Chapter III: Part 3

Saint Patrick goes to Cashel of the Rings to celebrate the Feast of the Annunciation. Aengus, who reigns there, receives him with all honour. He and his people believe, and by Baptism are added unto the Church. Aengus desires to resign his sovereignty, and become a monk. The Saint suffers not this, because he had discovered by two notable signs, both at the baptism of Aengus and before it, that the Prince is of those who are called by God to rule men.

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
Pushed on through raging storm the whole night long,
Intent to hold the Annunciation Feast
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 on duteous tasks. With sudden start
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. O’er-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 mist, struck by the rising sun,
Glittered, that diamond-panoplied they seemed,
And as a heavenly vision. At that sight
The youth, descending with a wildered joy,
Welcomed his guests: and, ere an hour, the streets
Sparkled far down 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 had edged their thirst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SAINT PATRICK AND THE CHILDLESS MOTHER.

ARGUMENT.

Saint Patrick finds an aged Pagan woman making great lamentation above a tomb which she believes to be that of her son. He kneels beside her in prayer, while around them a wondrous tempest sweeps. After a long time, he declares unto her the Death of Christ, and how, through that Death, the Dead are blessed. Lastly, he dissuades her from her rage of grief, and admonishes her to pray for her son on a tomb hard by, which is his indeed. The woman believes, and, being consoled by a Sign of Heaven, departs in peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SAINT PATRICK AT THE FEAST OF KNOCK CAE; OR, THE FOUNDING OF MUNGRET.

ARGUMENT.

Saint Patrick, being bidden to a feast, discourses on the way against the pride of the Bards, for whom Fiacc pleads. Derball, a scoffer, requires the Saint to remove a mountain. He kneels down and prays, and Derball avers that the mountain moved. Notwithstanding, Derball believes not, but departs. The Saint declares that he saw not whether the mountain moved. He places Nessan over his convent at Mungret because he had given a little wether to the hungry. Nessan’s mother grudged the gift; and Saint Patrick prophesies that her grave shall not be in her son’s church.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SAINT PATRICK AND KING EOCHAID.

ARGUMENT.

King Eochaid submits himself to the Christian Law because Saint Patrick has delivered his son from bonds, yet only after making a pact that he is not, like the meaner sort, to be baptized. In this stubbornness he persists, though otherwise a kindly king; and after many years, he dies. Saint Patrick had refused to see his living face; yet after death he prays by the death-bed. Life returns to the dead; and sitting up, like one sore amazed, he demands baptism. The Saint baptizes him, and offers him a choice either to reign over all Erin for fifteen years, or to die. Eochaid chooses to die, and so departs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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