“Then lo! a man of God came by
And stood beside the bier,
And spake, ‘A pagan house is this;
And yet a saint lies here!
“‘God shaped this child his praise to sing
To a blind and pagan race;
And till that song is sung, in heaven
He may not see God’s face.’
“Then thrice around that child he moved
With circling censer-cloud,
And touched with censer fire his tongue,
And the dead child sang aloud.
“Oisin! like larks beside thy Lee,
So loud he sang his hymn:
And straight baptized he was, and died;
And, dead, his face grew dim.
“So then, since Christ had caught to heaven
The fair soul washed from sin,
A little grave they dug, and laid
The little saint therein.
“And ever as fell the night, that grave
Shone like the Shepherds’ star,
With happy beam that homeward drew
The wanderer from afar.
“Oisin! thy Land is as that child!
Thou call’st her dead—thy Land;
For cold is Fionn, thy sire; and he,
He was her strong right hand!
“And cold is Oscar now, thy son:
Her mighty heart was he—
Oisin! let dead at last be dead;
Let living, living be!
“Her great old Past is gone at last:
Her heavenlier Future waits,
Yet entrance never can she find
Till Faith unbars the gates.
“Prince of thy country’s songful choir!
Thou wert her golden Tongue!
Sing thou her New Song—‘I believe!’
Give thou to God her Song!