The Legends of Saint Patrick

by Aubrey De Vere

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 Dairè, 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 God’s angel, speaking thus:
“Not here, but northward.” He replied, “O, would
This spot might favour find with God! 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 pass to thine;
But thou to Macha get thee.”

Patrick then,
Obedient as that Patriarch Sire who faced
At God’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 shores
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 Tassach,
Workers of might in iron and in stone,
God-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, ‘God 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! God 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 God’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 ship-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 passion 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 God.” 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 grass,
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.