The Legends of Saint Patrick

                              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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SAINT PATRICK AND THE FOUNDING OF ARMAGH CATHEDRAL.

ARGUMENT.

Saint Patrick repairs to Ardmacha, there to found the chief church of Erin.  For that purpose he demands of Dairè, the king, a certain woody hill.  The king refuses it, and afterwards treats him with alternate scorn and reverence; while the Saint, in each event alike, makes the same answer, “Deo Gratias.”  At last the king concedes to him the hill; and on the summit of it Saint Patrick finds a little white fawn asleep.  The men of Erin would have slain that fawn; but the Saint carries it on his shoulder, and restores it to its dam.  Where the fawn lay, he places the altar of his 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 Christ’s chiefest church in Eire.
Then by him stood God’s angel, speaking thus:
“Not here, but northward.”  He replied, “O, would
This spot might favour find with God!  Behold!
Fair is it, and as meet to clasp a church
As is a true heart in a virgin breast
To clasp the Faith of Christ.  The hinds around
Name it ‘the beauteous meadow.’”  “Fair it is,”
The angel answered, “nor shall lack its crown.
Another’s is its beauty.  Here, one day
A pilgrim from the Britons sent shall build,
And, later, what he builds shall pass to thine;
But thou to Macha get thee.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE ARRAIGNMENT OF SAINT PATRICK.

ARGUMENT.

Secknall, the poet, brings, in sport, three heavy charges against Saint Patrick, who, supposing them to be serious, defends himself against them.  Lastly Secknall sings a hymn written in praise of a Saint.  Saint Patrick commends it, affirming that for once Fame has dispensed her honours honestly.  Upon this, Secknall recites the first stave, till then craftily reserved, which offers the whole homage of that hymn to Patrick, who, though the humblest of men, has thus arrogated to himself the saintly Crown.  There is laughter among the brethren.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 at morn or eve shall lack not bread:
And if men sing it in a house new-built,
Where none hath dwelt, nor bridegroom yet, nor bride,
Nor hath the cry of babe 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?”