Chapter 2
The “Tripartite Life” thus ends:—“After these great miracles, therefore, after resuscitating the dead, after healing lepers, and the blind, and the deaf, and the lame, and all diseases; after ordaining bishops, and priests, and deacons, and people of all orders in the Church; after teaching the men of Erin, and after baptising them; after founding churches and monasteries; after destroying idols and images and Druidical arts, the hour of death of Saint Patrick approached. He received the body of Christ from the Bishop Tassach, according to the counsel of the Angel Victor. He resigned his spirit afterwards to Heaven, in the one hundred and twentieth year of his age. His body is still here in the earth, with honour and reverence. Though great his honour here, greater honour will be to him in the Day of Judgment, when judgment will be given on the fruit of his teaching, as of every great Apostle, in the union of the Apostles and Disciples of Jesus; in the union of the Nine Orders of Angels, which cannot be surpassed; in the union of the Divinity and Humanity of the Son of God; in the union, which is higher than all unions, of the Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
A. DE VERE.
THE LEGENDS OF SAINT PATRICK.
THE BAPTISM OF ST. PATRICK.
“How can the babe baptiséd be Where font is none and water none?” Thus wept the nurse on bended knee, And swayed the Infant in the sun.
“The blind priest took that Infant’s hand: With that small hand, above the ground He signed the Cross. At God’s command A fountain rose with brimming bound.
“In that pure wave from Adam’s sin The blind priest cleansed the Babe with awe; Then, reverently, he washed therein His old, unseeing face, and saw!
“He saw the earth; he saw the skies, And that all-wondrous Child decreed A pagan nation to baptise, To give the Gentiles light indeed.”
Thus Secknall sang. Far off and nigh The clansmen shouted loud and long; While every mother tossed more high Her babe, and glorying joined the song.
THE DISBELIEF OF MILCHO, OR, SAINT PATRICK’S ONE FAILURE.
ARGUMENT.
Fame of St. Patrick goes ever before him, and men of goodwill believe gladly; but Milcho, a mighty merchant, and one given wholly to pride and greed, wills to disbelieve. St. Patrick sends him greeting and gifts; but he, discovering that the prophet welcomed by all had once been his slave, hates him the more. Notwithstanding, he fears that when that prophet arrives, he, too, may be forced to believe, though against his will. He resolves to set fire to his castle and all his wealth, and make new fortunes in far lands. The doom of Milcho, who willed to disbelieve.
WHEN now at Imber Dea that precious bark Freighted with Erin’s future, touched the sands Just where a river, through a woody vale Curving, with duskier current clave the sea, Patrick, the Island’s great inheritor, His perilous voyage past, stept forth and knelt And blessed his God. The peace of those green meads Cradled ’twixt purple hills and purple deep, Seemed as the peace of heaven. The sun had set; But still those summits twinned, the “Golden Spears,” Laughed with his latest beam. The hours went by: The brethren paced the shore or musing sat, But still their Patriarch knelt and still gave thanks For all the marvellous chances of his life Since those his earlier years when, slave new-trapped, He comforted on hills of Dalaraide His hungry heart with God, and, cleansed by pain, In exile found the spirit’s native land. Eve deepened into night, and still he prayed: The clear cold stars had crowned the azure vault; And, risen at midnight from dark seas, the moon Had quenched those stars, yet Patrick still prayed on: Till from the river murmuring in the vale, Far off, and from the morning airs close by That shook the alders by the river’s mouth, And from his own deep heart a voice there came, “Ere yet thou fling’st God’s bounty on this land There is a debt to cancel. Where is he, Thy five years’ lord that scourged thee for his swine? Alas that wintry face! Alas that heart Joyless since earliest youth! To him reveal it! To him declare that God who Man became To raise man’s fall’n estate, as though a man, All faculties of man unmerged, undimmed, Had changed to worm and died the prey of worms, That so the mole might see!”
Thus Patrick mused Not ignorant that from low beginnings rise Oftenest the works of greatness; yet of this Unweeting, that his failure, one and sole Through all his more than mortal course, even now Before that low beginning’s threshold lay, Betwixt it and that Promised Land beyond A bar of scandal stretched. Not otherwise Might whatsoe’er was mortal in his strength Dying, put on the immortal.
With the morn Deep sleep descended on him. Waking soon, He rose a man of might, and in that might Laboured; and God His servant’s toil revered; And gladly on that coast Erin to Christ Paid her firstfruits. Three days he preached his Lord: The fourth embarking, cape succeeding cape They passed, and heard the lowing herds remote In hollow glens, and smelt the balmy breath Of gorse on golden hillsides; till at eve, The Imber Domnand reached, on silver sands Grated their keel. Around them flocked at dawn Warriors with hunters mixed, and shepherd youths And maids with lips as red as mountain berries And eyes like sloes, or keener eyes, dark-fringed And gleaming like the blue-black spear. They came With milk-pail, and with kid, and kindled fire And spread the genial board. Upon that shore Full many knelt and gave themselves to Christ, Strong men, and men at midmost of their hopes By sickness felled; old chiefs, at life’s dim close That oft had asked, “Beyond the grave what hope?” Worn sailors weary of the toilsome seas, And craving rest; they, too, that sex which wears The blended crowns of Chastity and Love; Wondering, they hailed the Maiden-Motherhood; And listening children praised the Babe Divine, And passed Him, each to each.
Ere long, once more Their sails were spread. Again by grassy marge They rowed, and sylvan glades. The branching deer Like flying gleams went by them. Oft the cry Of fighting clans rang out: but oftener yet Clamour of rural dance, or mart confused With many-coloured garb and movements swift, Pageant sun-bright: or on the sands a throng Girdled with circle glad some bard whose song Shook the wild clan as tempest shakes the woods. Still north the wanderers sailed: at evening, mists Cumbered the shore and on them leaned the blast, And fierce rain flashed mingling with dim-lit sea. All night they toiled; next day at noon they kenned A seaward stream that shone like golden tress Severed and random-thrown. That river’s mouth Ere long attained was all with lilies white As April field with daisies. Entering there They reached a wood, and disembarked with joy: There, after thanks to God, silent they sat In thought, and watched the ripples, dusk yet bright, That lived and died like things that laughed at time, On gliding ’neath those many-centuried boughs. But, midmost, Patrick slept. Then through the trees, Shy as a fawn half-tamed now stole, now fled A boy of such bright aspect faëry child He seemed, or babe exposed of royal race: At last assured beside the Saint he stood, And dropped on him a flower, and disappeared: Thus flower on flower from the great wood he brought And hid them in the bosom of the Saint. The monks forbade him, saying, “Lest thou wake The master from his sleep.” But Patrick woke, And saw the boy, and said, “Forbid him not; The heir of all my kingdom is this child.” Then spake the brethren, “Wilt thou walk with us?” And he, “I will:” and so for his sweet face They called his name Benignus: and the boy Thenceforth was Christ’s. Beneath his parent’s roof At night they housed. Nowhere that child would sleep Except at Patrick’s feet. Till Patrick’s death Unchanged to him he clave, and after reigned The second at Ardmacha.
Day by day They held their course; ere long the hills of Mourne Loomed through sea-mist: Ulidian summits next Before them rose: but nearer at their left Inland with westward channel wound the wave Changed to sea-lake. Nine miles with chant and hymn They tracked the gold path of the sinking sun; Then southward ran ’twixt headland and green isle And landed. Dewy pastures sunset-dazed, At leisure paced by mild-eyed milk-white kine Smiled them a welcome. Onward moved in sight Swiftly, with shadow far before him cast, Dichu, that region’s lord, a martial man And merry, and a speaker of the truth. Pirates he deemed them first and toward them faced With wolf-hounds twain that watched their master’s eye To spring, or not to spring. The imperious face Forbidding not, they sprang; but Patrick raised His hand, and stone-like crouched they chained and still: Then, Dichu onward striding fierce, the Saint Between them signed the Cross; and lo, the sword Froze in his hand, and Dichu stood like stone. The amazement past, he prayed the man of God To grace his house; and, side by side, a mile They clomb the hills. Ascending, Patrick turned, His heart with prescience filled. Beneath, there lay A gleaming strait; beyond, a dim vast plain With many an inlet pierced: a golden marge Girdled the water-tongues with flag and reed; But, farther off, a gentle sea-mist changed The fair green flats to purple. “Night comes on;” Thus Dichu spake, and waited. Patrick then Advanced once more, and Sabhall soon was reached, A castle half, half barn. There garnered lay Much grain, and sun-imbrowned: and Patrick said, “Here where the earthly grain was stored for man The bread of angels man shall eat one day.” And Patrick loved that place, and Patrick said, “King Dichu, give thou to the poor that grain, To Christ, our Lord, thy barn.” The strong man stood In doubt; but prayers of little orphaned babes Reared by his hand, went up for him that hour: Therefore that barn he ceded, and to Christ By Patrick was baptised. Where lay the corn A convent later rose. There dwelt he oft; And ’neath its roof more late the stranger sat, Exile, or kingdom-wearied king, or bard, That haply blind in age, yet tempest-rocked By memories of departed glories, drew With gradual influx into his old heart Solace of Christian hope.
With Dichu bode Patrick somewhile, intent from him to learn The inmost of that people. Oft they spake Of Milcho. “Once his thrall, against my will In earthly things I served him: for his soul Needs therefore must I labour. Hard was he; Unlike those hearts to which God’s Truth makes way Like message from a mother in her grave: Yet what I can I must. Not heaven itself Can force belief; for Faith is still good will.” Dichu laughed aloud: “Good will! Milcho’s good will Neither to others, nor himself, good will Hath Milcho! Fireless sits he, winter through, The logs beside his hearth: and as on them Glimmers the rime, so glimmers on his face The smile. Convert him! Better thrice to hang him! Baptise him! He will film your font with ice! The cold of Milcho’s heart has winter-nipt That glen he dwells in! From the sea it slopes Unfinished, savage, like some nightmare dream, Raked by an endless east wind of its own. On wolf’s milk was he suckled not on woman’s! To Milcho speed! Of Milcho claim belief! Milcho will shrivel his small eye and say He scorns to trust himself his father’s son, Nor deems his lands his own by right of race But clutched by stress of brain! Old Milcho’s God Is gold. Forbear him, sir, or ere you seek him Make smooth your way with gold.”
Thus Dichu spake; And Patrick, after musings long, replied: “Faith is no gift that gold begets or feeds, Oftener by gold extinguished. Unto God, Unbribed, unpurchased, yearns the soul of man; Yet finds perforce in God its great reward. Not less this Milcho deems I did him wrong, His slave, yet fleeing. To requite that loss Gifts will I send him first by messengers Ere yet I see his face.”
Then Patrick sent His messengers to Milcho, speaking thus: “If ill befell thy herds through flight of mine Fourfold that loss requite I, lest, for hate Of me, thou disesteem my Master’s Word. Likewise I sue thy friendship; and I come In few days’ space, with gift of other gold Than earth concedes, the Tidings of that God Who made all worlds, and late His Face hath shown, Sun-like to man. But thou, rejoice in hope!”
Thus Patrick, once by man advised in part, Though wont to counsel with his God alone.
Meantime full many a rumour vague had vexed Milcho much musing. He had dealings large And distant. Died a chief? He sent and bought The widow’s all; or sold on foodless shores For usury the leanest of his kine. Meantime, his dark ships and the populous quays With news still murmured. First from Imber Dea Came whispers how a sage had landed late, And how when Nathi fain had barred his way, Nathi that spurned Palladius from the land, That sage with levelled eyes, and kingly front Had from his presence driven him with a ban Cur-like and craven; how on bended knee Sinell believed, the royal man well-loved Descending from the judgment-seat with joy: And how when fishers spurned his brethren’s quest For needful food, that sage had raised his rod, And all the silver harvest of blue streams Lay black in nets and sand. His wrinkled brow Wrinkling yet more, thus Milcho answer made: “Deceived are those that will to be deceived: This knave has heard of gold in river-beds, And comes a deft sand-groper; let him come! He’ll toil ten years ere gold enough he finds To make a crooked torque.”
From Tara next The news: “Laeghaire, the King, sits close in cloud Of sullen thought, or storms from court to court, Because the chiefest of the Druid race Locru, and Luchat prophesied long since That one day from the sea a Priest would come With Doctrine and a Rite, and dash to earth Idols, and hurl great monarchs from their thrones; And lo! At Imber Boindi late there stept A priest from roaring waves with Creed and Rite, And men before him bow.” Then Milcho spake: “Not flesh enough from thy strong bones, Laeghaire, These Druids, ravens of the woods, have plucked, But they must pluck thine eyes! Ah priestly race, I loathe ye! ’Twixt the people and their King Ever ye rub a sore!” Last came a voice: “This day in Eire thy saying is fulfilled, Conn of the ‘Hundred Battles,’ from thy throne Leaping long since, and crying, ‘O’er the sea The Prophet cometh, princes in his train, Bearing for regal sceptres bended staffs, Which from the land’s high places, cliff and peak, Shall drag the fair flowers down!’” Scoffing he heard: “Conn of the ‘Hundred Battles!’ Had he sent His hundred thousand kernes to yonder steep And rolled its boulders down, and built a mole To fence my laden ships from spring-tide surge, Far kinglier pattern had he shown, and given More solace to the land.”
He rose and turned With sideway leer; and printing with vague step Irregular the shining sands, on strode Toward his cold home, alone; and saw by chance A little bird light-perched, that, being sick, Plucked from the fissured sea-cliff grains of sand; And, noting, said, “O bird, when beak of thine From base to crown hath gorged this huge sea-wall, Then shall that man of Creed and Rite make null The strong rock of my will!” Thus Milcho spake, Feigning the peace not his.
Next day it chanced Women he heard in converse. Thus the first: “If true the news, good speed for him, my boy! Poor slaves by Milcho scourged on earth shall wear In heaven a monarch’s crown! Good speed for her His little sister, not reserved like us To bend beneath these loads.” To whom her mate: “Doubt not the Prophet’s tidings! Not in vain The Power Unknown hath shaped us! Come He must, Or send, and help His people on their way. Good is He, or He ne’er had made these babes!” They passed, and Milcho said, “Through hate of me All men believe!” And straightway Milcho’s face Grew bleaker than that crab-tree stem forlorn That hid him, wanner than that sea-sand wet That whitened round his foot down-pressed.
Time passed. One morn in bitter mockery Milcho mused: “What better laughter than when thief from thief Pilfers the pilfered goods? Our Druid thief Two thousand years hath milked and shorn this land; Now comes the thief outlandish that with him Would share milk-pail and fleece! O Bacrach old, To hear thee shout ‘Impostor!’” Straight he went To Bacrach’s cell hid in a skirt wind-shav’n Of low-grown wood, and met, departing thence, Three sailors sea-tanned from a ship late-beached. Within a corner huddled, on the floor, The Druid sat, cowering, and cold, and mazed: Sudden he rose, and cried, by conquering joy Clothed as with youth restored: “The God Unknown, That God who made the earth, hath walked the earth! This hour His Prophet treads the isle! Three men Have seen him; and their speech is true. To them That Prophet spake: ‘Four hundred years ago, Sinless God’s Son on earth for sinners died: Black grew the world, and graves gave up their dead.’ Thus spake the Seer. Four hundred years ago! Mark well the time! Of Ulster’s Druid race What man but yearly, those four hundred years, Trembled that tale recounting which with this Tallies as footprint with the foot of man? Four hundred years ago—that self-same day— Connor, the son of Nessa, Ulster’s King, Sat throned, and judged his people. As he sat, Under clear skies, behold, o’er all the earth Swept a great shadow from the windless east; And darkness hung upon the air three hours; Dead fell the birds, and beasts astonied fled. Then to his Chief of Druids, Connor spake Whispering; and he, his oracles explored, Shivering made answer, ‘From a land accursed, O King, that shadow sweeps; therein, this hour, By sinful men sinless God’s Son is slain.’ Then Ulster’s king, down-dashing sceptre and crown, Rose, clamouring, ‘Sinless! shall the sinless die?’ And madness fell on him; and down that steep He rushed whereon the Emanian Palace stood, And reached the grove, Lambraidhè, with two swords, The sword of battle, and the sword of state, And hewed and hewed, crying, ‘Were I but there Thus they should fall who slay that Sinless One;’ And in that madness died. Old Erin’s sons Beheld this thing; nor ever in the land Hath ceased the rumour, nor the tear for him Who, wroth at justice trampled, martyr died. And now we know that not for any dream He died, but for the truth: and whensoe’er The Prophet of that Son of God who died Sinless for sinners, standeth in this place, I, Bacrach, oldest Druid in this Isle, Will rise the first, and kiss his vesture’s hem.”
He spake; and Milcho heard, and without speech Departed from that house.
A later day When the wild March sunset, gone almost ere come, By glacial shower was hustled out of life, Under a blighted ash tree, near his house, Thus mused the man: “Believe, or Disbelieve! The will does both; Then idiot who would be For profitless belief to sell himself? Yet disbelief not less might work our bane! For, I remember, once a sickly slave Ill shepherded my flock: I spake him plain; ‘When next, through fault of thine, the midnight wolf Worries my sheep, on yonder tree you hang:’ The blear-eyed idiot looked into my face, And smiled his disbelief. On that day week Two lambs lay dead. I hanged him on a tree. What tree? this tree! Why, this is passing strange! For, three nights since, I saw him in a dream: Weakling as wont he stood beside my bed, And, clutching at his wrenched and livid throat, Spake thus, ‘Belief is safest.’”
Ceased the hail To rattle on the ever barren boughs, And friendlier sound was heard. Beside his door Wayworn the messengers of Patrick stood, And showed the gifts, and held his missive forth. Then learned that lost one all the truth. That sage Confessed by miracles, that prophet vouched By warnings old, that seer by words of might Subduing all things to himself—that priest, None other was than the uncomplaining boy Five years his slave and swineherd! In him rage Burst forth, with fear commixed, as when a beast Strains in the toils. “Can I alone stand firm?” He mused; and next, “Shall I, in mine old age, Byword become—the vassal of my slave? Shall I not rather drive him from my door With wolf hounds and a curse?” As thus he stood He marked the gifts, and bade men bare them in, And homeward signed the messengers unfed.