“‘That so, ere yet that great old time
Is wholly gone and past,
Her manlier with her saintlier day
May blend in bridal fast.
“‘And since of deadly deeds he sang
Above him we will sing
The Death that saved: and we from him
Will keep the gadfly’s wing.
“‘For him an age, for us an hour,
Here, like a cradled child,
Shall sleep the man whose hand was red,
Whose heart was undefiled.’
“Patrick! That vision, was it truth?
Or fancy’s mocking gleam?
That I should tarry till He came—
’Twas not, ’twas not a dream!
“And wondrous is mine age, I know;
For whiter than the thorn
Was this once-honored head before
The men now white were born:
“And on my Oscar’s grave three elms
Have risen: and mouldered three:
And on my father’s grave, the oak
Is now a hollow tree.”
Then said the monks, “His brain is hurt”:
But Patrick said, “They lie!
Thou God that lov’st thy gray-haired child,
Would I for him might die!”
And Patrick cried, “Oisin! the thirst
Of God is in thy breast!
He who has dealt thy heart the wound
Ere long will give it rest!”