The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Mac Kyle, a child of death, dwells in a forest with other men like unto himself, that slay whom they will. Saint Patrick coming to that wood, a certain Impostor devises how he may be deceived and killed; but God smites the Impostor through his own snare, and he dies. Mac Kyle believes, and demanding penance is baptized. Afterwards he preaches in Manann Isle, and becomes a great Saint.

In Uladh, near Magh Inis, lived a chief,
Fierce man and fell. From orphaned childhood he
Through lawless youth to blood-stained middle age
Had rushed as stormy morn to stormier noon,
Working, except that still he spared the poor,
All wrongs with iron will; a child of death.
Thus spake he to his followers, while the woods
Snow-cumbered creaked, their scales of icy mail
Angered by winter winds: ‘At last he comes,
He that deceives the people with great signs,
And for the tinkling of a little gold
Preaches new Gods. Where rises yonder smoke

Beyond the pinewood, camps this Lord of Dupes:
How say ye? Shall he track o'er Uladh's plains,
As o'er the land beside, his venomous way?
Forth with your swords! and if that God he serves
Can save him, let him prove it!’

Dark with wrath
Thus spake Mac Kyle; and all his men approved,
Shouting, while downward fell the snows hard-caked
Loosened by shock of forest-echoed hands,
Save Garban. Crafty he, and full of lies,
That thing which Patrick hated. Sideway first
Glancing, as though some secret foe were nigh,
He spake: ‘Mac Kyle! a counsel for thine ear!
A man of counsel I, as thou of war!
The people love this stranger. Patrick slain,
Their wrath will blaze against us, and demand
An eric for his head. Let us by craft
Unravel first his craft: then safe our choice;
We slay a traitor, or great ransom take:
Impostors lack not gold. Lay me as dead
Upon a bier: above me spread yon cloth,
And make your wail: and when the seer draws nigh
Worship him, crying, “Lo, our friend is dead!
Kneel, prophet, kneel, and pray that God thou serv'st
To raise him.” If he kneels, no prophet he,
But like the race of mortals. Sweep the cloth
Straight from my face; then, laughing, I will rise.’

Thus counselled Garban; and the counsel pleased;
Yet pleased not God. Upon a bier, branch-strewn,
They laid their man, and o'er him spread a cloth;
Then, moving towards that smoke behind the pines,
They found the Saint and brought him to that bier,
And made their moan—and Garban 'neath that cloth

Smiled as he heard it—‘Lo, our friend is dead!
Great prophet, kneel; and pray the God thou serv'st
To raise him from the dead.’

The man of God
Upon them fixed a sentence-speaking eye:
‘Yea! he is dead. In this ye have not lied:
Behold, this day shall Garban's covering be
The covering of the dead. Remove that cloth.’

Then drew they from his face the cloth; and lo!
Beneath it Garban lay, a corpse stone-cold.

Amazement fell upon that bandit throng,
Contemplating that corpse, and on Mac Kyle
Grief for his friend, remorse, and strong belief,
A threefold power: for she that at his birth,
Her brief life faithful to that Law she knew,
Had died, in region where desires are crowned
That hour was strong in prayer. ‘From God he came,’
Thus cried they; ‘and we worked a work accursed,
Tempting God's prophet.’ Patrick heard, and spake;
‘Not me ye tempted, but the God I serve.’
At last Mac Kyle made answer: ‘I have sinned;
I, and this people, whom I made to sin:
Now therefore to thy God we yield ourselves
Liegemen henceforth, his thralls as slave to Lord,
Or horse to master. That which thou command'st
That will we do.’ And Patrick said, ‘Believe;
Confess your sins; and be baptized to God,
The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit,
And live true life.’ Then Patrick where he stood
Above the dead, with hands uplifted preached
To these in anguish and in terror bowed
The tidings of great joy from Bethlehem's Crib

To Calvary's Cross. Sudden upon his knees,
Heart-pierced, as though he saw that Head thornpierced,
Fell that wild chief, and was baptized to God;
And, lifting up his great strong hands, while still
The waters streamed adown his matted locks,
He cried, ‘Alas, my master, and my sire!
I sinned a mighty sin; for in my heart
Fixed was my purpose, soon as thou hadst knelt,
To slay thee with my sword. Therefore judge thou
What eric I must pay to quit my sin?’
Him Patrick answered, ‘God shall be thy Judge:
Arise, and to the seaside flee, as one
That flies his foe. There shalt thou find a boat
Made of one hide: eat nought, and nothing take
Except one cloak alone: but in that boat
Sit thou, and bear the sin-mark on thy brow,
Facing the waves, oarless and rudderless;
And bind the boat chain thrice around thy feet,
And fling the key with strength into the main,
Far as thou canst: and wheresoe'er the breath
Of God shall waft thee, there till death abide
Working the Will Divine.’ Then spake that chief,
‘I, that commanded others, can obey;
Such lore alone is mine: but for this man
That sinned my sin, alas, to see him thus!’
To whom the Saint, ‘For him, when thou art gone,
My prayer shall rise. If God will raise the dead
He knows: not I.’

Then rose that chief, and rushed
Down to the shore, as one that flies his foe;
Nor ate, nor drank, nor spake to wife or child,
But loosed a little boat, of one hide made,
And sat therein, and round his ankles wound

The boat chain thrice; and flung the key far forth
Above the ridged sea foam. The Lord of all
Gave ordinance to the wind, and, as a leaf
Swift rushed that boat, oarless and rudderless,
Over the on-shouldering, broad-backed, glaucous wave
Slow-rising like the rising of a world,
And purple wastes beyond, with funeral plume
Crested, a pallid pomp. All night the chief
Under the roaring tempest heard the voice
That preached the Son of Man; and when the morn
Shone out, his coracle drew near the surge
Reboant on Manann's Isle. Not unbeheld
Rose it, and fell; not unregarded danced
A black spot on the inrolling ridge, then hung
Suspense upon the mile-long cataract
That, overtoppling, changed grass-green to light,
And drowned the shores in foam. Upon the sands
Two white-haired Elders in the salt air knelt,
Offering to God their early orisons,
Coninri and Romael. Sixty years
These two unto a hard and stubborn race
Had preached the Word; and gaining by their toil
But thirty souls, had daily prayed their God
To send ere yet they died some ampler arm,
And reap the ill-grown harvest of their youth.
Ten years they prayed, not doubting, and from God,
Who hastens not, this answer had received,
‘Ye shall not die until ye see his face.’
Therefore, each morning, peered they o'er the waves,
Long-watching. These through breakers dragged the man,
Their wished-for prize, half-frozen, and nigh to death,
And bare him to their cell, and warmed and fed him,
And heaped his couch with skins. Deep sleep he slept

Till evening lay upon the level sea
With roses strewn like bridal chamber's floor:
Within it one star shone. Rested, he woke
And sought the shore. From earth, and sea, and sky,
Then passed into his spirit the Spirit of Love:
And there he vowed his vow, fierce chief no more,
But soldier of the cross.

The weeks ran on,
And daily those grey Elders ministered
God's teaching to that chief, demanding still,
‘Son, understandst thou? Gird thee like a man
To clasp, and hold, the total Faith of Christ,
And give us leave to die.’ The months fled fast:
Ere violets bloomed, he knew the creed; and when
Far heathery hills purpled the autumnal air,
He sang the psalter whole. That tale he told
Had power, and Patrick's name. His strenous arm
Labouring with theirs, reaped harvest heavy and sound,
Till wondering gazed their wearied eyes on barns
Knee-deep in grain. At last an eve there fell,
When, on the shore in commune, with such might
Discoursed that pilgrim of the things of God,
Such insight calm, and wisdom reverence-born,
Each on the other gazing in their hearts
Received once more an answer from the Lord,
‘Now is your task completed: ye shall die.’

Then on the red sand knelt those Elders twain
With hands upraised, and all their hoary hair
Tinged like the foam-wreaths by that setting sun,
And sang their ‘Nunc Dimittis.’ At its close
High on the sandhills, 'mid the tall hard grass
That sighed eternal o'er the unbounded waste

With ceaseless yearnings like their own for death
They found the place where first, that bark descried,
Their sighs were changed to songs. That spot they marked,
And said, ‘Our resurrection place is here:’
And, on the third day dying, in that place
The man who loved them laid them, at their heads
Planting one cross because their hearts were one
And one their lives. The snowy-breasted bird
Of ocean o'er their undivided graves
Oft flew with wailing note; but they rejoiced
'Mid God's high realm glittering in endless youth.

These two with Christ, on him, their son in Christ,
Their mantle fell; and strength to him was given.
Long time he toiled alone; then round him flocked
Helpers from far. At last, by voice of all
He gat the Island's great episcopate,
And king-like ruled the region. This is he,
Mac Kyle of Uladh, bishop, and Penitent,
Saint Patrick's missioner in Manann's Isle,
Sinner one time, and, after sinner, Saint
World-famous. May his prayer for sinners plead!

The Isle of Man.

University of Virginia Library

SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR;

OR, MAC KYLE OF MAN.

ARGUMENT.