At midnight by the side of Patrick stood
Victor, God’s Angel, saying, “Lo! thy work
Hath favour found and thou ere long shalt die:
Thus therefore saith the Lord, ‘So long as sea
Girdeth this isle, so long thy name shall hang
In splendour o’er it, like the stars of God.’”
Then Patrick said, “A boon! I crave a boon!”
The angel answered, “Speak;” and Patrick said,
“Let them that with me toiled, or in the years
To come shall toil, building o’er all this land
The Fortress-Temple and great House of Christ,
Equalled with me my name in Erin share.”
And Victor answered, “Half thy prayer is thine;
With thee shall they partake. Not less, thy name
Higher than theirs shall rise, and wider spread,
Since thus more plainly shall His glory shine
Whose glory is His justice.”
With the morn
Those pilgrims rose, and, prime entoned and lauds,
Poured out their blessing on that woodland clan
Which, round them pressing, kissed them, robe and knee;
Then on they journeyed till at set of sun
Shone out the roofs of Macha, and that tower
Where Dairè dwelt, its lord.
Saint Patrick sent
To Dairè embassage, vouchsafing prayer
As sire might pray of son; “Give thou yon hill
To Christ, that we may build His church thereon.”
And Dairè answered with a brow of storms
Bent forward darkly, and long, sneering lips,
“Your master is a mighty man, we know.
Garban, that lied to God, he slew through prayer,
And banned full many a lake, and many a plain,
For trespass there committed! Let it be!
A Chief of souls he is! No signs we work,
Rulers earth-born: yet somewhat are we here—
Depart! By others answer we will send.”
So Dairè sent to Patrick men of might,
Fierce men, the battle’s nurslings. Thus they spake:
“High region for high heads! If build ye must,
Build on the plain: the hill is Dairè’s right:
Church site he grants you, and the field around.”
And Patrick, glancing from his Office Book,
Made answer, “Deo Gratias,” and no more.
Upon that plain he built a little church
Ere long, a convent likewise, girt with mound
Banked from the meadow loam, and deftly set
With stone, and fence, and woody palisade,
That neither warring clans, far heard by day,
Might hurt his cloistered charge, nor wolves by night,
Howling in woods; and there he served the Lord.
But Dairè scorned the Saint, and grudged his gift,
Though small; and half in spleen, and half in greed,
Sent down two stately coursers all night long
To graze the deep sweet pasture round the church:
Ill deed:—and so, for guerdon of that sin,
Dead lay the coursers twain at the break of dawn.
Then fled the servants back, and told their lord,
Fearing for negligence rebuke and scath,
“Thy Christian slew the coursers!” and the king
Gave word to slay or bind him. But from God
A sickness fell on Dairè nigh to death
That day and night. When morning brake, the queen,
A woman leal with kind barbaric heart,
Her bosom from the sick man’s head withdrew
A moment while he slept; and, round her gazing,
Closed with both hands upon a liegeman’s arm,
And sped him to the Saint for pardon and peace.
Then Patrick, dipping in the inviolate fount
A chalice, blessed the water, with command
“Sprinkle the stately coursers and the king;”
And straightway as from death the king arose,
And rose from death the coursers.
Dairè then,
His tall frame boastful with that life renewed,
Took with him men, and down the stone-paved hill
Rode from his tower, and through the woodlands green,
And bare with him an offering of those days,
A brazen cauldron vast. Embossed it shone
With sculptured shapes. On one side hunters rode:
Low stretched their steeds: the dogs pulled down the stag
Unseen, except the branching horns that rose
Like hands in protest. Feasters, on the other,
Raised high the cup pledging the safe return.
This offering Dairè brought, and, entering, spake:
“A gift for guerdon and for grace, O Priest!”
And Patrick, upward glancing from his book,
Made answer, “Deo Gratias!” and no more.
King Dairè, homeward riding with knit brow
Muttered, “Churl’s welcome for a kingly boon!”
And, drinking late that night the stormy breath
Of others’ anger blent with his, commanded,
“Ride forth at morn and bring me back my gift!
Spurn it he shall not, though he prize it not.”
They heard him, and obeyed. At noon the king
Demanded thus, “What answer made the Saint?”
They said, “His eyes he raised not from his book,
But answered, ‘Deo Gratias!’ and no more.”
Then Dairè stamped his foot, like war-horse stung
By gadfly: musing next, and mute he sat
A space, and lastly roared great laughter peals
Till roared in mockery back the raftered roof,
And clashed his hands together shouting thus:
“A gift, and ‘Deo Gratias!’—gift withdrawn,
And ‘Deo Gratias!’ Sooth, the word is good!
Madman is this, or man of God? We’ll know!”
So from his frowning fortress once again
Adown the resonant road o’er street and bridge
Rode Dairè, at his right the queen in fear,
With dumbly pleading countenance; close behind,
With tangled locks and loose-hung battle-axe
Ran the wild kerne; and loud the bull-horn blew.
The convent reached, King Dairè from his horse
Flung his great limbs, and at the doorway towered
In gazing stern: the queen beside him stood,
Her lustrous violet eyes all lost in tears:
One hand on Dairè’s garment lay like light
Wandering on dusky ripple; one, upraised,
Held in the high-necked horse that champed the bit,
His head near hers. Within, the man of God,
Sole-sitting, read his office book unmoved,
And ending fixed his keen eye on the king,
Not rising from his seat.