ARGUMENT.
King Eochaid submits himself to the Christian Law because Saint Patrick has delivered his son from bonds, yet only after making a pact that he is not, like the meaner sort, to be baptized. In this stubbornness he persists, though otherwise a kindly king; and after many years, he dies. Saint Patrick had refused to see his living face; yet after death he prays by the death-bed. Life returns to the dead; and sitting up, like one sore amazed, he demands baptism. The Saint baptizes him, and offers him a choice either to reign over all Erin for fifteen years, or to die. Eochaid chooses to die, and so departs.
Eochaid, son of Crimther, reigned, a King
Northward in Clochar. Dearer to his heart
Than kingdom or than people or than life
Was he, the boy long wished for. Dear was she,
Keinè, his daughter. Babyhood’s white star,
Beauteous in childhood, now in maiden dawn
She witched the world with beauty. From her eyes
A light went forth like morning o’er the sea;
Sweeter her voice than wind on harp; her smile
Could stay men’s breath. With wingèd feet she trod
The yearning earth that, if it could, like waves
Had swelled to meet their pressure. Ah, the pang!
Beauty, the immortal promise, like a cheat
If unwed glides into the shadow land,
Childless and twice defeated. Beauty wed
To mate unworthy, suffers worse eclipse—
“Ill choice between two ills!” thus spleenfull cried
Eochaid; but not his the pensive grief:
He would have kept his daughter in his house
For ever; yet, since better might not be,
Himself he chose her out a mate, and frowned,
And said, “The dog must have her.” But the maid
Wished not for marriage. Tender was her heart;
Yet though her twentieth year had o’er her flown,
And though her tears had dewed a mother’s grave,
In her there lurked, not flower of womanhood,
But flower of angel texture. All around
To her was love. The crown of earthly love
Seemed but its crown of mockery. Love Divine—
For that she yearned, and yet she knew it not;
Knew less that love she feared.
She walked in woods
While all the green leaves, drenched by sunset’s gold,
Upon a shower-bespangled sycamore
Shivered, and birds among them choir on choir
Chanted her praise—or spring’s. “Ill sung,” she laughed,
“My dainty minstrels! Grant to me your wings,
And I for them will teach you song of mine:
Listen!” A carol from her lip there gushed
That, ere its time, might well have called the spring
From winter’s coldest cave. It ceased; she turned.
Beside her Patrick stood. His hand he raised
To bless her. Awed, though glad, upon her knees
The maiden sank. His eye, as if through air,
Saw through that stainless soul, and, crystal-shrined
Therein, its inmate, Truth. That other Truth
Instant to her he preached—the Truth Divine—
(For whence is caution needful, save from sin?)
And those two Truths, each gazing upon each,
Embraced like sisters, thenceforth one. For her
No arduous thing was Faith, ere yet she heard
In heart believing: and, as when a babe
Marks some bright shape, if near or far, it knows not,
And stretches forth a witless hand to clasp
Phantom or form, even so with wild surmise
And guesses erring first, and questions apt,
She chased the flying light, and round it closed
At last, and found it substance. “This is He.”
Then cried she, “This, whom every maid should love,
Conqueror self-sacrificed of sin and death:
How shall we find, how please Him, how be nigh?”
Patrick made answer: “They that do His will
Are nigh Him.” And the virgin: “Of the nigh,
Say, who is nighest?” Thus, that wingèd heart
Rushed to its rest. He answered: “Nighest they
Who offer most to Him in sacrifice,
As when the wedded leaves her father’s house
And cleaveth to her husband. Nighest they
Who neither father’s house nor husband’s house
Desire, but live with Him in endless prayer,
And tend Him in His poor.” Aloud she cried,
“The nearest to the Highest, that is love;—
I choose that bridal lot!” He answered, “Child,
The choice is God’s. For each, that lot is best
To which He calls us.” Lifting then pure hands,
Thus wept the maiden: “Call me, Virgin-born!
Will not the Mother-Maid permit a maid
To sit beside those nail-pierced feet, and wipe,
With hair untouched by wreaths of mortal love,
The dolorous blood-stains from them? Stranger guest,
Come to my father’s tower! Against my will,
Against his own, in bridal bonds he binds me:
My suit he might resist: he cannot thine!”
She spake; and by her Patrick paced with feet
To hers accordant. Soon they reached that fort:
Central within a circling rath earth-built
It stood; the western tower of stone; the rest,
Not high, but spreading wide, of wood compact;
For thither many a forest hill had sent
His wind-swept daughter brood, relinquishing
Converse with cloud and beam and rain forever
To echo back the revels of a Prince.
Mosaic was the work, beam laced with beam
In quaint device: high up, o’er many a door
Shone blazon rich of vermeil, or of green,
Or shield of bronze, glittering with veinèd boss,
Chalcedony or agate, or whate’er
The wave-lipped marge of Neagh’s broad lake might boast,
Or ocean’s shore, northward from Brandon’s Head
To where the myriad-pillared cliffs hang forth
Their stony organs o’er the lonely main.
And trembles yet the pilgrim, noting at eve
The pride Fomorian, and that Giant Way [116]
Trending toward eastern Alba. From his throne
Above the semicirque of grassy seats
Whereon by Brehons and by Ollambs girt
Daily be judged his people, rose the king
And bade the stranger welcome.
Day to day
And night to night succeeded. In fit time,
For Patrick, sometimes sudden, oft was slow,
He spoke his Master’s message. At the close,
As though in trance, the warriors circling stood
With hands outstretched; the Druids downward frowned,
Silent; and like a strong man awed for once,
Eochaid round him stared. A little while,
And from him passed the amazement. Buoyant once more,
And bright like trees fresher for thunder-shower,
With all his wonted aspect, bold and keen,
He answered: “O my prophet, words, words, words!
We too have Prophets. Better thrice our Bards;
Yet, being no better these than trumpet’s blast,
The trumpet more I prize. Had words been work,
Myself in youth had led the loud-voiced clan!
Deeds I preferred. What profit e’er had I
From windy marvels? Once with me in war
A seer there camped that, bending back his head,
Fit rites performed, and upward gazing, blew
With rounded lips into the heaven of heavens
Druidic breath. That heaven was changed to cloud,
Cloud that on borne to Clairè’s hated bound
Down fell, a rain of blood! To me what gain?
Within three weeks my son was trapped and snared
By Aodh of Hy Brinin, king whose hosts
Number my warriors fourfold. Three long years
Beyond those purple mountains in the west
Hostage he lies.” Lightly Eochaid spake,
And turned: but shaken chin betrayed that grief
Which lived beneath his lightness.
Sudden thronged
High on the neighbouring hills a jubilant troop,
Their banners waving, while the midway vale
With harp and horn resounded. Patrick spake:
“Rejoice! thy son returns! not sole he comes,
But in his hand a princess, fair and good,
A kingdom for her dowry. Aodh’s realm,
By me late left, welcomed my King with joy:
All fire the mountains shone. ‘The God I serve,’
Thus spake I, Aodh pointing to those fires,
‘In mountains of rejoicing hath no joy
While sad beyond them sits a childless man,
His only son thy captive. Captive groaned
Creation; Bethlehem’s Babe set free the slave.
For His sake loose thy thrall!’ A sweeter voice
Pleaded with mine, his daughter’s ’mid her tears.
‘Aodh,’ I said, ‘these two each other love!
What think’st thou? He who shaped the linnet’s nest,
Indifferent unto Him are human loves?
Arise! thy work make perfect! Righteous deeds
Are easier whole than half.’ In thought awhile
Old Aodh sat; then to his daughter turned,
And thus, imperious even in kindness, spake:
‘Well fought the youth ere captured, like the son
Of kings, and worthy to be sire of kings:
Wed him this hour: and in three days, at eve,
Restore him to his father!’ King, this hour
Thou know’st if Christ’s strong Faith be empty words,
Or truth, and armed with power.”
That night was passed
In feasting and in revel, high and low
Rich with a common gladness. Many a torch
Flared in the hand of servitors hill-sent,
That standing, each behind a guest, retained
Beneath that roof clouded by banquet steam
Their mountain wildness. Here, the splendour glanced
On goblet jewel-chased and dark with wine,
Swift circling; there, on walls with antlers spread,
And rich with yew-wood carvings, flower or bud,
Or clustered grape pendent in russet gleam
As though from nature’s hand. A hall hard by
Echoed the harp that now nor kindled rage,
Nor grief condoled, nor sealed with slumber’s balm
Tempestuous spirits, triumphs three of song,
But raised to rapture, mirth. Far shone that hall
Glowing with hangings steeped in every tinct
The boast of Erin’s dyeing-vats, now plain,
Now pranked with bird or beast or fish, whate’er
Fast-flying shuttle from the craftsman’s thought
Catching, on bore through glimmering warp and woof,
A marvellous work; now traced by broiderer’s hand
With legends of Ferdìadh and of Meave,
Even to the golden fringe. The warriors paced
Exulting. Oft they showed their merit’s prize,
Poniard or cup, tribute ordained of tribes
From age to age, Eochaid’s right, on them
With equal right devolving. Slow they moved
In mantle now of crimson, now of blue,
Clasped with huge torque of silver or of gold
Just where across the snowy shirt there strayed
Tendril of purple thread. With jewelled fronts
Beauteous in pride ’mid light of winsome smiles,
Over the rushes green with slender foot
In silver slipper hid, the ladies passed,
Answering with eyes not lips the whispered praise,
Or loud the bride extolling—“When was seen
Such sweetness and such grace?”
Meantime the king
Conversed with Patrick. Vexed he heard announced
His daughter’s high resolve: but still his looks
Went wandering to his son. “My boy! Behold him!
His valour and his gifts are all from me:
My first-born!” From the dancing throng apart
His daughter stood the while, serene and pale,
Down-gazing on that lily in her hand
With face of one who notes not shapes around,
But dreams some happy dream. The king drew nigh,
And on her golden head the sceptre staff
Leaning, but not to hurt her, thus began:
“Your prophets of the day, I trust them not!
If sent from God, why came they not long since?
Our Druids came before them, and, belike,
Shall after them abide! With these new seers
I count not Patrick. Things that Patrick says
I ofttimes thought. His lineage too is old—
Wide-browed, grey-eyed, with downward lessening face,
Not like your baser breeds, with questing eyes
And jaw of dog. But for thy Heavenly Spouse,
I like not Him! At least, wed Cormac first!
If rude his ways, yet noble is his name,
And being but poor the man will bide with me:
He’s brave, and likeliest soon in fight may fall!
When Cormac dies, wed next—” a music clash
Forth bursting drowned his words.
Three days passed by:
To Patrick, then preparing to depart,
Thus spake Eochaid in the ears of all:
“Herald Heaven-missioned of the Tidings Good!
Those tidings I have pondered. They are true:
I for that truth’s sake, and in honour bound
By reason of my son set free, resolve
The same, upon conditions, to believe,
And suffer all my people to believe,
Just terms exacted. Briefly these they are:
First, after death, I claim admittance frank
Into thy Heavenly Kingdom: next, till death
For me exemption from that Baptism Rite,
Imposed on kerne and hind. Experience-taught,
I love not rigid bond and written pledge:
’Tis well to brand your mark on sheep or lamb:
Kings are of lion breed; and of my house
’Tis known there never yet was king baptized.
This pact concluded, preach within my realm
Thy Faith; and wed my daughter to thy God.
Not scholarly am I to know what joy
A maid can find in psalm, and cell, and spouse
Unseen: yet ever thus my sentence stood,
‘Choose each his way.’ My son restored, her loss
To me is loss the less.” Thus spake the king.