“From the high prow I look over the sea; and great tears are in my eyes when I turn to Erin—
“To Erin, where the songs of the birds are so sweet, and where the clerks sing like the birds;
“Where the young are so gentle, and the old are so wise; where the great men are so noble to look at, and the women so fair to wed!
“Young traveller! carry my sorrows with you; carry them to Comgall of eternal life!
“Noble youth, take my prayer with thee, and my blessing; one part for Ireland—seven times may she be blest—and the other for Albyn.
“Carry my blessings across the sea; carry it to the West. My heart is broken in my breast!
“If death comes suddenly to me, it will be because of greatest love I bear to the Gael!”
It was to the rugged and desolate Hebrides that Columba turned his face when he accepted the terrible penance of perpetual exile.
Columba did return to Ireland, as history tells. But, though this may be traditional, he returned blindfolded. “The Dove of the Cell” made a comparatively long stay in Ireland, visiting with scarf-bound brow the numerous monastic establishments subject to his rule. At length he returned to Iona, where, far into the evening of life, he waited for his summons to the beatific vision. The miracles he wrought, attested by evidence of sufficient weight to move the most callous skeptic, the myriad wondrous signs of God’s favour that marked his daily acts, filled all the nations with awe. The hour and the manner of his death had long been revealed to him. The precise time he concealed from those about him until close upon the last day of his life; but the manner of his death he long foretold to his attendants. “I shall die,” he said, “without sickness or hurt; suddenly, but happily, and without accident.” At length one day, while in his usual health, he disclosed to Diarmid, his “minister,” or regular attendant monk, that the hour of his summons was nigh. A week before he had gone around the island, taking leave of the monks and labourers; and when all wept, he strove anxiously to console them. Then he blessed the island and the inhabitants. “And now,” said he to Diarmid, “here is a secret; but you must keep it till I am gone. This is Saturday, the day called Sabbath, or day of rest: and that it will be to me, for it shall be the last of my laborious life.” In the evening he retired to his cell, and began to work for the last time, being then occupied in transcribing the Psalter. When he had come to the thirty-third Psalm, and the verse, “Inquirentes autem Dominum non deficient omni bono,” he stopped short. “I cease here,” said he; “Baithin must do the rest.”
The above is an abridgment of Montalembert’s chronicle which must be accepted as truthful. It certainly is as profound and interesting an account of Christian martyrdom and devotion as any extant.