One day in his cell his attendants saw him in heavenly joy, and then in deep sadness, and they asked the cause.
"It is thirty years," he said, "since I began my pilgrimage in Caledonia; and I have long prayed that I might be released this year. I saw the angels come for me, and I rejoiced; but they stood still down yonder on that rock, as if they could not come near me; for the prayers of many churches have prevailed, and I grieve that I must live four more years."
At the time appointed he was drawn on a car by oxen to take leave of the monks who were working in the fields. Another day he blessed the granary of the monastery, and foretold his death. This was on Saturday, and he said it would be the Sabbath of his repose. As he returned he met the old horse which carried the milk to the monastery, and the horse laid his head upon the shoulder of his master, as if to take leave of him, and the saint caressed and blessed him. Then, looking down from a hill on the monastery and isle, he stretched out his hands to bless it, and prophesied its future sanctity. Then he entered his cell, and was transcribing the thirty-third psalm, where he came to the words, "Those who seek the Lord shall want no good thing;" and he said, "Here I must end; Baithan will write the rest." He went into the church for the vigil of Sunday, and, returning, he sat down on his bed of stone, and sent a message to his monks, and exhorted them to charity. After that he spoke no more.
Hardly had the midnight bell rung for matins when he ran first to the church, and knelt before the altar. It was dark, and one monk followed him, and placed his venerable head upon his knees. When the community came with lights, they found their abbot dying. He received the last sacraments, and opened his eyes, and raised his right hand in silence, to bless his monks. His hand fell, and he expired. He lay calm, and with the gentle sweetness of a man asleep in a heavenly vision. That very night two holy persons in Ireland beheld Iona enveloped in light; and then miracles began to be done while his body lay in the little church of Iona.
In the ninth century, when pirates ravaged the coasts, the body of the saint was removed to Down, and laid between those of St. Patrick and St. Bridget. The pirates were punished by sudden death. The Norman, Strongbow, died of a wound after destroying the churches of Columba and the saints, and De Lacy perished at Burrow while he built a castle against the monastery.
From Chambers's Journal.
Charles V. at the Convent of Yuste.
Shade and sunshine play alternate on the convent's massy walls;
In the cloister's dim seclusion soft the stealthy footstep falls;
In the quiet garden-alleys underneath the citron's shade,
Pace the monks with open missals, downcast eyes, and silent tread.
Birds are singing, bees are humming, trees are whispering, while through all
Steals the silver tinkling, tinkling of the distant fountain fall.
Far away, the wild Sierras stretch their ridges dim and high,
Carving weird and warlike phantoms in the blue and dazzling sky;
Rising still in savage grandeur, till they reach the bounding main;
Mute protectors of their country, bulwarks of chivalrous Spain.
Who comes hither, slowly sauntering, pausing oft awhile to rest;
Arms across so calmly folded, head declining on his breast?
More than common spirit lurketh in the bright and clear blue eye;
More than common toil and travail in the brows' deep furrows lie.
Weight of years and weight of trouble somewhat bow the haughty form,
But the haughty heart within it still is beating quick and warm;
Iron heart that knew no bending, when the storm was fierce and loud,
Soared above the thunder's roaring, dared the lightning, braved the cloud.
Stalwart heart that still was foremost in the serried ranks of war;
Triumphed o'er the Gallic legions, foiled the Moslem's scimitar.
Hardy Germans; proud Burgundians; trusty Flemings, true as steel;
Mountaineers of wild Galicia, cavaliers of Old Castile;
Half the empire of the Old World; half the treasures of the New—
Mexico's gold-flowing rivers, silver mines of rich Peru;
Wheresoe'er the sun ariseth, throwing o'er the hills his beams;
Wheresoe'er his dying radiance lingers on the lakes and streams;
Far as human foot can wander, far as human eye can scan,
Bowed the nations, poured the treasures, marched the legions for one man.
Yet he standeth there serenely underneath the chestnut bough,
And the gentle air of summer playeth lightly on his brow.
Gone the sceptre of the monarch, gone the priceless pearl and gem;
Gone the purple robe of splendor, gone the regal diadem.
March of armies, fall of kingdoms fate of war he little heeds,
Kneeling on the chapel pavement with his missal and his beads,
Listening to the simple brethren, chanting loud their matin hymn,
Or the holy Ave Mary, wafted through the twilight dim.
He hath conned life's sternest lessons he hath learned them long and well,
And the deep experience knoweth which their silent teachings tell.
Not the wildest hold of empire can the mind's expansion fill;
Vain the grasp of worldly power, worldly riches vainer still.
High o'er all that earth can offer, heaven's allurements beckon on,
And the crown that never fadeth by the victor shall be won.