“I shall answer. I descended
From mine angel-soul’s compeers,
From my home serene and splendid
To this haunt of toil and tears;
Came to cheer thee with a note
From an angel’s silvern throat.”
Then he sang three songs: each, ended,
Made a hundred years.
There, thro’ days that dawned and darkened,
With his wattles by his side,
Stood the island Saint and hearkened
To that silvery-flowing tide
Stood entranced, and ever wondr’éd,
Till had circled thrice a hundred
Years o’er fields, life-lade or stark, and
Strangford’s waters wide.
Then when came the final number,
Ceased the angel-bird its strain,
And, unheld by ills that cumber
Mortals, sought the heavenly plain.
Then the Saint, in mute amaze,
Round him turned an anxious gaze,
And from that far land of slumber
Came to Earth again.
Low his load, mid weed and flower,
Lay beside him all unbroken,
Till, with thrice augmented power,
From his holy dream awoken,
Up he bore it to his shoulder—
Broad and not a hand’s breath older.
Scarce, thought he, had passed an hour
Since the bird had spoken.
Toward his island church he bore it.
Lo, an oratory gleaming,
And “To Saint Mahee,” writ o’er it!
“Now,” quoth he, “in faith I’m dreaming!
Say, good monk, at whose consistory
Shall I solve this mighty mystery,
And to form of fact restore it
From this shadowy seeming?”
Thus he spake to one who faced him
With a look of mild surprise,
One who swiftly brought and placed him
’Neath the Abbot’s searching eyes.—
Leave him there: not mine to rhyme of
Deeds that filled the latter time of
Him who, fain tho’ years would waste him,
Ages not, nor dies.
. . . . . .
Such the wondrous old-time story
Of the bird’s long, lethal strain
Sung thro’ Summers hot and hoary,
Winters white on mount and main
And the monks, to mark the mission
Of the bird,—so tells tradition,—
Built a church to God’s great glory
There at Ballydrain.
XII.
The song has ceased, the dream is done,
Lo, nought but shattered shrine
And weed-clad walls greet now the sun
That sparkles in the brine;
Yet these no remnant are of dead
Insalutary days,
Vicarious blood of morning, shed
For more than Memphian haze.