At night there came unto MacCarthy More
A hooded vision with a voice that said,
“Go thou straightway and raise a house to God
Upon the spot where stands the Rock of Song!”
So with the golden lifting of the dawn
Upsprang the chieftain and loud called his kerns,
And bade them seek the Rock. For many a day
They roved the sweeping meads and fens and fells
In fruitless search, and ever forth again
Relentlessly he drove them from his hold
Beside the dimpling waters of Lough Leane.
“The Rock!” he cried, “find ye the Rock of Song!”
And still they found it not. Then the gaunt chief,
His long locks hoary with the frost of years,
Girded himself, and turned his tottering steps
Abroad in the soft lengthening of the dusk
Athwart a woodland close, and saw and heard
A little maid, her pitcher held at poise,
Singing an old lament in minors clear
And plaintive as the twilight, words that voiced
The poignant, passionate yearning of the soul.
“A sign!” the spent man whispered low, “a sign!”
And on the spot he raised a house to God.