The Legends of Saint Patrick Part 8

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 pa.s.s: 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 G.o.d! 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 cas.e.m.e.nts 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 G.o.d 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 sh.o.r.e; 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 h.o.a.r head gazing forth. Upon the face Had pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.sed, 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 s.p.a.ce, within I heard the hymning of the hosts of G.o.d 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-rus.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d?

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 Daire, 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 G.o.d's angel, speaking thus: "Not here, but northward." He replied, "O, would This spot might favour find with G.o.d! 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 pa.s.s to thine; But thou to Macha get thee."

Patrick then, Obedient as that Patriarch Sire who faced At G.o.d'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 sh.o.r.es 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 Ta.s.sach, Workers of might in iron and in stone, G.o.d-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, 'G.o.d 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! G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 s.h.i.+p-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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d." 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 gra.s.s, 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, G.o.d'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 G.o.d.'"

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 s.h.i.+ne 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 Daire dwelt, its lord.

Saint Patrick sent To Daire emba.s.sage, vouchsafing prayer As sire might pray of son; "Give thou yon hill To Christ, that we may build His church thereon."

And Daire 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 G.o.d, he slew through prayer, And banned full many a lake, and many a plain, For trespa.s.s 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 Daire 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 Daire's right: Church site he grants you, and the field around."

And Patrick, glancing from his Office Book, Made answer, "Deo Gratias," and no more.

Upon that plain 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 Daire 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 G.o.d A sickness fell on Daire nigh to death That day and night. When morning brake, the queen, A woman leal with kind barbaric heart, Her bosom from the sick man's head withdrew A moment while he slept; and, round her gazing, Closed with both hands upon a liegeman's arm, And sped him to the Saint for pardon and peace.

Then Patrick, dipping in the inviolate fount A chalice, blessed the water, with command "Sprinkle the stately coursers and the king; "

And straightway as from death the king arose, And rose from death the coursers.

Daire then, His tall frame boastful with that life renewed, Took with him men, and down the stone-paved hill Rode from his tower, and through the woodlands green, And bare with him an 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 Daire brought, and, entering, spake: "A gift for guerdon and for grace, O Priest!"

And Patrick, upward glancing from his book, Made answer, "Deo Gratias!" and no more.

King Daire, homeward riding with knit brow Muttered, "Churl's welcome for a kingly boon!"

And, drinking 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 Daire stamped his foot, like war-horse stung By gadfly: musing next, and mute he sat A s.p.a.ce, 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 G.o.d? We'll know!"

So from his frowning fortress once again Adown the resonant road o'er street and bridge Rode Daire, at his right the queen in fear, With dumbly pleading countenance; close behind, With tangled locks and loose-hung battle-axe Ran the wild kerne; and loud the bull-horn blew.