Then fell from God
Insight on Dairè, and aloud he cried,
“A kingly man, of mind unmovable
Art thou; and as the rock beneath my tower
Shakes not in storm so shakes not heart of thine:
Such men are of the height and not the plain:
Therefore that hill to thee I grant unsought
Which whilome I refused. Possession take
This day, lest hostile demon warp my mood;
And build thereon thy church. The same shall stand
Strong mother-church of all thy great clan Christ!”
Thus Dairè spake; and Patrick, at his word
Rising, gave thanks to God, and to the king
High blessing heard in heaven; and making sign
Went forth, attended by his priestly train,
Benignus first, his dearest, then the rest.
In circuit thrice they girt that hill, and sang
Anthem first heard when unto God was vowed
That House which David offered in his heart
His son in act, and hymn of holy Church
Hailing that city like a bride attired,
From heaven to earth descending. With them sang
An angel choir above them borne. The birds
Forbore their songs, listening that angel strain,
Ethereal music and by men unheard
Except the Elect. The king in reverence paced
Behind, his liegemen next, a mass confused
With saffron standard gay and spears upheld
Flashing through thickets green. These kept not line,
For Alp was still recounting battles old,
Aodh of wizards sang, and Ir of love;
While bald-pate Conan, sharpening from his eye
The sneering light, shot from his plastic mouth
Shrill taunt and biting gibe. The younger sort
Eyed the dense copse and launched full many a shaft
Through it at flying beast. From ledge to ledge
Clomb Angus, keen of sight, with hand o’er brow,
Forth gazing on some far blue ridge of war
With nostril wide outblown, and snorting cried,
“Would I were there!”
Meantime, the man of God
Had reached the fair crown of that sacred hill,
A circle girt with woodland branching low,
And roofed with heaven. Beyond its tonsure fringe,
Birch trees and oaks, there pushed a thorn milk-white,
And close beside it slept in shade a fawn
Whiter. The startled dam had left its side,
And through the dark stems fled like flying gleam.
Minded they were, the kernes, to kill that fawn,
And all the priests stood silent; but the Saint
Put forth his hand, and o’er her signed the Cross,
And, stooping, on his shoulder placed her firm,
And bade the brethren mark with stones her lair
Dewless and dusk: then, singing as he went
“Like as the hart desires the water brooks,”
He walked, that hill descending. Light from God
O’ershone his face. Meantime the awakened fawn
Now rolled her dark eye on the silver head
Close by, now turning licked the wrinkled hand,
Unfearing. Soon, with little whimpering sob,
The doe drew near and paced at Patrick’s side.
At last they reached a little field low down
Beneath that hill: there Patrick laid the fawn.
King Dairè questioned Patrick of that deed,
Incensed; and scornful asked, “Shall mitred man
Play thus the shepherd and the forester?”
And Patrick answered, “Aged men, O king,
Forget their reasons oft. Benignus seek,
If haply God has shown him for what cause
I wrought this thing.” Then Dairè turned him back
And faced Benignus; and with lifted hand,
Pure as a maid’s, and dimpled like a child’s,
Picturing his thoughts on air, the little monk
Thus glossed that deed. “Great mystery, king, is Love:
Poets its worthiness have sung in lays
Unread by ruder ones like me; and yet
Thus much the simplest and the rudest know,
Dear is the fawn to her that gave it birth,
And to the sceptred monarch dear the child
That mounts his knee. Nor here the marvel ends;
For, like yon star, the great Paternal Heart
Through all the unmeted, unimagined years,
While yet Creation uncreated hung,
A thought, a dawn-streak on the verge extreme
Of lonely Godhead’s inner Universe,
Panted and pants with splendour of its love,
The Eternal Sire rejoicing in the Son
And Both in Him Who still from Both proceeds,
Bond of their love. Moreover, king, that Son
Who, Virgin-born, raised from the ruinous gulf
Our world, and made it footstool to God’s throne,
The same is Love, and died for Love, and reigns:
Loveless, His Church were but a corse stone-cold;
Loveless, her creed were but a winter leaf
Network of barren thoughts, the cerement wan
Of Faith extinct. Therefore our Saint revered
The love and anguish of that mother doe,
And inly vowed that where her offspring couched
Christ’s chiefest church should stand, from age to age
Confession plain ’mid raging of the clans
That God is Love;—His worship void and vain
Disjoined from Love that, rising to the heights
Even to the depths descends.”
Conversing thus,
Macha they reached. Ere long where lay the fawn
Stood God’s new altar; and, ere many years,
Far o’er the woodlands rose the church high-towered,
Preaching God’s peace to still a troubled world.
The Saint who built it found not there his grave
Though wished for; him God buried otherwhere,
Fulfilling thus the counsels of His Will:
But old, and grey, when many a winter’s frost
To spring had yielded, bent by wounds and woes
Upon that church’s altar looked once more
King Dairè; at its font was joined to Christ;
And, midway ’twixt that altar and that font,
Rejoined his beauteous mate a later day.
THE ARRAIGNMENT OF SAINT PATRICK.
ARGUMENT.
Secknall, the poet, brings, in sport, three heavy charges against Saint Patrick, who, supposing them to be serious, defends himself against them. Lastly Secknall sings a hymn written in praise of a Saint. Saint Patrick commends it, affirming that for once Fame has dispensed her honours honestly. Upon this, Secknall recites the first stave, till then craftily reserved, which offers the whole homage of that hymn to Patrick, who, though the humblest of men, has thus arrogated to himself the saintly Crown. There is laughter among the brethren.
When Patrick now was old and nigh to death
Undimmed was still his eye; his tread was strong;
And there was ever laughter in his heart,
And music in his laughter. In a wood
Nigh to Ardmacha dwelt he with his monks;
And there, like birds that cannot stay their songs
Love-touched in Spring, or grateful for their nests,
They to the woodsmen preached of Christ, their King,
To swineherds, and to hinds that tended sheep,
Yea, and to pilgrim guests from distant clans;
His shepherd-worshipped birth when breath of kine
Went o’er the Infant; all His wondrous works
Or words from mount, or field, or anchored boat,
And Christendom upreared for weal of men
And Angel-wonder. Daily preached the monks
And daily built their convent. Wildly sweet
The season, prime of unripe spring, when March
Distils from cup half gelid yet some drops
Of finer relish than the hand of May
Pours from her full-brimmed beaker. Frost, though gone,
Had left its glad vibration on the air;
Laughed the blue heavens as though they ne’er had frowned,
Through leafless oak-boughs; limes of kindlier grace
And swifter to believe Spring’s “tidings good”
Took the sweet lights upon a breast bud-swoll’n,
And crimson as the redbreast’s; while, as when
Clear rings a flute-note through sea-murmurs harsh,
At intervals ran out a streak of green
Across the dim-hued forest.
From their wood
The strong arms of the monks had hewn them space
For all their convent needed; farmyard stored
With stacks that all the winter long had clutched
Their hoarded harvest sunshine; pasture green
Whitened with sheep; fair garden fenceless still
With household herbs new-sprouting: but, as oft
Some conquered race, forth sallying in its spleen
When serves the occasion, wins a province back,
Or flouts at least the foe, so here once more
Wild flowers, a clan unvanquished, raised their heads
’Mid sprouting wheat; and where from craggy height
Pushed the grey ledge, the woodland host recoiled
As though in Parthian flight; while many a bird,
Barbaric from the inviolate forest launched
Wild warbled scorn on all that life reclaimed,
Mute garth-still orchard. Child of distant hills,
A proud stream, swollen by midnight rains, down leaped
From rock to rock. It spurned the precinct now
With airy dews silvering the bramble green
And redd’ning more the beech-stock.