ARGUMENT.

One day as Patrick sat upon a stone Judging his people, Pagan babes flocked round, All light and laughter, angel-like of mien, Sueing for bread. He gave it, and they ate:

Then said he, “Kneel;” and taught them prayer: but lo! Sudden the stag hounds’ music dinned the wind; They heard; they sprang; they chased it. Patrick spake; “It was the cry of children that I heard

Borne from the black wood o'er the midnight seas: Where are those children? What avails though Kings Have bowed before my Gospel, and in awe Nations knelt low, unless I set mine eyes

On Fochlut Wood?” Thus speaking, he arose, And, journeying with the brethren toward the West, Fronted the confine of that forest old. Then entered they that darkness; and the wood

Closed as a cavern round them. O'er its roof Leaned roof of cloud, and hissing ran the wind, And moaned the trunks for centuries hollowed out Yet stalwart still. There, rooted in the rock,

Stood the huge growths, by us unnamed, that frowned Perhaps on Partholan, the parricide, When that first Pagan settler fugitive Landed, a man foredoomed. Between the stems

The ravening beast now glared, now fled. Red leaves, The last year's phantoms, rattled here and there. The oldest wood that ever grew in Eire Was Fochlut Wood, and gloomiest. Spirits of Ill

Made it their palace, and its labyrinths sowed With poisons. Many a cave, with horrors thronged Within it yawned, and many a chasm unseen Waited the unwary treader. Cry of wolf

Pierced the cold air, and gibbering ghosts were heard; And o'er the black marsh passed those wandering lights That lure lost feet. A thousand pathways wound From gloom to gloom. One only led to light:

That path was sharp with flints. Then Patrick mused, “O life of man, how dark a wood art thou! Erring how many track thee till Despair,

Sad host, receives them in his crypt-like porch At nightfall.” Mute he paced. The brethren feared; And fearing, knelt to God. Made strong by prayer Westward once more they trod that dark, sharp way

Till deeper gloom announced the night, then slept Guarded by angels. But the Saint all night Watched, strong in prayer. The second day still on They fared, like mariners o'er strange seas borne,

That keep in mist their soundings when the rocks Vex the dark strait, and breakers roar unseen. At last Benignus cried, “To God be praise! He sends us better omens. See! the moss

Brightens the crag!” Ere long another spake: “The worst is past! This freshness in the air Wafts us a welcome from the great salt sea; Fair spreads the fern: green buds are on the spray,

And violets throng the grass.” A few steps more Brought them to where, with peaceful gleam, there spread A forest pool that mirrored yew trees twain

With beads like blood-drops hung. A sunset flash Kindled a glory in the osiers brown Encircling that still water. From the reeds A sable bird, gold-circled, slowly rose;

But when the towering tree-tops he outsoared, Eastward a great wind swept him as a leaf. Serenely as he rose a music soft Swelled from afar; but, as that storm o'ertook him,

The music changed to one on-rushing note O'ertaken by a second; both, ere long, Blended in wail unending. Patrick's brow, Listening that wail, was altered, and he spake:

“These were the Voices that I heard when stood By night beside me in that southern land God's angel, girt for speed. Letters he bare Unnumbered, full of woes. He gave me one,

Inscribed,‘ The Wailing of the Irish Race;’ And as I read that legend on mine ear Forth from a mighty wood on Erin's coast There rang the cry of children,‘ Walk once more

Among us; bring us help!’” Thus Patrick spake: Then towards that wailing paced with forward head. Ere long they came to where a river broad, Swiftly amid the dense trees winding, brimmed

The flower-enamelled marge, and onward bore Green branches‘ mid its eddies. On the bank Two virgins stood. Whiter than earliest streak Of matin pearl dividing dusky clouds

Their raiment; and, as oft in silent woods White beds of wind-flower lean along the earth-breeze, So on the river-breeze that raiment wan Shivered, back blown. Slender they stood and tall,

Their brows with violets bound; while shone, beneath, The dark blue of their never-tearless eyes. Then Patrick, “For the sake of Him who lays His blessing on the mourners, O ye maids,

Reveal to me your grief — if yours late sent, Or sped in careless childhood.” And the maids: “Happy whose careless childhood‘ scaped the wound:” Then she that seemed the saddest added thus:

“Stranger! this forest is no roof of joy, Nor we the only mourners; neither fall Bitterer the widow's nor the orphan's tears Now than of old; nor sharper than long since

That loss which maketh maiden widowhood. In childhood first our sorrow came. One eve Within our foster-parents’ low-roofed house The winter sunset from our bed had waned:

I slept, and sleeping dreamed. Beside the bed There stood a lovely Lady crowned with stars; A sword went through her heart. Down from that sword Blood trickled on the bed, and on the ground.

Sorely I wept. The Lady spake:‘ My child, Weep not for me, but for thy country weep; Her wound is deeper far than mine. Cry loud! The cry of grief is Prayer.’ I woke, all tears;

And lo! my little sister, stiff and cold, Sat with wide eyes upon the bed upright: That starry Lady with the bleeding heart She, too, had seen, and heard her. Clamour vast

Rang out; and all the wall was fiery red; And flame was on the sea. A hostile clan Landing in mist, had fired our ships and town, Our clansmen absent on a foray far,

And stricken many an old man, many a boy To bondage dragged. Oh night with blood redeemed! Upon the third day o'er the green waves rushed The vengeance winged, with axe and torch, to quit

Wrong with new wrong, and many a time since then. That night sad women on the sea sands toiled, Drawing from wreck and ruin, beam or plank To shield their babes. Our foster-parents slain,

Unheeded we, the children of the chief, Roamed the great forest. There we told our dream To children likewise orphaned. Sudden fear Smote them as though themselves had dreamed that dream,

And back from them redoubled upon us; Until at last from us and them rang out - The dark wood heard it, and the midnight sea - A great and bitter cry.”

“That cry went up, O children, to the heart of God; and He Down sent it, pitying, to a far-off land, And on into my heart. By that first pang

Which left the eternal pallor in your cheeks, O maids, I pray you, sing once more that song Ye sang but late. I heard its long last note: Fain would I hear the song that such death died.”

They sang: not scathless those that sing such song! Grief, their instructress, of the Muses chief To hearts by grief unvanquished, to their hearts Had taught a melody that neither spared

Singer nor listener. Pale when they began, Paler it left them. He not less was pale Who, out of trance awaking, thanked them thus: “Now know I of that sorrow in you fixed;

What, and how great it is, and bless that Power Who called me forth from nothing for your sakes, And sent me to this wood. Maidens, lead on! A chieftain's daughters ye; and he, your sire,

And with him she who gave you your sweet looks ( Sadder perchance than you in songless age ) They, too, must hear my tidings. Once a Prince Went solitary from His golden throne,

Tracking the illimitable wastes, to find One wildered sheep, the meanest of the flock, And on His shoulders bore it to that House Where dwelt His Sire.‘ Good Shepherd’ was His Name.

My tidings these: heralds are we, footsore, That bring the heart-sore comfort.” On they paced, On by the rushing river without words.

Beside the elder sister Patrick walked, Benignus by the younger. Fair her face; Majestic his, though young. Her looks were sad And awe-struck; his, fulfilled with secret joy,

Sent forth a gleam as when a morn-touched bay Through ambush shines of woodlands. Soon they stood Where sea and river met, and trod a path Wet with salt spray, and drank the clement breeze,

And saw the quivering of the green gold wave, And, far beyond, that fierce aggressor's bourn, Fair haunt for savage race, a purple ridge By rainy sunbeam gemmed from glen to glen,

Dim waste of wandering lights. The sun, half risen, Lay half sea-couched. A neighbouring height sent forth Welcome of baying hounds; and, close at hand, They reached the chieftain's keep.

A white-haired man And long since blind, there sat he in his hall, Untamed by age. At times a fiery gleam Flashed from his sightless eyes; and oft the red

Burned on his forehead, while with splenetic speech Stirred by ill news or memory stung, he banned Foes and false friend. Pleased by his daughters’ tale, At once he stretched his huge yet aimless hands

In welcome towards his guests. Beside him stood His mate of forty years by that strong arm From countless suitors won. Pensive her face: With parted youth the confidence of youth

Had left her. Beauty, too, though with remorse, Its seat had half relinquished on a cheek Long time its boast, and on that willowy form, So yielding now, where once in strength upsoared

The queenly presence. Tenderest grace not less Haunted her life's dim twilight — meekness, love - That humble love, all-giving, that seeks nought, Self-reverent calm, and modesty in age.

She turned an anxious eye on him she loved; And, bending, kissed at times that wrinkled hand, By years and sorrows made his wife far more Than in her nuptial bloom. These two had lost

Five sons, their hope, in war. That eve it chanced High feast was holden in the chieftain's tower To solemnise his birthday. In they flocked,

Each after each, the warriors of the clan, Not without pomp heraldic and fair state Barbaric, yet beseeming. Unto each Seat was assigned for deeds or lineage old,

And to the chiefs allied. Where each had place Above him waved his banner. Not for this Unhonoured were the pilgrim guests. They sat Where, fed by pinewood and the seeded cone,

The loud hearth blazed. Bathed were the wearied feet By maidens of the place and nurses grey, And dried in linen fragrant still with flowers Of years when those old nurses too were fair.

And now the board was spread, and carved the meat, And jests ran round, and many a tale was told, Some rude, but none opprobrious. Banquet done, Page-led the harper entered, old, and blind:

The noblest ranged his chair, and spread the mat; The loveliest raised his wine cup, one light hand Laid on his shoulder, while the golden hair Commingled with the silver. “Sing,” they cried,

“The death of Deirdre; or that desolate sire That slew his son, unweeting; or that Queen Who from her palace pacing with fixed eyes Stared at those heads in dreadful circle ranged,

The heads of traitor-friends that slew her lord Then mocked the friend they murdered. Leal and true, The Bard who wrought that vengeance!” Thus he sang: