The Legends of Saint Patrick Part 6

Say, can I s.h.i.+eld yon host from death, from sin, Taking them up into my breast, like G.o.d?

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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d decrees thee King!

Son of this People art thou: Sire one day Thou shalt be! Son and Sire in one are King.

Shepherd for G.o.d thy flock, thou Shepherd true!"

He spake: that word was ratified in Heaven.

Meantime that mult.i.tude 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 G.o.d, 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 ma.s.sive book, forward Saint Patrick leaned, Stayed by the gem-wrought crosier. Prayer on prayer Went up to G.o.d; while gift on gift from G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d. 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d heard his servant's prayer. Then Patrick mused "Now know I why I pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d'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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d's high Will. But more than peace, The rapturous vision of the Face of G.o.d, 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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d of G.o.d, Had man become, and died upon the Cross, Vanquis.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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 Rehea.r.s.ed 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.s on to glory."

At his word She knelt, and unto G.o.d, with help of G.o.d, 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 G.o.d; 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d thou serv'st Be G.o.d indeed, restore him!" Patrick turned To Malach, praised of all men. "Brother, kneel, And raise yon child." But Malach answered, "Nay, Lest, tempting G.o.d, 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 G.o.d! the fault is ours not His, And ours alone the shame." The Apostle turned To Ibar, and to Ailbe, 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 s.h.i.+ning, 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 - "G.o.d 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, G.o.d'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!"