Chapter 10

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 Clustering 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 passed 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 bass, Like sea-sound swallowing lighter sounds hard by. But Patrick laughed not: o’er his face there passed Shade lost in light; and thus he spake, “O friends That which I have to do I know in part: God 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 God’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 God 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 space 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, “Lætare;” And in his solitary cell each monk Lay down, rejoicing in the love of God.

The happy years went by. When Patrick now And all his company were housed with God 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, God’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, God’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 God who draws that Twain so near.”

THE STRIVING OF SAINT PATRICK ON MOUNT CRUACHAN.

ARGUMENT.

Saint Patrick, seeing that now Erin believes, desires that the whole land should stand fast in belief till Christ returns to judge the world. For this end he resolves to offer prayer on Mount Cruachan; but Victor, the Angel who has attended him in all his labours, restrains him from that prayer as being too great. Notwithstanding, the Saint prays three times on the mountain, and three times all the demons of Erin contend against him, and twice Victor, the Angel, rebukes his prayers. In the end Saint Patrick scatters the demons with ignominy, and God’s Angel bids him know that his prayer hath conquered through constancy.

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 forkèd 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 aërial 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 Accursèd 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.