The Legends of Saint Patrick

by Aubrey De Vere

SAINT PATRICK AND KING LAEGHAIRE.

“Thou son of Calphurn, in peace go forth!
This hand shall slay them whoe’er shall slay thee!
The carles shall stand to their necks in earth
Till they die of thirst who mock or stay thee!

“But my father, Nial, who is dead long since,
Permits not me to believe thy word;
For the servants of Jesus, thy heavenly Prince,
Once dead, lie flat as in sleep, interred:
But we are as men that through dark floods wade;
We stand in our black graves undismayed;
Our faces are turned to the race abhorred,
And at each hand by us stand spear or sword,
Ready to strike at the last great day,
Ready to trample them back into clay!

“This is my realm, and men call it Eire,
Wherein I have lived and live in hate
Like Nial before me and Erc his sire,
Of the race Lagenian, ill-named the Great!”

Thus spake Laeghaire, and his host rushed on,
A river of blood as yet unshed:—
At noon they fought: and at set of sun
That king lay captive, that host lay dead!

The Lagenian loosed him, but bade him swear
He would never demand of them Tribute more:
So Laeghaire by the dread “God-Elements” swore,
By the moon divine and the earth and air;
He swore by the wind and the broad sunshine
That circle for ever both land and sea,
By the long-backed rivers, and mighty wine,
By the cloud far-seeing, by herb and tree,
By the boon spring shower, and by autumn’s fan,
By woman’s breast, and the head of man,
By Night and the noonday Demon he swore
He would claim the Boarian Tribute no more.

But with time wrath waxed; and he brake his faith:
Then the dread “God-Elements” wrought his death;
For the Wind and Sun-Strength by Cassi’s side
Came down and smote on his head that he died.
Death-sick three days on his throne he sate;
Then died, as his father died, great in hate.

They buried their king upon Tara’s hill,
In his grave upright—there stands he still:
Upright there stands he as men that wade
By night through a castle-moat, undismayed;
On his head is the crown, the spear in his hand;
And he looks to the hated Lagenian land.

Such rites in the time of wrath and wrong
Were Eire’s: baptised, they were hers no longer:
For Patrick had taught her his sweet new song,
“Though hate is strong, yet love is stronger.”

SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR;
OR, MAC KYLE OF MAN.

Mac Kyle, a child of death, dwells in a forest with other men like unto himself, that slay whom they will. Saint Patrick coming to that wood, a certain Impostor devises how he may be deceived and killed; but God smites the Impostor through his own snare, and he dies. Mac Kyle believes, and demanding penance is baptised. Afterwards he preaches in Manann [77] Isle, and becomes a great Saint.

In Uladh, near Magh Inis, lived a chief,
Fierce man and fell. From orphaned childhood he
Through lawless youth to blood-stained middle age
Had rushed as stormy morn to stormier noon,
Working, except that still he spared the poor,
All wrongs with iron will; a child of death.
Thus spake he to his followers, while the woods
Snow-cumbered creaked, their scales of icy mail
Angered by winter winds: “At last he comes,
He that deceives the people with great signs,
And for the tinkling of a little gold
Preaches new Gods. Where rises yonder smoke
Beyond the pinewood, camps this Lord of Dupes:
How say ye? Shall he track o’er Uladh’s plains,
As o’er the land beside, his venomous way?
Forth with your swords! and if that God he serves
Can save him, let him prove it!”

Dark with wrath
Thus spake Mac Kyle; and all his men approved,
Shouting, while downward fell the snows hard-caked Loosened by shock of forest-echoed hands,
Save Garban. Crafty he, and full of lies,
That thing which Patrick hated. Sideway first
Glancing, as though some secret foe were nigh,
He spake: “Mac Kyle! a counsel for thine ear!
A man of counsel I, as thou of war!
The people love this stranger. Patrick slain,
Their wrath will blaze against us, and demand
An eric for his head. Let us by craft
Unravel first his craft: then safe our choice;
We slay a traitor, or great ransom take:
Impostors lack not gold. Lay me as dead
Upon a bier: above me spread yon cloth,
And make your wail: and when the seer draws nigh
Worship him, crying, ‘Lo, our friend is dead!
Kneel, prophet, kneel, and pray that God thou serv’st
To raise him.’ If he kneels, no prophet he,
But like the race of mortals. Sweep the cloth
Straight from my face; then, laughing, I will rise.”

Thus counselled Garban; and the counsel pleased;
Yet pleased not God. Upon a bier, branch-strewn,
They laid their man, and o’er him spread a cloth;
Then, moving towards that smoke behind the pines,
They found the Saint and brought him to that bier,
And made their moan—and Garban ’neath that cloth
Smiled as he heard it—“Lo, our friend is dead!
Great prophet kneel; and pray the God thou serv’st
To raise him from the dead.”

The man of God
Upon them fixed a sentence-speaking eye:
“Yea! he is dead. In this ye have not lied:
Behold, this day shall Garban’s covering be
The covering of the dead. Remove that cloth.”

Then drew they from his face the cloth; and lo!
Beneath it Garban lay, a corpse stone-cold.

Amazement fell upon that bandit throng,
Contemplating that corpse, and on Mac Kyle
Grief for his friend, remorse, and strong belief,
A threefold power: for she that at his birth,
Her brief life faithful to that Law she knew,
Had died, in region where desires are crowned
That hour was strong in prayer. “From God he came,”
Thus cried they; “and we worked a work accursed,
Tempting God’s prophet.” Patrick heard, and spake;
“Not me ye tempted, but the God I serve.”
At last Mac Kyle made answer: “I have sinned;
I, and this people, whom I made to sin:
Now therefore to thy God we yield ourselves
Liegemen henceforth, his thralls as slave to Lord,
Or horse to master. That which thou command’st
That will we do.” And Patrick said, “Believe;
Confess your sins; and be baptised to God,
The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit,
And live true life.” Then Patrick where he stood
Above the dead, with hands uplifted preached
To these in anguish and in terror bowed
The tidings of great joy from Bethlehem’s Crib
To Calvary’s Cross. Sudden upon his knees,
Heart-pierced, as though he saw that Head thorn-pierced,
Fell that wild chief, and was baptised to God;
And, lifting up his great strong hands, while still
The waters streamed adown his matted locks,
He cried, “Alas, my master, and my sire!
I sinned a mighty sin; for in my heart
Fixed was my purpose, soon as thou hadst knelt,
To slay thee with my sword. Therefore judge thou
What eric I must pay to quit my sin?”
Him Patrick answered, “God shall be thy Judge:
Arise, and to the seaside flee, as one
That flies his foe. There shalt thou find a boat
Made of one hide: eat nought, and nothing take
Except one cloak alone: but in that boat
Sit thou, and bear the sin-mark on thy brow,
Facing the waves, oarless and rudderless;
And bind the boat chain thrice around thy feet,
And fling the key with strength into the main,
Far as thou canst: and wheresoe’er the breath
Of God shall waft thee, there till death abide
Working the Will Divine.” Then spake that chief,
“I, that commanded others, can obey;
Such lore alone is mine: but for this man
That sinned my sin, alas, to see him thus!”
To whom the Saint, “For him, when thou art gone,
My prayer shall rise. If God will raise the dead
He knows: not I.”

Then rose that chief, and rushed
Down to the shore, as one that flies his foe;
Nor ate, nor drank, nor spake to wife or child,
But loosed a little boat, of one hide made,
And sat therein, and round his ankles wound
The boat chain thrice; and flung the key far forth
Above the ridged sea foam. The Lord of all
Gave ordinance to the wind, and, as a leaf
Swift rushed that boat, oarless and rudderless,
Over the on-shouldering, broad-backed, glaucous wave
Slow-rising like the rising of a world,
And purple wastes beyond, with funeral plume
Crested, a pallid pomp. All night the chief
Under the roaring tempest heard the voice
That preached the Son of Man; and when the morn
Shone out, his coracle drew near the surge
Reboant on Manann’s Isle. Not unbeheld
Rose it, and fell; not unregarded danced
A black spot on the inrolling ridge, then hung
Suspense upon the mile-long cataract
That, overtoppling, changed grass-green to light,
And drowned the shores in foam. Upon the sands
Two white-haired Elders in the salt air knelt,
Offering to God their early orisons,
Coninri and Romael. Sixty years
These two unto a hard and stubborn race
Had preached the Word; and gaining by their toil
But thirty souls, had daily prayed their God
To send ere yet they died some ampler arm,
And reap the ill-grown harvest of their youth.
Ten years they prayed, not doubting, and from God,
Who hastens not, this answer had received,
“Ye shall not die until ye see his face.”
Therefore, each morning, peered they o’er the waves,
Long-watching. These through breakers dragged the man,
Their wished-for prize, half-frozen, and nigh to death,
And bare him to their cell, and warmed and fed him,
And heaped his couch with skins. Deep sleep he slept
Till evening lay upon the level sea
With roses strewn like bridal chamber’s floor;
Within it one star shone. Rested, he woke
And sought the shore. From earth, and sea, and sky,
Then passed into his spirit the Spirit of Love;
And there he vowed his vow, fierce chief no more,
But soldier of the cross.

The weeks ran on,
And daily those grey Elders ministered
God’s teaching to that chief, demanding still,
“Son, understandst thou? Gird thee like a man
To clasp, and hold, the total Faith of Christ,
And give us leave to die.” The months fled fast:
Ere violets bloomed, he knew the creed; and when
Far heathery hills purpled the autumnal air,
He sang the psalter whole. That tale he told
Had power, and Patrick’s name. His strenous arm
Labouring with theirs, reaped harvest heavy and sound,
Till wondering gazed their wearied eyes on barns
Knee-deep in grain. At last an eve there fell,
When, on the shore in commune, with such might
Discoursed that pilgrim of the things of God,
Such insight calm, and wisdom reverence-born,
Each on the other gazing in their hearts
Received once more an answer from the Lord,
“Now is your task completed: ye shall die.”

Then on the red sand knelt those Elders twain
With hands upraised, and all their hoary hair
Tinged like the foam-wreaths by that setting sun,
And sang their “Nunc Dimittis.” At its close
High on the sandhills, ’mid the tall hard grass
That sighed eternal o’er the unbounded waste
With ceaseless yearnings like their own for death
They found the place where first, that bark descried,
Their sighs were changed to songs. That spot they marked,
And said, “Our resurrection place is here:”
And, on the third day dying, in that place
The man who loved them laid them, at their heads
Planting one cross because their hearts were one
And one their lives. The snowy-breasted bird
Of ocean o’er their undivided graves
Oft flew with wailing note; but they rejoiced
’Mid God’s high realm glittering in endless youth.

These two with Christ, on him, their son in Christ
Their mantle fell; and strength to him was given.
Long time he toiled alone; then round him flocked
Helpers from far. At last, by voice of all
He gat the Island’s great episcopate,
And king-like ruled the region. This is he,
Mac Kyle of Uladh, bishop, and Penitent,
Saint Patrick’s missioner in Manann’s Isle,
Sinner one time, and, after sinner, Saint
World-famous. May his prayer for sinners plead!

SAINT PATRICK AT CASHEL;
OR, THE BAPTISM OF AENGUS.

ARGUMENT.

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

When Patrick now o’er Ulster’s forest bound,
And Connact, echoing to the western wave,
And Leinster, fair with hill-suspended woods,
Had raised the cross, and where the deep night ruled,
Splendour had sent of everlasting light,
Sole peace of warring hearts, to Munster next,
Thomond and Desmond, Heber’s portion old,
He turned; and, fired by love that mocks at rest
Pushed on through raging storm the whole night long,
Intent to hold the Annunciation Feast
At Cashel of the Kings. The royal keep
High-seated on its Rock, as morning broke
Faced them at last; and at the selfsame hour
Aengus, in his father’s absence lord,
Rising from happy sleep and heaven-sent dreams
Went forth on duteous tasks. With sudden start
The prince stept back; for, o’er the fortress court
Like grove storm-levelled lay the idols huge,
False gods and foul that long had awed the land,
Prone, without hand of man. O’er-awed he gazed;
Then on the air there rang a sound of hymns,
And by the eastern gate Saint Patrick stood,
The brethren round him. On their shaggy garb
Auroral mist, struck by the rising sun,
Glittered, that diamond-panoplied they seemed,
And as a heavenly vision. At that sight
The youth, descending with a wildered joy,
Welcomed his guests: and, ere an hour, the streets
Sparkled far down like flowering meads in spring,
So thronged the folk in holiday attire
To see the man far-famed. “Who spurns our gods?”
Once they had cried in wrath: but, year by year,
Tidings of some deliverance great and strange,
Some life more noble, some sublimer hope,
Some regal race enthroned beyond the grave,
Had reached them from afar. The best believed,
Great hearts for whom nor earthly love sufficed
Nor earthly fame. The meaner scoffed: yet all
Desired the man. Delay had edged their thirst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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