ARGUMENT.

In Limneach, ere he reached it, fame there ran Of Patrick's words and works. Before his foot Aileel had fallen, loud wailing, with his wife, And cried, “Our child is slain by savage beasts;

But thou, O prophet, if that God thou serv'st Be God indeed, restore him!” Patrick turned To Malach, praised of all men. “Brother, kneel, And raise yon child.” But Malach answered, “Nay,

Lest, tempting God, His service I should shame.” Then Patrick, “Answer of the base is thine; And base shall be that house thou build'st on earth, Little, and low. A man may fail in prayer:

What then? Thank God! the fault is ours not His, And ours alone the shame.” The Apostle turned To Ibar, and to Ailbe, bishops twain, And bade them raise the child. They heard and knelt:

And Patrick knelt between them; and these three Upheaved a wondrous strength of prayer; and lo! All pale, yet shining, rose the child, and sat, Lifting small hands, and preached to those around,

And straightway they believed, and were baptized. Thus with loud rumour all the land was full, And some believed; some doubted; and a chief, Lonan, the son of Eire, that half believed,

Willing to draw from Patrick wonder and sign, By messengers besought him, saying, “Come, For in thy reverence waits thy servant's feast Spread on Knock Cae.” That pleasant hill ascends

Westward of Ara, girt by rivers twain, Maigue, lily-lighted, and the “Morning Star” Once “Samhair” named, that eastward through the woods Winding, upon its rapids earliest meets

The morn, and flings it far o'er mead and plain. From Limneach therefore Patrick, while the dawn Still dusk, its joyous secret kept, went forth, O'er dustless road soon lost in dewy fields,

And groves that, touched by wakening winds, began To load damp airs with scent. That time it was When beech leaves lose their silken gloss, and maids From whitest brows depose the hawthorn white,

Red rose in turn enthroning. Earliest gleams Glimmered on leaves that shook like wings of birds: Saint Patrick marked them well. He turned to Fiacc - “God might have changed to Pentecostal tongues

The leaves of all the forests in the world, And bade them sing His love! He wrought not thus: A little hint He gives us and no more. Alone the willing see. Thus they sin less

Who, if they saw, seeing would disbelieve. Hark to that note! O foolish woodland choirs! Ye sing but idle loves; and, idler far, The bards sing war — war only!”

Answered thus The monk bard-loving: “Sing it! Ay, and make The keys of all the tempests hang on zones Of those cloud-spirits! They, too, can‘ bind and loose:’

A bard incensed hath proved a kingdom's doom! Such Aidan. Upon cakes of meal his host, King Aileach, fed him in a fireless hall: The bard complained not — ay, but issuing forth,

Sang in dark wood a keen and venomed song That raised on the king's countenance plague-spots three; Who saw him named them Scorn, Dishonour, Shame, And blighted those three oak trees nigh his door.

What next? Before a month that realm lay drowned In blood; and fire went o'er the opprobrious house!” Thus spake the youth, and blushed at his own zeal For bardic fame; then added, “Strange the power

Of song! My father, do I vainly dream Oft thinking that the bards, perchance the birds, Sing something vaster than they think or know? Some fire immortal lives within their strings:

Therefore the people love them. War divine, God's war on sin — true love-song best and sweetest - Perforce they chaunt in spirit, not wars of clans: Yea, one day, conscious, they shall sing that song;

One day by river clear of south or north, Pagan no more, the laurelled head shall rise, And chaunt the Warfare of the Realm of Souls, The anguish and the cleansing, last the crown -

Prelude of songs celestial!” Patrick smiled: “Still, as at first, a lover of the bards! Hard task was mine to win thee to the cowl!

Dubtach, thy master, sole in Tara's hall Who made me reverence, mocked my quest. He said, ‘ Fiacc thou wouldst?— my Fiacc? Few days gone by I sent the boy with poems to the kings;

He loves me: hardly will he leave the songs To wear thy tonsure!’ As he spake, behold, Thou enter'dst. Sudden hands on Dubtach's head I laid, as though to gird with tonsure crown:

Then rose thy clamour,‘ Erin's chief of bards A tonsured man! Me, father, take, not him! Far less the loss to Erin and the songs!’ Down knelt'st thou; and, ere long, old Dubtach's floor

Shone with thy vernal locks, like forest paths Made gold by leaves of autumn!” As he spake, The sun, new-risen, flashed on a breast of wood

That answered from a thousand jubilant throats: Then Fiacc, with all their music in his face, Resumed: “My father, upon Tara's steep Patient thou sat'st whole months, sifting with care

The laws of Eire, recasting for all time, Ill laws from good dissevering, as that Day Shall sever tares from wheat. I see thee still, As then we saw — thy clenched hand lost in beard

Propping thy chin; thy forehead wrinkle-trenched Above that wondrous tome, the‘ Senchus Mohr,’ Like his, that Hebrew lawgiver's, who sat Throned on the clouded Mount, while far below

The Tribes waited in awe. Now answer make! Three bishops, and three brehons, and three kings. Ye toiled — who helped thee best?” “Dubtach, the bard,” Patrick replied — “Yea, wise was he, and knew

Man's heart like his own strings.” “All bards are wise,” Shouted the youth, “except when war they wage On thee, the wisest. In their music bath They cleanse man's heart, not less, and thus prepare,

Though hating thee, thy way. The bards are wise For all except themselves. Shall God not save them, He who would save the worst? Such grace were hard Unless, death past, their souls to birds might change,

And in the darksomest grove of Paradise Lament, amerced, their error, yet rejoice In souls that walked obedient!” “Darksomest grove,” Patrick made answer; “darksome is their life;

Darksome their pride, their love, their joys, their hopes; Darksome, though gleams of happier lore they have, Their light! Seest thou yon forest floor, and o'er it, The ivy's flash — earth-light? Such light is theirs:

By such can no man walk.” Thus, gay or grave, Conversed they, while the Brethren paced behind; Till now the morn crowded each cottage door

With clustered heads. They reached ere long in woods A hamlet small. Here on the weedy thatch White fruit-bloom fell: through shadow, there, went round The swinging mill-wheel tagged with silver fringe;

Here rang the mallet; there was heard remote The one note of the love-contented bird. Though warm the sun, in shade the young spring morn Was edged with winter yet, and icy film

Glazed the deep ruts. The swarthy smith worked hard, And working sang; the wheelwright toiled close by; An armourer next to these: through flaming smoke Glared the fierce hands that on the anvil fell

In thunder down. A sorcerer stood apart Kneading Death's messenger, that missile ball, The Lia Laimbhe. To his heart he clasped it, And o'er it muttered spells with flatteries mixed:

“Hail, little daughter mine!‘ Twixt hand and heart I knead thee! From the Red Sea came that sand Which, blent with viper's poison, makes thy flesh! Be thou no shadow wandering on the air!

Rush through the battle gloom as red-combed snake Cleaves the blind waters! On! like Witch's glance, Or forked flash, or shaft of summer pest, And woe to him that meets thee! Mouth blood-red

My daughter hath: — not healing be her kiss!” Thus he. In shade he stood, and phrensy-fired; And yet he marked who watched him. Without word Him Patrick passed; but spake to all the rest

With voice so kindly reverent, “Is not this,” Men asked, “the preacher of the‘ Tidings Good?’” “What tidings? Has he found a mine?” “He speaks To princes as to brothers; to the hind

As we to princes’ children! Yea, when mute, Saith not his face‘ Rejoice’?” At times the Saint Laid on the head of age his strong right hand,

Gentle as touch of soft-accosting eyes; And once before an open door he stopped, Silent. Within, all glowing like a rose, A mother stood for pleasure of her babes

That — in them still the warmth of couch late left - Around her gambolled. On his face, as hers, Their sport regarding, long time lay the smile; Then crept a shadow o'er it, and he spake

In sadness: “Woman! when a hundred years Have passed, with opening flower and falling snow, Where then will be thy children?” Like a cloud Fear and great wrath fell on her. From the wall

She snatched a battle-axe and raised it high In both hands, clamouring, “Wouldst thou slay my babes?” He answered, “I would save them. Woman, hear! Seest thou yon floating shape? It died a worm;

It lives, the blue-winged angel of spring meads. Thy children, likewise, if they serve my King, Death past, shall find them wings.” Then to her cheek The bloom returned, and splendour to her eye;

And catching to her breast, that larger swelled, A child, she wept, “Oh, would that he might live For ever! Prophet, speak! thy words are good! Their father, too, must hear thee.” Patrick said,

“Not so; nor falls this seed on every road;” Then added thus: “You child, by all the rest Cherished as though he were some infant God, Is none of thine.” She answered, “None of ours;

A great chief sent him here for fosterage.” Then he: “All men on earth the children are Of One who keeps them here in fosterage: They see not yet His face; but He sees them,

Yea, and decrees their seasons and their times: Like infants, they must learn Him first by touch, Through nature, and her gifts — by hearing next, The hearing of the ear, and that is Faith -

By Vision last. Woman, these things are hard; But thou to Limneach come in three days’ time, Likewise thy husband; there, by Sangul's Well, Thou shalt know all.”

The Saint had reached ere long That festal mount. Thousands with bannered line Scaled it light-hearted. Never favourite lamb In ribands decked shone brighter than that hour

The fair flank of Knock Cae. Heath-scented airs Lightened the clambering toil. At times the Saint Stayed on their course the crowds, and towards the Truth Drew them by parable, or record old,

Oftener by question sage. Not all believed: Of such was Derball. Man of wealth and wit, Nor wise, nor warlike, toward the Saint he strode With bubble-seething brain, and head high tossed,

And cried, “Great Seer! remove yon mountain blue, Cenn Abhrat, by thy prayer! That done, to thee Fealty I pledge.” Saint Patrick knelt in prayer: Soon Derball cried, “The central ridge descends; -

Southward, beyond it, Longa's lake shines out In sunlight flashing!” At his word drew near The men of Erin. Derball homeward turned, Mocking: “Believe who will, believe not I!

Me more imports it o'er my foodful fields To draw the Maigue's rich waters than to stare At moving hills.” But certain of that throng, Light men, obsequious unto Derball's laugh,

Questioned of Patrick if the mountain moved. He answered, “On the ground mine eyes were fixed; Nought saw I. Haply, through defect of mine, It moved not. Derball said the mountain moved;

Yet kept he not his pledge, but disbelieved. ‘ Faith can move mountains.’ Never said my King That mountains moved could move reluctant faith In unbelieving heart.” With sad, calm voice

He spake; and Derball's laughter frustrate died. Meantime, high up on that thyme-scented hill By shadows swept, and lights, and rapturous winds, Lonan prepared the feast, and, with that chief,

Mantan, a deacon. Tables fair were spread; And tents with branches gay. Beside those tents Stood the sweet-breathing, mournful, slow-eyed kine With hazel-shielded horns, and gave their milk

Gravely to merry maidens. Low the sun Had fallen, when, Patrick near the summit now, There burst on him a wandering troop, wild-eyed, With scant and quaint array. O'er sunburnt brows

They wore sere wreaths; their piebald vests were stained, And lean their looks, and sad: some piped, some sang, Some tossed the juggler's ball. “From far we came,” They cried; “we faint with hunger; give as food!”

Upon them Patrick bent a pitying eye, And said, “Where Lonan and where Mantan toil Go ye, and pray them, for mine honour's sake, To gladden you with meat.” But Lonan said,

And Mantan, “Nay, but when the feast is o'er, The fragments shall be yours.” With darkening brow The Saint of that denial heard, and cried, “He cometh from the North, even now he cometh,

For whom the Blessing is reserved; he cometh Bearing a little wether at his back:” And, straightway, through the thicket evening-dazed A shepherd — by him walked his mother — pushed,

Bearing a little wether. Patrick said, “Give them to eat. They hunger.” Gladly then That shepherd youth gave them the wether small: With both his hands outstretched, and liberal smile,

He gave it, though, with angry eye askance His mother grudged it sore. The wether theirs, As though earth-swallowed, vanished that wild tribe, Fearing that mother's eye.

Then Patrick spake To Lonan, “Zealous is thy service, friend; Yet of thy house no king shall sit on throne, No bishop bless the people.” Turning then

To Mantan, thus he spake, “Careful art thou Of many things; not less that church thou raisest Shall not be of the honoured in the land; And in its chancel waste the mountain kine

Shall couch above thy grave.” To Nessan last Thus spake he: “Thou that didst the hungry feed, The poor of Christ, that know not yet His name, And, helping them that cried to me for help,

Cherish mine honour, like a palm, one day, Shall rise thy greatness.” Nessan's mother old For pardon knelt. He blessed her hoary head, Yet added, mournful, “Not within the Church

That Nessan serves shall lie his mother's grave.” Then Nessan he baptized, and on him bound Ere long the deacon's grade, and placed him, later, Priest o'er his church at Mungret. Centuries ten

It stood, a convent round it as a star Forth sending beams of glory and of grace O'er woods Teutonic and the Tyrrhene Sea. Yet Nessan's mother in her son's great church

Slept not; nor where the mass bell tinkled low: West of the church her grave, to his — her son's - Neighbouring, yet severed by the chancel wall. Thus from the morning star to evening star

Went by that day. In Erin many such Saint Patrick lived, using well pleased the chance, Or great or small, since all things come from God: And well the people loved him, being one

Who sat amid their marriage feasts, and saw, Where sin was not, in all things beauty and love. But, ere he passed from Munster, longing fell On Patrick's heart to view in all its breadth

Her river-flood, and bless its western waves; Therefore, forth journeying, to that hill he went, Highest among the wave-girt, heathy hills, That still sustains his name, and saw the flood

At widest stretched, and that green Isle hard by, And northern Thomond. From its coasts her sons Rushed countless forth in skiff and coracle Smiting blue wave to white, till Sheenan's sound

Ceased, in their clamour lost. That hour from God Power fell on Patrick; and in spirit he saw, Invisible to flesh, the western coasts, And the ocean way, and, far beyond, that land

The Future's heritage, and prophesied Of Brendan who ere long in wicker boat Should over-ride the mountains of the deep, Shielded by God, and tread — no fable then -

Fabled Hesperia. Last of all he saw More near, thy hermit home, Senanus;—‘ Hail, Isle of blue ocean and the river's mouth! The People's Lamp, their Counsel's Head, is thine!”

That hour shone out through cloud the westering sun And paved the wave with fire: that hour not less Strong in his God, westward his face he set, Westward and north, and spread his arms abroad,

And drew the blessing down, and flung it far: “A blessing on the warriors, and the clans, A blessing on high field, and golden vales, On sea-like plain and on the showery ridge,

On river-ripple, cliff, and murmuring deep, On seaward peaks, harbours, and towns, and ports; A blessing on the sand beneath the ships: On all descend the Blessing!” Thus he prayed,

Great-hearted; and from all the populous hills And waters came the People's vast “Amen!”