A Celtic Psaltery Part 4

(From an Irish Ma.n.u.script in the Burgundian Library, Brussels)

Delightful would it be to me From a rock pinnacle to trace Continually The Ocean's face: That I might watch the heaving waves Of n.o.ble force To G.o.d the Father chant their staves Of the earth's course.

That I might mark its level strand, To me no lone distress, That I might hark the sea-bird's wondrous band-- Sweet source of happiness.

That I might hear the clamorous billows thunder On the rude beach.

That by my blessed church side I might ponder Their mighty speech.

Or watch surf-flying gulls the dark shoal follow With joyous scream, Or mighty ocean monsters spout and wallow, Wonder supreme!

That I might well observe of ebb and flood All cycles therein; And that my mystic name might be for good But "Cul-ri. Erin."

That gazing toward her on my heart might fall A full contrition, That I might then bewail my evils all, Though hard the addition; That I might bless the Lord who all things orders For their great good.

The countless hierarchies through Heaven's bright borders-- Land, strand, and flood, That I might search all books and from their chart Find my soul's calm; Now kneel before the Heaven of my heart, Now chant a psalm; Now meditate upon the King of Heaven, Chief of the Holy Three; Now ply my work by no compulsion driven.

What greater joy could be?

Now plucking dulse upon the rocky sh.o.r.e, Now fis.h.i.+ng eager on, Now furnis.h.i.+ng food unto the famished poor; In hermitage anon: The guidance of the King of Kings Has been vouchsafed unto me; If I keep watch beneath His wings, No evil shall undo me.

HAIL, BRIGIT!

An old Irish poem on the Hill of Alenn recording the disappearance of the Pagan World of Ireland and the triumph of Christianity by the establishment at Kildare of the convent of Brigit, Saint and Princess.

Safe on thy throne, Triumphing Bride, Down Liffey's side, Far to the coast, Rule with the host Under thy care Over the Children of Mighty Cathair.

G.o.d's hid intents At every time, For pure Erin's clime All telling surpa.s.s.

Liffey's clear gla.s.s Mirrors thy reign, But many proud masters have pa.s.sed from his plain.

When on his banks I cast my eyes thorough The fair, gra.s.sy Curragh, Awe enters my mind At each wreck that I find Around me far strown Of lofty kings' palaces gaunt, lichen-grown!

Laery was monarch As far as the Main; Vast Ailill's reign!

The Curragh's green wonder Still grows the blue under, The old rulers thereon One after other to cold death have gone.

Where is Alenn far-famed, How dear in delights!

Beneath her what Knights What Princes repose How feared by her foes When Crimthan was Chief-- Crimthan of Conquests--now pa.s.ses belief!

Proudly the triumph-shout Rang from his victor lords, Round their ma.s.sed shock of swords; While their foes' serried, blue Spears they struck through and through; Blasts of delight Blared from their horns over hundreds in flight.

Blithe, on their anvils Even-hued, blent The hammers' concent; From the Brugh the bard's song Brake sweet and strong; Proud beauty graced The field where knights jousted and charioteers raced.

There in each household Ran the rich mead; Steed neighed to steed; Chains jingled again Unto Kings among men Under the blades Of their five-edged, long, bitter, blood-letting spear-heads.

There, at each hour, Harp music o'erflowed; The wine-galleon rode The violet sea, Whence silver showered free, And gold torques without fail, From the land of the Gaul to the Land of the Gael.

To Britain's far coasts The renown of those kings On a meteor's wings O'er the waters had flown.

Yea! Alenn's high throne, With its masterful lore, Made sport of the pomp of each palace before.

But where, oh, where is mighty Cathair?

Before him or since No shapelier Prince Ruled many-hued Erin.

Though round the rath, wherein They laid him, you cry, The Champion of Champions can never reply.

Where is Feradach's robe, Where his diadem famed, Round which, as it flamed, Plumed ranks deployed?

His blue helm is destroyed, His s.h.i.+ning cloak dust.

Overthrower of kings, in whom now is thy trust?

Alenn's wors.h.i.+p of auguries Now is as naught!

None thereof takes thought.

All in vain is each spell The dark future to tell!

All is vain, when 'tis probed, And Alenn lies dead of her black arts disrobed.

Hail, Brigit! whose lands To-day I behold, Whither monarchs of old Came each in his turn.

Thy fame shall outburn Their mightiest glory; Thou art over them all, till this Earth ends its story.

Yea! Thy rule with the King Everlasting shall stand, Apart from the land Of thy burial-place.

Child of Bresal's proud race, O triumphing Bride,[A]

Sit safely enthroned upon Liffey's green side.

[Footnote A: Brigit; hence St. Bride's Bay.]

THE DEVIL'S TRIBUTE TO MOLING

(From the Early Irish)

Once, when St. Moling was praying in his church, the Devil visited him in purple raiment and distinguished form. On being challenged by the saint, he declared himself to be the Christ, but on Moling's raising the Gospel to disprove his claim, the Evil One confessed that he was Satan.

"Wherefore hast thou come?" asked Moling. "For a blessing," the Devil replied. "Thou shalt not have it," said Moling, "for thou deservest it not." "Well, then," said the Devil, "bestow the full of a curse on me."

"What good were that to thee?" asked Moling. "The venom and the hurt of the curse will be on the lips from which it will come." After further parley, the Devil paid this tribute to Moling:

He is pure gold, the sky around the sun, A silver chalice brimmed with blessed wine, An Angel shape, a book of lore divine, Whoso obeys in all the Eternal One.

He is a foolish bird that fowlers lime, A leaking s.h.i.+p in utmost jeopardy, An empty vessel and a withered tree, Who disobeys the Sovereign Sublime.

A fragrant branch with blossoms overrun, A bounteous bowl with honey overflowing, A precious stone, of virtue past all knowing Is he who doth the will of G.o.d's dear Son.

A nut that only emptiness doth fill, A sink of foulness, a crookt branch is he Upon a blossomless crab-apple tree, Who doeth not his Heavenly Master's will.

Whoso obeys the Son of G.o.d and Mary-- He is a sunflash lighting up the moor, He is a dais on the Heavenly Floor, A pure and very precious reliquary.

A sun heaven-cheering he, in whose warm beam The King of Kings takes ever fresh delight, He is a temple, n.o.ble, blessed, bright, A saintly shrine with gems and gold a-gleam.

The altar he, whence bread and wine are told, While countless melodies around are hymned, A chalice cleansed from G.o.d's own grapes upbrimmed, Upon Christ's garment's hem the joyful gold.