From realm to realm had Patrick trod the Isle; And evermore God's work beneath his hand, Since God had blessed that hand, ran out full-sphered, And brighter than a new-created star.
The Island race, in feud of clan with clan Barbaric, gracious else and high of heart, Nor worshippers of self, nor dulled through sense, Beholding, not alone his wondrous works;
But, wondrous more, the sweetness of his strength And how he neither shrank from flood nor fire, And how he couched him on the wintry rocks, And how he sang great hymns to One who heard,
And how he cared for poor men and the sick, And for the souls invisible of men, To him made way — not simple hinds alone, But chiefly wisest heads, for wisdom then
Prime wisdom saw in Faith; and, mixt with these, Chieftains and sceptred kings. Nigh Tara, first, Scorning the king's command, had Patrick lit His Paschal fire, and heavenward as it soared,
The royal fire and all the Beltaine fires Shamed by its beam had withered round the Isle Like fires on little hearths whereon the sun Looks in his greatness. Later, to that plain
Central‘ mid Eire, “of Adoration” named, Down-trampled for two thousand years and more By erring feet of men, the Saint had sped In Apostolic might, and kenned far off
Ill-pleased, the nation's idol lifting high His head, and those twelve vassal gods around All mailed in gold and shining as the sun, A pomp impure. Ill-pleased the Saint had seen them,
And raised the Staff of Jesus with a ban: Then he, that demon named of men Crom-dubh, With all his vassal gods, into the earth That knew her Maker, to their necks had sunk
While round the island rang three times the cry Of fiends tormented. Not for this as yet Had Patrick perfected his strength: as yet
The depths he had not trodden; nor had God Drawn forth His total forces in the man Hidden long since and sealed. For this cause he, Who still his own heart in triumphant hour
Suspected most, remembering Milchoe's fate, With fear lest aught of human mar God's work, And likewise from his handling of the Gael Knowing not less their weakness than their strength,
Paused on his conquering way, and lonely sat In cloud of thought. The great Lent Fast had come: Its first three days went by; the fourth, he rose, And meeting his disciples that drew nigh
Vouchsafed this greeting only: “Bide ye here Till I return,” and straightway set his face Alone to that great hill “of eagles” named Huge Cruachan, that o'er the western deep
Hung through sea-mist, with shadowing crag on crag, High-ridged, and dateless forest long since dead. That forest reached, the angel of the Lord Beside him, as he entered, stood and spake:
“The gifts thy soul demands, demand them not; For they are mighty and immeasurable, And over great for granting.” And the Saint: “This mountain Cruachan I will not leave
Alive till all be granted, to the last.” Then knelt he on the shrouded mountain's base, And was in prayer; and, wrestling with the Lord, Demanded wondrous things immeasurable,
Not easy to be granted, for the land; Nor brooked repulse; and when repulse there came, Repulse that quells the weak and crowns the strong, Forth from its gloom like lightning on him flashed
Intelligential gleam and insight winged That plainlier showed him all his people's heart, And all the wound thereof: and as in depth Knowledge descended, so in height his prayer
Rose, and far spread; nor roused alone those Powers Regioned with God; for as the strength of fire When flames some palace pile, or city vast, Wakens a tempest round it dragging in
Wild blast, and from the aggression mightier grows, So wakened Patrick's prayer the demon race, And drew their legions in upon his soul From near and far. First came the Accursed encamped
On Connact's cloudy hills and watery moors; Old Umbhall's Heads, Iorras, and Arran Isle, And where Tyrawley clasps that sea-girt wood Fochlut, whence earliest rang the Children's Cry,
To demons trump of doom. In stormy rack They came, and hung above the invested Mount Expectant. But, their mutterings heeding not, When Patrick still in puissance rose of prayer,
O'er all their armies round the realm dispersed There ran prescience of fate; and, north and south, From all the mountain-girdled coasts — for still Best site attracts worst Spirit — on they came,
From Aileach's shore and Uladh's hoary cliffs, Which held the aeries of that eagle race More late in Alba throned, “Lords of the Isles” - High chiefs whose bards, in strong transmitted line,
Filled with the name of Fionn, and thine, Oiseen, The blue glens of that never-vanquished land - From those purpureal mountains that o'ergaze Rock-bowered Loch Lene broidered with sanguine bead,
They came, and many a ridge o'er sea-lake stretched That, autumn-robed in purple and in gold, Pontific vestment, guard the memories still Of monks who reared thereon their mystic cells,
Finian and Kieran, Fiacre, and Enda's self Of hermits sire, and that sea-facing Saint Brendan, who, in his wicker boat of skins Before that Genoese a thousand years
Found a new world; and many more that now Under wind-wasted Cross of Clonmacnoise Await the day of Christ. So rushed they on
From all sides, and, close met, in circling storm Besieged the enclouded steep of Cruachan, That scarce the difference knew‘ twixt night and day More than the sunless pole. Him sought they, him
Whom infinitely near they might approach, Not touch, while firm his faith — their Foe that dragged, Sole-kneeling on that wood-girt mountain's base, With both hands forth their realm's foundation stone.
Thus ruin filled the mountain: day by day The forest torment deepened; louder roared The great aisles of the devastated woods; Black cave replied to cave; and oaks, whole ranks,
Colossal growth of immemorial years, Sown ere Milesius landed, or that race He vanquished, or that earliest Scythian tribe, Fell in long line, like deep-mined castle wall,
At either side God's warrior. Slowly died At last, far echoed in remote ravines, The thunder: then crept forth a little voice That shrilly whispered to him thus in scorn:
“Two thousand years yon race hath walked in blood Neck-deep; and shall it serve thy Lord of Peace?” That whisper ceased. Again from all sides burst Tenfold the storm; and as it waxed, the Saint
Waxed in strong heart; and, kneeling with stretched hands, Made for himself a panoply of prayer, And wound it round his bosom twice and thrice, And made a sword of comminating psalm,
And smote at them that mocked him. Day by day, Till now the second Sunday's vesper bell Gladdened the little churches round the isle, That conflict raged: then, maddening in their ire,
Sudden the Princedoms of the Dark, that rode This way and that way through the tempest, brake Their sceptres, and with one great cry it fell: At once o'er all was silence: sunset lit
The world, that shone as though with face upturned It gazed on heavens by angel faces thronged And answered light with light. A single bird Carolled; and from the forest skirt down fell,
Gem-like, the last drops of the exhausted storm. Then bowed the Saint his forehead to the ground Thanking his God; and there in sacred trance, Which was not sleep, abode not hours alone
But silent nights and days; and,‘ mid that trance, God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments, Immortal food. Awaking, Patrick felt Yearnings for nearer commune with his God,
Though great its cost; and gat him on his feet, And, mile by mile, ascended through the woods Till stunted were its growths; and still he clomb Printing with sandalled foot the dewy steep:
But when above the mountain rose the moon Brightening each mist, while sank the prone morass In double night, he came upon a stone Tomb-shaped, that flecked that steep: a little stream
Dropped by it from the summits to the woods: Thereon he knelt; and was once more in prayer. Nor prayed unnoticed by that race abhorred. No sooner had his knees the mountain touched
Than through their realm vibration went; and straight His prayer detecting back they trooped in clouds And o'er him closed, blotting with bat-like wing And inky pall, the moon. Then thunder pealed
Once more, nor ceased from pealing. Over all Night ruled, except when blue and forked flash Revealed the on-circling waterspout or plunge Of rain beneath the blown cloud's ravelled hem,
Or, huge on high, that lion-coloured steep Which, like a lion, roared into the night Answering the roaring from sea-caves far down. Dire was the strife. That hour the Mountain old,
An anarch throned‘ mid ruins flung himself In madness forth on all his winds and floods, An omnipresent wrath! For God reserved, Too long the prey of demons he had been;
Possession foul and fell. Now nigh expelled Those demons rent their victim freed. Aloft, They burst the rocky barrier of the tarn That downward dashed its countless cataracts,
Drowning far vales. On either side the Saint A torrent rushed — mightiest of all these twain - Peeling the softer substance from the hills Their flesh, till glared, deep-trenched, the mountain's bones;
And as those torrents widened, rocks down rolled Showering upon that unsubverted head Sharp spray ice-cold. Before him closed the flood, And closed behind, till all was raging flood,
All but that tomb-like stone whereon he knelt. Unshaken there he knelt with hands outstretched, God's Athlete! For a mighty prize he strove, Nor slacked, nor any whit his forehead bowed:
Fixed was his eye and keen; the whole white face Keen as that eye itself, though — shapeless yet - The infernal horde to ear not eye addressed Their battle. Back he drave them, rank on rank,
Routed, with psalm, and malison, and ban, As from a sling flung forth. Revolt's blind spawn He named them; one time Spirits, now linked with brute, Yea, bestial more and baser: and as a ship
Mounts with the mounting of the wave, so he O'er all the insurgent tempest of their wrath Rising rode on triumphant. Days went by, Then came a lull; and lo! a whisper shrill,
Once heard before, again its poison cold Distilled: “Albeit to Christ this land should bow, Some conqueror's foot one day would quell her Faith.” It ceased. Tenfold once more the storm burst forth:
Once more the ecstatic passion of his prayer Met it, and, breasting, overbore, until Sudden the Princedoms of the dark that rode This way and that way through the whirlwind, dashed
Their vanquished crowns of darkness to the ground With one long cry. Then silence came; and lo! The white dawn of the fourth fair Day of God O'erflowed the world. Slowly the Saint upraised
His wearied eyes. Upon the mountain lawns Lay happy lights; and birds sang; and a stream That any five-years’ child might overleap, Beside him lapsed crystalline between banks
With violets all empurpled, and smooth marge Green as that spray which earliest sucks the spring. Then Patrick raised to God his orison On that fair mount, and planted in the grass
His crozier staff, and slept; and in his sleep God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments, Manna of might divine. Three days he slept; The fourth he woke. Upon his heart there rushed
Yearning for closer converse with his God Though great its cost; and on his feet he gat, And high, and higher yet, that mountain scaled, And reached at noon the summit. Far below
Basking the island lay, through rainbow shower Gleaming in part, with shadowy moor, and ridge Blue in the distance looming. Westward stretched A galaxy of isles, and, these beyond,
Infinite sea with sacred light ablaze, And high o'erhead there hung a cloudless heaven. Upon that summit kneeling, face to sea The Saint, with hands held forth and thanks returned,
Claimed as his stately heritage that realm From north to south: but instant as his lip Printed with earliest pulse of Christian prayer That clear aerial clime Pagan till then;
The Host Accursed, sagacious of his act, Rushed back from all the isle and round him met With anger seven times heated, since their hour, And this they knew, was come. Nor thunder din
And challenge through the ear alone, sufficed That hour their rage malign that, craving sore Material bulk to rend his bulk — their foe's - Through fleshly strength of that their murder-lust
Flamed forth in fleshly form phantoms night-black Though bodiless yet to bodied mass as nigh As Spirits can reach. More thick than vultures winged To fields with carnage piled, the Accursed thronged
Making thick night which neither earth nor sky Could pierce, from sense expunged. In phalanx now, Anon in breaking legion, or in globe, With clang of iron pinion on they rushed
And spectral dart high-held. Nor quailed the Saint, Contending for his people on that Mount, Nor spared God's foes; for as old minster towers Besieged by midnight storm send forth reply
In storm outrolled of bells, so sent he forth Defiance from fierce lip, vindictive chaunt, And blight and ban, and maledictive rite Potent on face of Spirits impure to raise
These plague-spots three, Defeat, Madness, Despair; Nor stinted flail of taunt — “When first my bark Threatened your coasts, as now upon the hills Hung ye in cloud; as now, I raised this Cross;
Ye fled before it and again shall fly!” So hurled he back their squadrons. Day by day The hurricanes of war shook earth and heaven: Till now, on Holy Saturday, that hour
Returned which maketh glad the Church of God When over Christendom in widowed fanes Two days by penance stripped, and dumb as though Some Antichrist had trodd'n them down, once more
Swells forth amid the new-lit paschal lights The “Gloria in Excelsis:” sudden then That mighty conflict ceased, save one low voice Twice heard before, now edged with bitterer scoff,
“That race thou lov'st, though fierce in wrath, is soft: Plenty and peace will melt their Faith one day:” Then with that whisper dying, died the night: Then forth from darkness issued earth and sky:
Then fled the phantoms far o'er ocean's wave, Thence to return not till the day of doom. But he, their conqueror wept, upon that height Standing; nor of his victory had he joy,
Nor of that jubilant isle restored to light, Nor of that heaven relit; so worked that scoff Winged from the abyss; and ever thus the man With darkness communed and that poison cold:
“If Faith indeed should flood the land with peace, And peace with gold, and gold eat out her heart Once true, till Faith one day through Faith's reward Or die, or live diseased, the shame of Faith,
Then blacker were this land and more accursed Than lands that knew no Christ.” And musing thus The whole heart of the man was turned to tears, A fount of bale and chalice brimmed with death -
For oft a thought chance-born more racks than truth Proven and sure — and, weeping, still he wept Till drenched was all his sad monastic cowl As sea-weed on the dripping shelf storm-cast
Latest, and tremulous still. As thus he wept Sudden beside him on that summit broad, Ran out a golden beam like sunset path
Gilding the sea: and, turning, by his side Victor, God's angel, stood with lustrous brow Fresh from that Face no man can see and live. He, putting forth his hand, with living coal
Snatched from God's altar, made that dripping cowl Dry as an Autumn sheaf. The angel spake: “Rejoice, for they are fled that hate thy land, And those are nigh that love it.” Then the Saint
Upraised his head; and lo! in snowy sheen Cresting high rock, and ridge, and airy peak, Innumerable the Sons of God all round Vested the invisible mountain with white light,
As when the foam-white birds of ocean throng Sea-rock so close that none that rock may see. In trance the Living Creatures stood, with wings That pointing crossed upon their breasts; nor seemed
As new arrived but native to that site Though veiled till now from mortal vision. Song They sang to soothe the vexed heart of the Saint - Love-song of Heaven: and slowly as it died
Their splendours waned; and through that vanishing light Earth, sea, and heaven returned. To Patrick then, Thus Victor spake: “Depart from Cruachan,
Since God hath given thee wondrous gifts, immense, And through thy prayer routed that rebel host.” And Patrick, “Till the last of all my prayers Be granted, I depart not though I die: -
One said,‘ Too fierce that race to bend to faith.’” Then spake God's angel, mild of voice, and kind: “Not all are fierce that fiercest seem, for oft Fierceness is blindfold love, or love ajar.
Souls thou wouldst have: for every hair late wet In this thy tearful cowl and habit drenched God gives thee myriads seven of Souls redeemed From sin and doom; and Souls, beside, as many
As o'er yon sea in legioned flight might hang Far as thine eye can range. But get thee down From Cruachan, for mighty is thy prayer.” And Patrick made reply: “Not great thy boon!
Watch have I kept, and wearied are mine eyes And dim; nor see they far o'er yonder deep.” And Victor: “Have thou Souls from coast to coast In cloud full-stretched; but, get thee down: this Mount
God's Altar is, and puissance adds to prayer.” And Patrick: “On this Mountain wept have I; And therefore giftless will I not depart: One said,‘ Although that People should believe
Yet conqueror's heel one day would quell their Faith.’” To whom the angel, mild of voice, and kind: “Conquerors are they that subjugate the soul: This also God concedes thee; conquering foe
Trampling this land, shall tread not out her Faith Nor sap by fraud, so long as thou in heaven Look'st on God's Face; nay, by that Faith subdued, That foe shall serve and live. But get thee down
And worship in the vale.” Then Patrick said, “Live they that list! Full sorely wept have I, Nor will I hence depart unsatisfied: One said;‘ Grown soft, that race their Faith will shame;’
Say therefore what the Lord thy God will grant, Nor stint His hand; since never scanter grace Fell yet on head of nation-taming man Than thou to me hast portioned till this hour.”
Then answer made the angel, soft of voice: “Not all men stumble when a Nation falls; There are that stand upright. God gives thee this: They that are faithful to thy Faith, that walk
Thy way, and keep thy covenant with God, And daily sing thy hymn, when comes the Judge With Sign blood-red facing Jehosaphat, And fear lays prone the many-mountained world,
The same shall‘ scape the doom.” And Patrick said, “That hymn is long, and hard for simple folk, And hard for children.” And the angel thus: “At least from‘ Christum Illum’ let them sing,
And keep thy Faith: when comes the Judge, the pains Shall take not hold of such. Is that enough?” And Patrick answered, “That is not enough.” Then Victor: “Likewise this thy God accords:
The Dreadful Coming and the Day of Doom Thy land shall see not; for before that day Seven years, a great wave arched from out the deep, Ablution pure, shall sweep the isle and take
Her children to its peace. Is that enough?” And Patrick answered, “That is not enough.” Then spake once more that courteous angel kind: “What boon demand'st then?” And the Saint, “No less
Than this. Though every nation, ere that day Recreant from creed and Christ, old troth forsworn, Should flee the sacred scandal of the Cross Through pride, as once the Apostles fled through fear,
This Nation of my love, a priestly house, Beside that Cross shall stand, fate-firm, like him That stood beside Christ's Mother.” Straightway, as one Who ends debate, the angel answered stern:
“That boon thou claimest is too great to grant: Depart thou from this mountain, Cruachan, In peace; and find that Nation which thou lov'st, That like thy body is, and thou her head,
For foes are round her set in valley and plain, And instant is the battle.” Then the Saint: “The battle for my People is not there, With them, low down, but here upon this height
From them apart, with God. This Mount of God Dowerless and bare I quit not till I die; And dying, I will leave a Man Elect To keep its keys, and pray my prayer, and name
Dying in turn, his heir, successive line, Even till the Day of Doom.” Then heavenward sped Victor, God's angel, and the Man of God
Turned to his offering; and all day he stood Offering in heart that Offering Undefiled Which Abel offered, and Melchisedek, And Abraham, Patriarch of the faithful race,
In type, and which in fulness of the times The Victim-Priest offered on Calvary, And, bloodless, offers still in Heaven and Earth, Whose impetration makes the whole Church one.
Thus offering stood the man till eve, and still Offered; and as he offered, far in front Along the aerial summit once again Ran out that beam like fiery pillar prone
Or sea-path sunset-paved; and by his side That angel stood. Then Patrick, turning not His eyes in prayer upon the West close held Demanded, “From the Maker of all worlds
What answer bring'st thou?” Victor made reply: “Down knelt in Heaven the Angelic Orders Nine, And all the Prophets and the Apostles knelt, And all the Creatures of the hand of God
Visible, and invisible, down knelt, While thou thy mighty Mass, though altarless, Offeredst in spirit, and thine Offering joined; And all God's Saints on earth, or roused from sleep
Or on the wayside pausing, knelt, the cause Not knowing; likewise yearned the Souls to God In that fire-clime benign that clears from sin; And lo! the Lord thy God hath heard thy prayer,
Since fortitude in prayer — and this thou know'st,” - Smiling the Bright One spake, “is that which lays Man's hand upon God's sceptre. That thou sought'st Shall lack not consummation. Many a race
Shrivelling in sunshine of its prosperous years, Shall cease from faith, and, shamed though shameless, sink Back to its native clay; but over thine God shall extend the shadow of His Hand,
And through the night of centuries teach to her In woe that song which, when the nations wake, Shall sound their glad deliverance: nor alone This nation, from the blind dividual dust
Of instincts brute, thoughts driftless, warring wills By thee evoked and shapen by thy hands To God's fair image which confers alone Manhood on nations, shall to God stand true;
But nations far in undiscovered seas, Her stately progeny, while ages fleet Shall wear the kingly ermine of her Faith, Fleece uncorrupted of the Immaculate Lamb,
For ever: lands remote shall raise to God HER fanes; and eagle-nurturing isles hold fast HER hermit cells: thy nation shall not walk Accordant with the Gentiles of this world,
But as a race elect sustain the Crown Or bear the Cross: and when the end is come, When in God's Mount the Twelve great Thrones are set, And round it roll the Rivers Four of fire,
And in their circuit meet the Peoples Three Of Heaven, and Earth, and Hell, fulfilled that day Shall be the Saviour's word, what time He stretched Thy crozier-staff forth from His glory-cloud
And sware to thee,‘ When they that with Me walked Sit with Me on their everlasting thrones Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine Israel, Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness.’
Thou therefore kneel, and bless thy Land of Eire.” Then Patrick knelt, and blessed the land, and said, “Praise be to God who hears the sinner's prayer.”
Cookies on Poetry Cove