The Legends of Saint Patrick Part 9

The convent reached, King Daire from his horse Flung his great limbs, and at the doorway towered In gazing stern: the queen beside him stood, Her l.u.s.trous violet eyes all lost in tears: One hand on Daire's garment lay like light Wandering on dusky ripple; one, upraised, Held in the high-necked horse that champed the bit, His head near hers. Within, the man of G.o.d, Sole-sitting, read his office book unmoved, And ending fixed his keen eye on the king, Not rising from his seat.

Then fell from G.o.d Insight on Daire, and aloud he cried, "A kingly man, of mind unmovable Art thou; and as the rock beneath my tower Shakes not in storm so shakes not heart of thine: Such men are of the height and not the plain: Therefore that hill to thee I grant unsought Which whilome I refused. Possession take This day, lest hostile demon warp my mood; And build thereon thy church. The same shall stand Strong mother-church of all thy great clan Christ!"

Thus Daire spake; and Patrick, at his word Rising, gave thanks to G.o.d, and to the king High blessing heard in heaven; and making sign Went forth, attended by his priestly train, Benignus first, his dearest, then the rest.

In circuit thrice they girt that hill, and sang Anthem first heard when unto G.o.d was vowed That House which David offered in his heart His son in act, and hymn of holy Church Hailing that city like a bride attired, From heaven to earth descending. With them sang An angel choir above them borne. The birds Forbore their songs, listening that angel strain, Ethereal music and by men unheard Except the Elect. The king in reverence paced Behind, his liegemen next, a ma.s.s confused With saffron standard gay and spears upheld Flashing through thickets green. These kept not line, For Alp was still recounting battles old, Aodh of wizards sang, and Ir of love; While bald-pate Conan, sharpening from his eye The sneering light, shot from his plastic mouth Shrill taunt and biting gibe. The younger sort Eyed the dense copse and launched full many a shaft Through it at flying beast. From ledge to ledge Clomb Angus, keen of sight, with hand o'er brow, Forth gazing on some far blue ridge of war With nostril wide outblown, and snorting cried, "Would I were there!"

Meantime, the man of G.o.d Had reached the fair crown of that sacred hill, A circle girt with woodland branching low, And roofed with heaven. Beyond its tonsure fringe, Birch trees and oaks, there pushed a thorn milk-white, And close beside it slept in shade a fawn Whiter. The startled dam had left its side, And through the dark stems fled like flying gleam.

Minded they were, the kernes, to kill that fawn, And all the priests stood silent; but the Saint Put forth his hand, and o'er her signed the Cross, And, stooping, on his shoulder placed her firm, And bade the brethren mark with stones her lair Dewless and dusk: then, singing as he went "Like as the hart desires the water brooks,"

He walked, that hill descending. Light from G.o.d O'ershone his face. Meantime the awakened fawn Now rolled her dark eye on the silver head Close by, now turning licked the wrinkled hand, Unfearing. Soon, with little whimpering sob, The doe drew near and paced at Patrick's side.

At last they reached a little field low down Beneath that hill: there Patrick laid the fawn.

King Daire questioned Patrick of that deed, Incensed; and scornful asked, "Shall mitred man Play thus the shepherd and the forester?"

And Patrick answered, "Aged men, O king, Forget their reasons oft. Benignus seek, If haply G.o.d has shown him for what cause I wrought this thing." Then Daire turned him back And faced Benignus; and with lifted hand, Pure as a maid's, and dimpled like a child's, Picturing his thoughts on air, the little monk Thus glossed that deed. "Great mystery, king, is Love: Poets its worthiness have sung in lays Unread by ruder ones like me; and yet Thus much the simplest and the rudest know, Dear is the fawn to her that gave it birth, And to the sceptred monarch dear the child That mounts his knee. Nor here the marvel ends; For, like yon star, the great Paternal Heart Through all the unmeted, unimagined years, While yet Creation uncreated hung, A thought, a dawn-streak on the verge extreme Of lonely G.o.dhead's inner Universe, Panted and pants with splendour of its love, The Eternal Sire rejoicing in the Son And Both in Him Who still from Both proceeds, Bond of their love. Moreover, king, that Son Who, Virgin-born, raised from the ruinous gulf Our world, and made it footstool to G.o.d's throne, The same is Love, and died for Love, and reigns: Loveless, His Church were but a corse stone-cold; Loveless, her creed were but a winter leaf Network of barren thoughts, the cerement wan Of Faith extinct. Therefore our Saint revered The love and anguish of that mother doe, And inly vowed that where her offspring couched Christ's chiefest church should stand, from age to age Confession plain 'mid raging of the clans That G.o.d is Love;--His worship void and vain Disjoined from Love that, rising to the heights Even to the depths descends."

Conversing thus, Macha they reached. Ere long where lay the fawn Stood G.o.d's new altar; and, ere many years, Far o'er the woodlands rose the church high-towered, Preaching G.o.d's peace to still a troubled world.

The Saint who built it found not there his grave Though wished for; him G.o.d buried otherwhere, Fulfilling thus the counsels of His Will: But old, and grey, when many a winter's frost To spring had yielded, bent by wounds and woes Upon that church's altar looked once more King Daire; at its font was joined to Christ; And, midway 'twixt that altar and that font, Rejoined his beauteous mate a later day.

THE ARRAIGNMENT OF SAINT PATRICK.

ARGUMENT.

Secknall, the poet, brings, in sport, three heavy charges against Saint Patrick, who, supposing them to be serious, defends himself against them. Lastly Secknall sings a hymn written in praise of a Saint.

Saint Patrick commends it, affirming that for once Fame has dispensed her honours honestly. Upon this, Secknall recites the first stave, till then craftily reserved, which offers the whole homage of that hymn to Patrick, who, though the humblest of men, has thus arrogated to himself the saintly Crown. There is laughter among the brethren.

When Patrick now was old and nigh to death Undimmed was still his eye; his tread was strong; And there was ever laughter in his heart, And music in his laughter. In a wood Nigh to Ardmacha dwelt he with his monks; And there, like birds that cannot stay their songs Love-touched in Spring, or grateful for their nests, They to the woodsmen preached of Christ, their King, To swineherds, and to hinds that tended sheep, Yea, and to pilgrim guests from distant clans; His shepherd-worshipped birth when breath of kine Went o'er the Infant; all His wondrous works Or words from mount, or field, or anch.o.r.ed boat, And Christendom upreared for weal of men And Angel-wonder. Daily preached the monks And daily built their convent. Wildly sweet The season, prime of unripe spring, when March Distils from cup half gelid yet some drops Of finer relish than the hand of May Pours from her full-brimmed beaker. Frost, though gone, Had left its glad vibration on the air; Laughed the blue heavens as though they ne'er had frowned, Through leafless oak-boughs; limes of kindlier grace And swifter to believe Spring's "tidings good"

Took the sweet lights upon a breast bud-swoll'n, And crimson as the redbreast's; while, as when Clear rings a flute-note through sea-murmurs harsh, At intervals ran out a streak of green Across the dim-hued forest.

From their wood The strong arms of the monks had hewn them s.p.a.ce For all their convent needed; farmyard stored With stacks that all the winter long had clutched Their h.o.a.rded harvest sunshine; pasture green Whitened with sheep; fair garden fenceless still With household herbs new-sprouting: but, as oft Some conquered race, forth sallying in its spleen When serves the occasion, wins a province back, Or flouts at least the foe, so here once more Wild flowers, a clan unvanquished, raised their heads 'Mid sprouting wheat; and where from craggy height Pushed the grey ledge, the woodland host recoiled As though in Parthian flight; while many a bird, Barbaric from the inviolate forest launched Wild warbled scorn on all that life reclaimed, Mute garth-still orchard. Child of distant hills, A proud stream, swollen by midnight rains, down leaped From rock to rock. It spurned the precinct now With airy dews silvering the bramble green And redd'ning more the beech-stock.

'Twas the hour Of rest, and every monk was glad at heart, For each had wrought with might. With hands upheld, Mochta, the priest, had thundered against sin, Wrath-roused, as when some prince too late returned Stares at his sea-side village all in flames, The slave-thronged ship escaped. The bishop, Erc, Had reconciled old feuds by Brehon Law Where Brehon Law was lawful. Boys wild-eyed Had from Benignus learned the church's song, Boys brightened now, yet tempered, by that age Gracious to stripling as to maid, that brings Valour to one and modesty to both Where youth is loyal to the Virgin-born.

The giant meek, Mac Cairthen, on bent neck Had carried beam on beam, while Criemther felled The oaks, and from the anvil Laeban dashed The sparks in showers. A little way removed, Beneath a pine three vestals sat close-veiled: A song these childless sang of Bethlehem's Child, Low-toned, and worked their Altar-cloth, a Lamb All white on golden blazon; near it bled The bird that with her own blood feeds her young: Red drops affused her holy breast. These three Were daughters of three kings. The best and fairest, King Daire's daughter, Erenait by name, Had loved Benignus in her Pagan years.

He knew it not: full sweet to her his voice Chaunting in choir. One day through grief of love The maiden lay as dead: Benignus shook Dews from the font above her, and she woke With heart emanc.i.p.ate that outsoared the lark Lost in blue heavens. She loved the Spouse of Souls.

It was as though some child that, dreaming, wept Its childish playthings lost, awaked by bells, Bride-bells, had found herself a queen new wed Unto her country's lord.

While monk with monk Conversed, the son of Patrick's sister sat, Secknall by name, beside the window sole And marked where Patrick from his hill of prayer Approached, descending slowly. At the sight He, maker blithe of songs, and wild as hawk Albeit a Saint, whose wont it was at times Or shy, or strange, or shunning flattery's taint, To attempt with mockery those whom most he loved, Whispered a brother, "Speak to Patrick thus: 'When all men praised thee, Secknall made reply "A blessed man were Patrick save for this, Alms deeds he preaches not."'" The brother went: Ere long among them entered Patrick, wroth, Or, likelier, feigning wrath: --"What man is he Who saith I preach not alms deeds?" Secknall rose: "I said it, Father, and the charge is true."

Then Patrick answered, "Out of Charity I preach not Charity. This people, won To Christ, ere long will prove a race of Saints; To give will be its pa.s.sion, not to gain: Its heart is generous; but its hand is slack In all save war: herein there lurks a snare: The priest will fatten, and the beggar feast: But the lean land will yield nor chief nor prince Hire of two horses yoked to chariot beam."

Then Secknall spake, "O Father, dead it lies Mine earlier charge against thee. Hear my next, Since in our Order's equal Brotherhood Censure uncensured is the right of all.

You press to the earth your converts! gold you spurn; Yet bind upon them heavier load than when Conqueror his captive tasks. Have shepherds three Bowed them to Christ? 'Build up a church,' you cry; So one must draw the sand, and one the stone And one the lime. Honouring the seven great Gifts, You raise in one small valley churches seven.

Who serveth you fares hard!" The Saint replied, "Second as first! I came not to this land To crave scant service, nor with shallow plough Cleave I this glebe. The priest that soweth much For here the land is fruitful, much shall reap: Who soweth little nought but weeds shall bind And poppies of oblivion." Secknall next: "Yet man to man will whisper, and the face Of all this people darken like a sea When pipes the coming storm." He answered, "Son, I know this people better. Fierce they are In anger; neither flies their thought direct; For some, though true to Nature, lie to men, And others, true to men, are false to G.o.d: Yet as the prince's is the poor man's heart; Burthen for G.o.d sustained no burden is To him; and those who most have given to Christ Largeliest His fulness share."

Secknall replied, "Low lies my second charge; a third remains, Which, as a shaft from seasoned bow, not green, Shall pierce the marl. With convents still you sow The land: in other countries spa.r.s.e and small They swell to cities here. A hundred monks On one late barren mountain dig and pray: A hundred nuns gladden one woodland lawn, Or sing in one small island. Well--'tis well!

Yet, balance lost and measure, nought is well.

The Angelic Life more common will become Than life of mortal men." The Saint replied, "No shaft from homicidal yew-tree bow Is thine, but winged of thistle-down! Now hear!

Measure is good; but measure's law with scale Changeth; nor doth the part reflect the whole.

Each nation hath its gift, and each to all Not equal ministers. If all were eye, Where then were ear? If all were ear or hand, Where then were eye? The nation is the part; The Church the whole"--But Criemther where he stood, Old warrior, shouted like a chief war-waked, "This land is Eire! No nation lives like her!

A part! Who portions Eire?" The Saint, with smile Resumed: "The whole that from the part receives, Repaying still that part, till man's whole race Grow to the fulness of Mankind redeemed.

What gift hath G.o.d in eminence given to Eire?

Singly, her race is feeble; strong when knit: Nought knits them truly save a heavenly aim.

I knit them as an army unto G.o.d, Give them G.o.d's War! Yon star is militant!

Its splendour 'gainst the dark must fight or die: So wars that Faith I preach against the world; And nations fitted least for this world's gain Can speed Faith's triumph best. Three hundred years, Well used, should make of Eire a northern Rome.

Criemther! her destiny is this, or nought; Secknall! the highest only can she reach; Alone the Apostle's crown is hers: for this, A Rule I give her, strong, yet strong in Love; Monastic households build I far and wide; Monastic clans I plant among her clans, With abbots for their chiefs. The same shall live, Long as G.o.d's love o'errules them."

Secknall then Knelt, reverent; yet his eye had in it mirth, And round the full bloom of the red rich mouth, No whit ascetic, ran a dim half smile.

"Father, my charges three have futile fallen, And thrice, like some great warrior of the bards, Your conquering wheels above me you have driven.

Brought low, I make confession. Once, in woods Wandering, we heard a sound, now loud, now low, As he that treads the sand-hills hears the sea High murmuring while he climbs the seaward slope, Low, as he drops to landward. 'Twas a throng Awed, yet tumultuous, wild-eyed, wondering, fierce, That, standing round a harper, stave on stave Acclaimed as each had ending. 'War, still war!'

Thou saidst; 'the bards but sing of War and Death!

Ah! if they sang that Death which conquered Death, Then, like a tide, this people, music-drawn, Would mount the sh.o.r.es of Christ! Bards love not us, Prescient that power, that power wielded elsewhere By priest, but here by them, shall pa.s.s to us: Yet we love them for good one day their gift.'

Then didst thou turn on me an eye of might Such as on Malach, when thou had'st him raise By miracle of prayer that babe boar-slain, And said'st, 'Go, fell thy pine, and frame thy harp, And in the hearing of this people sing Some Saint, the friend of Christ.' Too long the attempt Shame-faced, I shunned; at last, like him of old, That better brother who refused, yet went, I made my hymn. 'Tis called 'A Child of Life.'"

Then Patrick, "Welcome is the praise of Saints: Sing thou thy hymn."

From kneeling Secknall rose And stood, and singing, raised his hand as when Her cymbal by the Red Sea Miriam raised While silent stood G.o.d's hosts, and silent lay Those host-entombing waters. Shook, like hers, His slight form wavering 'mid the gusts of song.

He sang the Saint of G.o.d, create from nought To work G.o.d's Will. As others gaze on earth, Her vales, her plains, her green meads ocean-girt, So gazed the Saint for ever upon G.o.d Who girds all worlds--saw intermediate nought - And on Him watched the sunshine and the storm, And learned His Countenance, and from It alone, Drew in upon his heart its day and night.

That contemplation was for him no dream: It hurled him on his mission. As a sword He lodged his soul within the Hand Divine And wrought, keen-edged, G.o.d's counsel. Next to G.o.d Next, and how near, he loved the souls of men: Yea, men to him were Souls; the unspiritual herd He saw as magic-bound, or chained to beast, And groaned to free them. For their sakes, unfearing, He faced the ravening waves, and iron rocks, Hunger, and poniard's edge, and poisoned cup, And faced the face of kings, and faced the host Of demons raging for their realm o'erthrown.

This was the Man of Love. Self-love cast out, The love made spiritual of a thousand hearts Met in his single heart, and kindled there A sun-like image of Love Divine. Within That Spirit-shadowed heart was Christ conceived Hourly through faith, hourly through Love was born; Sole secret this of fruitfulness to Christ.

Who heard him heard with his a lordlier Voice, Strong as that Voice which said, "Let there be light,"

And light o'erflowed their beings. He from each His secret won; to each G.o.d's secret told: He touched them, and they lived. In each, the flesh Subdued to soul, the affections, va.s.sals proud By conscience ruled, and conscience lit by Christ, The whole man stood, planet full-orbed of powers In equipoise, Image restored of G.o.d.

A nation of such men his portion was; That nation's Patriarch he. No wrangler loud; No sophist; lesser victories knew he none: No triumph his of sect, or camp, or court; The Saint his great soul flung upon the world, And took the people with him like a wind Missioned from G.o.d that with it wafts in spring Some winged race, a mult.i.tudinous night, Into new sun-bright climes.

As Secknall sang, Nearer the Brethren drew. On Patrick's right Benignus stood; old Mochta on his left, Slow-eyed, with solemn smile and sweet; next Erc, Whose ever-listening countenance that hour Beyond its wont was listening; Criemther near The workman Saint, his many-wounded hands Together clasped: forward each mighty arm On shoulders propped of Essa and of Bite, Leaned the meek giant Cairthen: twelve in all Cl.u.s.tering they stood and in them was one soul.

When Secknall ceased, in silence still they hung Each upon each, glad-hearted since the meed Of all their toils shone out before them plain, Gold gates of heaven--a nation entering in.

A light was on their faces, and without Spread a great light, for sunset now had fallen A Pentecostal fire upon the woods, Or else a rain of angels streamed o'er earth.

In marvel gazed the twelve: yea, clans far off Stared from their hills, deeming the site aflame.

That glory pa.s.sed away, discourse arose On Secknall's hymn. Its radiance from his face Had, like the sunset's, vanished as he spake.

"Father, what sayst thou?" Patrick made reply, "My son, the hymn is good; for Truth is gold; And Fame, obsequious often to base heads, For once is loyal, and its crown hath laid Where honour's debt was due." Then Secknall raised In triumph both his hands, and chaunted loud That hymn's first stave, earlier through craft withheld, Stave that to Patrick's name, and his alone, Offered that hymn's whole incense! Ceasing, he stood Low-bowed, with hands upon his bosom crossed.

Great laughter from the brethren came, their Chief Thus trapped, though late--he meekest man of men - To claim the saintly crown. First young, then old, Later the old, and sore against their will, That laughter raised. Last from the giant chest Of Cairthen forth it rolled its solemn ba.s.s, Like sea-sound swallowing lighter sounds hard by.

But Patrick laughed not: o'er his face there pa.s.sed Shade lost in light; and thus he spake, "O friends That which I have to do I know in part: G.o.d grant I work my work. That which I am He knows Who made me. Saints He hath, good store: Their names are written in His Book of Life; Kneel down, my sons, and pray that if thus long I seem to stand, I fall not at the end."

Then in a circle kneeling prayed the twelve.

But when they rose, Secknall with serious brow Advanced, and knelt, and kissed Saint Patrick's foot, And said, "O Father, at thy hest that hymn I made, long labouring, and thy crown it stands: Thou, therefore, grant me gifts, for strong thy prayer."

And Patrick said, "The house wherein thy hymn Is sung at morn or eve shall lack not bread: And if men sing it in a house new-built, Where none hath dwelt, nor bridegroom yet, nor bride, Nor hath the cry of babe been heard therein, Upon that house the watching of the Saints Of Eire, and Patrick's watching, shall be fixed Even as the stars." And Secknall said, "What more?"

Then Patrick added, "They that night and morn Down-lying and up-rising, sing that hymn, They too that softly whisper it, nigh death, If pure of heart, and liegeful unto Christ, Shall see G.o.d's face; and, since the hymn is long, Its grace shall rest for children and the poor Full measure on the last three lines; and thou Of this dear company shalt die the first, And first of Eire's Apostles." Then his cheek Secknall laid down once more on Patrick's foot, And answered, "Deo Gratias."

Thus in mirth, And solemn talk, and prayer, that brother band In the golden age of Faith with great free heart Gave thanks to G.o.d that blissful eventide, A thousand and four hundred years and more Gone by. But now clear rang the compline bell, And two by two they wended towards their church Across a s.p.a.ce for cloister set apart, Yet still with wood-flowers sweet, and scent beside Of sod that evening turned. The night came on; A dim ethereal twilight o'er the hills Deepened to dewy gloom. Against the sky Stood ridge and rock unmarked amid the day: A few stars o'er them shone. As bower on bower Let go the waning light, so bird on bird Let go its song. Two songsters still remained, Each feebler than a fountain soon to cease, And claimed somewhile across the dusking dell Rivals unseen in sleepy argument, Each, the last word: --a pause; and then, once more, An unexpected note: --a longer pause; And then, past hope, one other note, the last.

A moment more the brethren stood in prayer: The rising moon upon the church-roof new Glimmered; and o'er it sang an angel choir, "Venite Sancti." Entering, soon were said The psalm, "He giveth sleep," and hymn, "Laetare;"

And in his solitary cell each monk Lay down, rejoicing in the love of G.o.d.

The happy years went by. When Patrick now And all his company were housed with G.o.d That hymn, at morning sung, and noon, and eve, Even as it lulled the waves of warring clans So lulled with music lives of toil-worn men And charmed their ebbing breath. One time it chanced When in his convent Kevin with his monks Had sung it thrice, the board prepared, a guest, Foot-sore and hungered, murmured, "Wherefore thrice?"

And Kevin answered, "Speak not thus, my son, For while we sang it, visible to all, Saint Patrick was among us. At his right Benignus stood, and, all around, the Twelve, G.o.d's light upon their brows; while Secknall knelt Demanding meed of song. Moreover, son, This self-same day and hour, twelve months gone by, Patrick, our Patriarch, died; and happy Feast Is that he holds, by two short days alone Severed from his of Hebrew Patriarchs last, And Chief. The Holy House at Nazareth He ruled benign, G.o.d's Warder with white hairs; And still his feast, that silver star of March, When snows afflict the hill and frost the moor, With temperate beam gladdens the vernal Church - All praise to G.o.d who draws that Twain so near."

THE STRIVING OF SAINT PATRICK ON MOUNT CRUACHAN.

ARGUMENT.