missionary enterprise. Thus we read in the 
 Tripartite Life : ' Patrick went to Es-Ruaidh. He desired to 
 establish himself there, where Disert Patrick is, and Lee Patrick. 
 Cairbre opposed him, and sent two of his people to seize his hands. 
 " Not good is what you do," said Patrick ; " if I were permitted to 
 found a place here, the second to Rome of Letha (Italy) with its 
 Tiber running through it would be my establishment with its 
 Es-Rhuaidh running through it ; and . your descendants would be 
 Comarbs in it." ' 
 
 Page 201. 
 
 And thrice, like some great warrior of the bards, 
 Your conquering wheels aboz'e me you have driven. 
 
 The later interpolations have sometimes oddly distorted the 
 meaning of the original tradition respecting St. Patrick. This 
 incident is recorded as though the Saint, the ' meekest man on 
 earth ' had actually driven his chariot three times over the prostrate 
 body of Secknall, as well as, on another occasion, of his own 
 sister ! To * drive over ' was doubtless a metaphor once as well 
 understood in Ireland as to ' overthrow ' is among us : but as the 
 story passed from mouth to mouth ^he metaphor dropped out of it. 
 Thus again, in the record of the Feast on Knock Cae, it is stated 
 
248 Notes. 
 
 that the half-starved troop of musicians and jugglers who sued to 
 Saint Patrick for food, immediately upon their receiving the ' little 
 wether ' were swallowed up by the earth ! The meaning obviously 
 is that they disappeared down the bosky slope * as if the earth, had 
 swallowed them,' and thus in place of an unmeaning fiction we 
 have a singular instance of truthful handling in narrative ; for the 
 first thought of a famished outlaw, as of a famished animal, on 
 getting a supply of food, is to escape with it. Those who laugh 
 at quaint stories about Saint Patrick's dispersing Evil Spirits by 
 flinging his bell among them, or driving venomous animals into the 
 abvss, might find much instruction if they asked themselves what 
 inner meaning lay beneath such symbolic records, and what para- 
 bolic teaching was conveyed by such actions. The predictions 
 ascribed to Saint Patrick, and which cause to such persons much 
 uneasiness, were in many cases simply benedictions ; and as regards 
 the maledictions attributed to him on some occasions, we must re- 
 member the remark made by one of his early biographers, viz. that 
 maledictions were frequently but prophetic announcements. 
 
 Page 231. As I preached, the day. 
 
 It was in the main by preaching that Saint Patrick converted the 
 Irish. Thus we read in the Tripartite Life, page 45, ' Patrick went 
 after that to Lemhuin. Finnabhair is the name of the hill on which 
 Patrick preached. Three days and three nights was he at the 
 preaching, and each day did not seem to them longer than one 
 hour. Then it was that Brigid slept at the preaching, and Patrick 
 did not allow her to be awakened.' 
 
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