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 God of God,
Had man become, and died upon the Cross,
Vanquishing 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 passed
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
Rehearsed 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 breasts 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 God 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 passed
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 God 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 pass on to glory.”

At his word
She knelt, and unto God, with help of God,
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 God; 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 God,
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 God thou serv’st
Be God indeed, restore him!” Patrick turned
To Malach, praised of all men. “Brother, kneel,
And raise yon child.” But Malach answered, “Nay,
Lest, tempting God, 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 God! the fault is ours not His,
And ours alone the shame.” The Apostle turned
To Ibar, and to Ailbè, 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 shining, 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—
“God 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!”