The Legends of Saint Patrick

by Aubrey De Vere

Nor prayed unnoticed by that race abhorred.
No sooner had his knees the mountain touched
Than through their realm vibration went; and straight
His prayer detecting back they trooped in clouds
And o’er him closed, blotting with bat-like wing
And inky pall, the moon. Then thunder pealed
Once more, nor ceased from pealing. Over all
Night ruled, except when blue and forkèd flash
Revealed the on-circling waterspout or plunge
Of rain beneath the blown cloud’s ravelled hem,
Or, huge on high, that lion-coloured steep
Which, like a lion, roared into the night
Answering the roaring from sea-caves far down.
Dire was the strife. That hour the Mountain old,
An anarch throned ’mid ruins flung himself
In madness forth on all his winds and floods,
An omnipresent wrath! For God reserved,
Too long the prey of demons he had been;
Possession foul and fell. Now nigh expelled
Those demons rent their victim freed. Aloft,
They burst the rocky barrier of the tarn
That downward dashed its countless cataracts,
Drowning far vales. On either side the Saint
A torrent rushed—mightiest of all these twain—
Peeling the softer substance from the hills
Their flesh, till glared, deep-trenched, the mountain’s bones;
And as those torrents widened, rocks down rolled
Showering upon that unsubverted head
Sharp spray ice-cold. Before him closed the flood,
And closed behind, till all was raging flood,
All but that tomb-like stone whereon he knelt.

Unshaken there he knelt with hands outstretched,
God’s Athlete! For a mighty prize he strove,
Nor slacked, nor any whit his forehead bowed:
Fixed was his eye and keen; the whole white face
Keen as that eye itself, though—shapeless yet—
The infernal horde to ear not eye addressed
Their battle. Back he drave them, rank on rank,
Routed, with psalm, and malison, and ban,
As from a sling flung forth. Revolt’s blind spawn
He named them; one time Spirits, now linked with brute,
Yea, bestial more and baser: and as a ship
Mounts with the mounting of the wave, so he
O’er all the insurgent tempest of their wrath
Rising rode on triumphant. Days went by,
Then came a lull; and lo! a whisper shrill,
Once heard before, again its poison cold
Distilled: “Albeit to Christ this land should bow,
Some conqueror’s foot one day would quell her Faith.”
It ceased. Tenfold once more the storm burst forth:
Once more the ecstatic passion of his prayer
Met it, and, breasting, overbore, until
Sudden the Princedoms of the dark that rode
This way and that way through the whirlwind, dashed
Their vanquished crowns of darkness to the ground
With one long cry. Then silence came; and lo!
The white dawn of the fourth fair Day of God
O’erflowed the world. Slowly the Saint upraised
His wearied eyes. Upon the mountain lawns
Lay happy lights; and birds sang; and a stream
That any five-years’ child might overleap,
Beside him lapsed crystalline between banks
With violets all empurpled, and smooth marge
Green as that spray which earliest sucks the spring.

Then Patrick raised to God his orison
On that fair mount, and planted in the grass
His crozier staff, and slept; and in his sleep
God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments,
Manna of might divine. Three days he slept;
The fourth he woke. Upon his heart there rushed
Yearning for closer converse with his God
Though great its cost; and on his feet he gat,
And high, and higher yet, that mountain scaled,
And reached at noon the summit. Far below
Basking the island lay, through rainbow shower
Gleaming in part, with shadowy moor, and ridge
Blue in the distance looming. Westward stretched
A galaxy of isles, and, these beyond,
Infinite sea with sacred light ablaze,
And high o’erhead there hung a cloudless heaven.

Upon that summit kneeling, face to sea
The Saint, with hands held forth and thanks returned,
Claimed as his stately heritage that realm
From north to south: but instant as his lip
Printed with earliest pulse of Christian prayer
That clear aërial clime Pagan till then;
The Host Accursed, sagacious of his act,
Rushed back from all the isle and round him met
With anger seven times heated, since their hour,
And this they knew, was come. Nor thunder din
And challenge through the ear alone, sufficed
That hour their rage malign that, craving sore
Material bulk to rend his bulk—their foe’s—
Through fleshly strength of that their murder-lust
Flamed forth in fleshly form phantoms night-black
Though bodiless yet to bodied mass as nigh
As Spirits can reach. More thick than vultures winged
To fields with carnage piled, the Accursèd thronged
Making thick night which neither earth nor sky
Could pierce, from sense expunged. In phalanx now,
Anon in breaking legion, or in globe,
With clang of iron pinion on they rushed
And spectral dart high-held. Nor quailed the Saint,
Contending for his people on that Mount,
Nor spared God’s foes; for as old minster towers
Besieged by midnight storm send forth reply
In storm outrolled of bells, so sent he forth
Defiance from fierce lip, vindictive chaunt,
And blight and ban, and maledictive rite
Potent on face of Spirits impure to raise
These plague-spots three, Defeat, Madness, Despair;
Nor stinted flail of taunt—“When first my bark
Threatened your coasts, as now upon the hills
Hung ye in cloud; as now, I raised this Cross;
Ye fled before it and again shall fly!”
So hurled he back their squadrons. Day by day
The hurricanes of war shook earth and heaven:
Till now, on Holy Saturday, that hour
Returned which maketh glad the Church of God
When over Christendom in widowed fanes
Two days by penance stripped, and dumb as though
Some Antichrist had trodd’n them down, once more
Swells forth amid the new-lit paschal lights
The “Gloria in Excelsis:” sudden then
That mighty conflict ceased, save one low voice
Twice heard before, now edged with bitterer scoff,
“That race thou lov’st, though fierce in wrath, is soft:
Plenty and peace will melt their Faith one day:”
Then with that whisper dying, died the night:
Then forth from darkness issued earth and sky:
Then fled the phantoms far o’er ocean’s wave,
Thence to return not till the day of doom.

But he, their conqueror wept, upon that height
Standing; nor of his victory had he joy,
Nor of that jubilant isle restored to light,
Nor of that heaven relit; so worked that scoff
Winged from the abyss; and ever thus the man
With darkness communed and that poison cold:
“If Faith indeed should flood the land with peace,
And peace with gold, and gold eat out her heart
Once true, till Faith one day through Faith’s reward
Or die, or live diseased, the shame of Faith,
Then blacker were this land and more accursed
Than lands that knew no Christ.” And musing thus
The whole heart of the man was turned to tears,
A fount of bale and chalice brimmed with death—
For oft a thought chance-born more racks than truth
Proven and sure—and, weeping, still he wept
Till drenched was all his sad monastic cowl
As sea-weed on the dripping shelf storm-cast
Latest, and tremulous still.

As thus he wept
Sudden beside him on that summit broad,
Ran out a golden beam like sunset path
Gilding the sea: and, turning, by his side
Victor, God’s angel, stood with lustrous brow
Fresh from that Face no man can see and live.
He, putting forth his hand, with living coal
Snatched from God’s altar, made that dripping cowl
Dry as an Autumn sheaf. The angel spake:
“Rejoice, for they are fled that hate thy land,
And those are nigh that love it.” Then the Saint
Upraised his head; and lo! in snowy sheen
Cresting high rock, and ridge, and airy peak,
Innumerable the Sons of God all round
Vested the invisible mountain with white light,
As when the foam-white birds of ocean throng
Sea-rock so close that none that rock may see.
In trance the Living Creatures stood, with wings
That pointing crossed upon their breasts; nor seemed
As new arrived but native to that site
Though veiled till now from mortal vision. Song
They sang to soothe the vexed heart of the Saint—
Love-song of Heaven: and slowly as it died
Their splendours waned; and through that vanishing light
Earth, sea, and heaven returned.

To Patrick then,
Thus Victor spake: “Depart from Cruachan,
Since God hath given thee wondrous gifts, immense,
And through thy prayer routed that rebel host.”
And Patrick, “Till the last of all my prayers
Be granted, I depart not though I die:—
One said, ‘Too fierce that race to bend to faith.’”
Then spake God’s angel, mild of voice, and kind:
“Not all are fierce that fiercest seem, for oft
Fierceness is blindfold love, or love ajar.
Souls thou wouldst have: for every hair late wet
In this thy tearful cowl and habit drenched
God gives thee myriads seven of Souls redeemed
From sin and doom; and Souls, beside, as many
As o’er yon sea in legioned flight might hang
Far as thine eye can range. But get thee down
From Cruachan, for mighty is thy prayer.”
And Patrick made reply: “Not great thy boon!
Watch have I kept, and wearied are mine eyes
And dim; nor see they far o’er yonder deep.”
And Victor: “Have thou Souls from coast to coast
In cloud full-stretched; but, get thee down: this Mount
God’s Altar is, and puissance adds to prayer.”
And Patrick: “On this Mountain wept have I;
And therefore giftless will I not depart:
One said, ‘Although that People should believe
Yet conqueror’s heel one day would quell their Faith.’”
To whom the angel, mild of voice, and kind:
“Conquerors are they that subjugate the soul:
This also God concedes thee; conquering foe
Trampling this land, shall tread not out her Faith
Nor sap by fraud, so long as thou in heaven
Look’st on God’s Face; nay, by that Faith subdued,
That foe shall serve and live. But get thee down
And worship in the vale.” Then Patrick said,
“Live they that list! Full sorely wept have I,
Nor will I hence depart unsatisfied:
One said; ‘Grown soft, that race their Faith will shame;’
Say therefore what the Lord thy God will grant,
Nor stint His hand; since never scanter grace
Fell yet on head of nation-taming man
Than thou to me hast portioned till this hour.”

Then answer made the angel, soft of voice:
“Not all men stumble when a Nation falls;
There are that stand upright. God gives thee this:
They that are faithful to thy Faith, that walk
Thy way, and keep thy covenant with God,
And daily sing thy hymn, when comes the Judge
With Sign blood-red facing Jehosaphat,
And fear lays prone the many-mountained world,
The same shall ’scape the doom.” And Patrick said,
“That hymn is long, and hard for simple folk,
And hard for children.” And the angel thus:
“At least from ‘Christum Illum’ let them sing,
And keep thy Faith: when comes the Judge, the pains
Shall take not hold of such. Is that enough?”
And Patrick answered, “That is not enough.”
Then Victor: “Likewise this thy God accords:
The Dreadful Coming and the Day of Doom
Thy land shall see not; for before that day
Seven years, a great wave arched from out the deep,
Ablution pure, shall sweep the isle and take
Her children to its peace. Is that enough?”
And Patrick answered, “That is not enough.”

Then spake once more that courteous angel kind:
“What boon demand’st then?” And the Saint, “No less
Than this. Though every nation, ere that day
Recreant from creed and Christ, old troth forsworn,
Should flee the sacred scandal of the Cross
Through pride, as once the Apostles fled through fear,
This Nation of my love, a priestly house,
Beside that Cross shall stand, fate-firm, like him
That stood beside Christ’s Mother.” Straightway, as one
Who ends debate, the angel answered stern:
“That boon thou claimest is too great to grant:
Depart thou from this mountain, Cruachan,
In peace; and find that Nation which thou lov’st,
That like thy body is, and thou her head,
For foes are round her set in valley and plain,
And instant is the battle.” Then the Saint:
“The battle for my People is not there,
With them, low down, but here upon this height
From them apart, with God. This Mount of God
Dowerless and bare I quit not till I die;
And dying, I will leave a Man Elect
To keep its keys, and pray my prayer, and name
Dying in turn, his heir, successive line,
Even till the Day of Doom.”

Then heavenward sped
Victor, God’s angel, and the Man of God
Turned to his offering; and all day he stood
Offering in heart that Offering Undefiled
Which Abel offered, and Melchisedek,
And Abraham, Patriarch of the faithful race,
In type, and which in fulness of the times
The Victim-Priest offered on Calvary,
And, bloodless, offers still in Heaven and Earth,
Whose impetration makes the whole Church one.
Thus offering stood the man till eve, and still
Offered; and as he offered, far in front
Along the aërial summit once again
Ran out that beam like fiery pillar prone
Or sea-path sunset-paved; and by his side
That angel stood. Then Patrick, turning not
His eyes in prayer upon the West close held
Demanded, “From the Maker of all worlds
What answer bring’st thou?” Victor made reply:
“Down knelt in Heaven the Angelic Orders Nine,
And all the Prophets and the Apostles knelt,
And all the Creatures of the hand of God
Visible, and invisible, down knelt,
While thou thy mighty Mass, though altarless,
Offeredst in spirit, and thine Offering joined;
And all God’s Saints on earth, or roused from sleep
Or on the wayside pausing, knelt, the cause
Not knowing; likewise yearned the Souls to God
In that fire-clime benign that clears from sin;
And lo! the Lord thy God hath heard thy prayer,
Since fortitude in prayer—and this thou know’st,”—
Smiling the Bright One spake, “is that which lays
Man’s hand upon God’s sceptre. That thou sought’st
Shall lack not consummation. Many a race
Shrivelling in sunshine of its prosperous years,
Shall cease from faith, and, shamed though shameless, sink
Back to its native clay; but over thine
God shall extend the shadow of His Hand,
And through the night of centuries teach to her
In woe that song which, when the nations wake,
Shall sound their glad deliverance: nor alone
This nation, from the blind dividual dust
Of instincts brute, thoughts driftless, warring wills
By thee evoked and shapen by thy hands
To God’s fair image which confers alone
Manhood on nations, shall to God stand true;
But nations far in undiscovered seas,
Her stately progeny, while ages fleet
Shall wear the kingly ermine of her Faith,
Fleece uncorrupted of the Immaculate Lamb,
For ever: lands remote shall raise to God
Her fanes; and eagle-nurturing isles hold fast
Her hermit cells: thy nation shall not walk
Accordant with the Gentiles of this world,
But as a race elect sustain the Crown
Or bear the Cross: and when the end is come,
When in God’s Mount the Twelve great Thrones are set,
And round it roll the Rivers Four of fire,
And in their circuit meet the Peoples Three
Of Heaven, and Earth, and Hell, fulfilled that day
Shall be the Saviour’s word, what time He stretched
Thy crozier-staff forth from His glory-cloud
And sware to thee, ‘When they that with Me walked
Sit with Me on their everlasting thrones
Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine Israel,
Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness.’