The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Saint Patrick repairs to Ardmacha, there to found the chief church of Erin. For that purpose he demands of Dairè, the king, a certain woody hill. The king refuses it, and afterwards treats him with alternate scorn and reverence; while the Saint, in each event alike, makes the same answer, ‘Deo Gratias.’ At last the king concedes to him the hill; and on the summit of it Saint Patrick finds a little white fawn asleep. The men of Erin would have slain that fawn; but the Saint carries it on his shoulder, and restores it to its dam. Where the fawn lay, he places the altar of his cathedral.

At Cluain Cain, in Ross,

Carrickmacross in the south of the county Monaghan.

unbent yet old,
Dwelt Patrick long. Its sweet and flowery sward
He to the rock had delved, with fixed resolve
To build thereon Christ's chiefest church in Eire.
Then by him stood God's angel, speaking thus:
‘Not here, but northward.’ He replied, ‘O, would
This spot might favour find with God! Behold!
Fair is it, and as meet to clasp a church
As is a true heart in a virgin breast
To clasp the Faith of Christ. The hinds around
Name it “the beauteous meadow.”’ ‘Fair it is,’
The angel answered, ‘nor shall lack its crown.
Another's is its beauty. Here, one day
A pilgrim from the Britons sent shall build,
And, later, what he builds shall pass to thine;
But thou to Macha get thee.’

Patrick then,

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Obedient as that Patriarch Sire who faced
At God's command the desert, northward went
In holy silence. Soon to him was lost
That green and purple meadow-sea, embayed
'Twixt two descending woody promontories,
Its outlet girt with isles of rock, its shores
Cream-white with meadow-sweet. Not once he turned,
Climbing the uplands rough, or crossing streams
Swoll'n by the melted snows. The Brethren paced
Behind; Benignus first, his psalmist; next
Secknall, his bishop; next his brehon Erc;
Mochta, his priest; and Sinell of the Bells;
Rodan, his shepherd; Essa, Bite, and Tassach,
Workers of might in iron and in stone,
God-taught to build the churches of the Faith
With wisdom and with heart-delighting craft;
Mac Cairthen last, the giant meek that oft
On shoulders broad bare Patrick through the floods:
His rest was nigh. That hour they crossed a stream;
'Twas deep, and 'neath his load, the giant sighed.
Saint Patrick said, ‘Thou wert not wont to sigh!’
He answered, ‘Old I grow. Of them my mates
How many hast thou left in churches housed
Wherein they rule and rest!’ The Saint replied,
‘Thee also will I leave within a church
For rule and rest; not to mine own too near,
For rarely then should we be seen apart,
Nor yet remote, lest we should meet no more.’
At Clochar soon he placed him. There, long years
Mac Cairthen sat, its bishop.

As they went,
Oft through the woodlands rang the battle-shout;
And twice there rose above the distant hill
The smoke of hamlet fired. Yet, none the less,

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Spring-touched, the blackbird sang; the cowslip changed
Green lawn to green and golden; and grey rock
And river's marge with primroses were starred;
Here shook the windflower; there the blue-bells gleamed,
As though a patch of sky had fallen on earth.

Then to Benignus spake the Saint: ‘My son,
If grief were lawful in a world redeemed
The blood-stains on a land so strong in faith,
So slack in love, might cloud the holiest brow,
Yea, his whose head lay on the breast of Christ.
Clan wars with clan: no injury is forgiven;
Like to the joy in stag-hunts is the war:
Alas! for such what hope!’ Benignus answered,
‘O Father, cease not for this race to hope,
Lest they should hope no longer! Hope they have;
Still say they, “God will snare us in the end
Though wild.”’ And Patrick, ‘Spirits twain are theirs:
The stranger, and the poor, at every door
They meet, and bid him in. The youngest child
Officious is in service; maids prepare
The bath; men brim the wine-cup. Then, forth borne,
Cities they fire and rich in spoil depart,
Greed mixed with rage—an industry of blood!’
He spake, and thus the younger made reply:
‘Father, the stranger is the brother-man
To them; the poor is neighbour. Septs remote
To them are alien worlds. They know not yet
That rival clans are men.’

‘That know they shall,’

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Patrick made answer, ‘when a race far off
Tramples their race to clay! God sends abroad
His plague of war that men on earth may know
Brother from foe, and anguish work remorse.’
He spake, and after musings added thus:
‘Base of God's kingdom is Humility—
I have not spared to thunder o'er their pride;
Great kings have I rebuked and signs sent forth,
And banned for their sake fruitful plain, and bay;
Yet still the widow's cry is on the air,
The orphan's wail!’ Benignus answered mild,
‘O Father, not alone with sign and ban
Hast thou rebuked their madness. Oftener far
Thy sweetness hath reproved them. Once in woods
Northward of Tara as we tracked our way
Round us there gathered slaves who felled the pines
For ship-masts. Scarred their hands, and red with blood,
Because their master, Trian, thus had sworn,
“Let no man sharpen axe!” Upon those hands
Gazing, they wept soon as thy voice they heard,
Because that voice was soft. Thou heard'st their tale;
Straight to that chieftain's castle went'st thou up,
And bound'st him with thy fast, beside his gate
Sitting in silence till his heart should melt;
And since he willed it not to melt, he died.
Then, in her arms two babes, came forth the queen
Black-robed, and freed her slaves, and gave them hire;
And, we returning after many years,
Filled was that wood with homesteads; plots of corn
Rustled around them; here were orchards; there
In trench or tank they steeped the bright blue flax;
The saw-mill turned to use the wanton brook;
Murmured the bee-hive; murmured household wheel;

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Soft eyes looked o'er it through the dusk; at work
The labourers carolled; matrons glad and maids
Bare us the pail head-steadied, children flowers:
Last, from her castle paced the queen, and led
In either hand her sons whom thou hadst blest,
Thenceforth to stand thy priests. The land believed;
And not through ban, or word, sharp-edged or soft,
But silence and thy fast the ill custom died.’

He answered, ‘Christ, in Christian life expressed,
This, this, not words, subdues a land to Christ;
And in this best Apostolate all have part.
Ah me! that flower thou hold'st is strong to preach
Creative Love, because itself is lovely;
But we, the heralds of Redeeming Love,
Because we are unlovely in our lives,
Preach to deaf ears! Yet theirs, theirs too, the sin.’
Benignus made reply: ‘The race is old;
Not less their hearts are young. Have patience with them!
For see, in spring the grave old oaks push forth
Impatient sprays, wine-red: their strength matured,
These sober down to verdure.’ Patrick paused,
Then, brooding, spake, as one who thinks, not speaks:
‘A priest there walked with me ten years and more;
Warrior in youth was he. One day we heard
The shock of warring clans—I hear it still:
Within him, as in darkening vase you note
The ascending wine, I watched the passion mount:—
Sudden he dashed him down into the fight,
Nor e'er to Christ returned.’ Benignus answered:
‘I saw above a dusty forest roof
The glad spring run, leaving a track sea-green:

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Not straight she ran; and yet she reached her goal:
Later I saw above green copse of thorn
The glad spring run, leaving a track foam-white:
Not straight she ran; yet soon she conquered all!
O Father, is it sinful to be glad
Here amid sin and sorrow? Joy is strong,
Strongest in spring-tide! Mourners I have known
That, homeward wending from the new-dug grave,
Against their will, where sang the happy birds
Have felt the aggressive gladness stir their hearts,
And smiled amid their tears.’ So babbled he,
Shamed at his spring-tide raptures.

As they went,
Far on their left there stretched a mighty land
Of forest-girdled hills, mother of streams:
Beyond it sank the day; while round the west
Like giants thronged the great cloud-phantoms towered.
Advancing, din they heard, and found in woods
A hamlet and a field by war unscathed,
And boys on all sides running. Placid sat
The village Elders; neither lacked that hour
The harp that gently tranquillises age,
Yet wakes young hearts with musical unrest,
Forerunner oft of love's unrest. Ere long
The measure changed to livelier: maid with maid
Danced 'mid the dancing shadows of the trees,
And youth with youth; till now, the strangers near,
Those Elders welcomed them with act benign;
And soon was slain the fatted kid, and soon
The lamb; nor any asked till hunger's rage
Was quelled, ‘Who art thou?’ Patrick made reply,
‘A Priest of God.’ Then prayed they, ‘Offer thou
To Him our sacrifice! Belike 'tis He

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Who saves from war this hamlet hid in woods:
Unblest be he who finds it!’ Thus they spake,
The matrons, not the youths. In friendly talk
The hours went by with laughter winged and tale;
But when the moon, on rolling through the heavens,
Showered through the leaves a dew of sprinkled light
O'er the dark ground, the maidens garments brought
Woven in their quiet homes when nights were long,
Red cloak and kirtle green, and laid them soft,
Still with the wearers' blameless beauty warm,
For coverlet upon the warm dry grass,
Honouring the stranger guests. For these they deemed
Their low-roofed cots too mean. Glad-hearted rose
The Christian hymn, not timid: far it rang
Above the woods. Ere long, their blissful rites
Fulfilled, the wanderers laid them down and slept.

At midnight by the side of Patrick stood
Victor, God's Angel, saying, ‘Lo! thy work
Hath favour found and thou ere long shalt die:
Thus therefore saith the Lord, “So long as sea
Girdeth this isle, so long thy name shall hang
In splendour o'er it, like the stars of God.”’
Then Patrick said, ‘A boon! I crave a boon!’
The angel answered, ‘Speak;’ and Patrick said,
‘Let them that with me toiled, or in the years
To come shall toil, building o'er all this land
The Fortress-Temple and great House of Christ,
Equalled with me my name in Erin share.’
And Victor answered, ‘Half thy prayer is thine;
With thee shall they partake. Not less, thy name
Higher than theirs shall rise, and wider spread,
Since thus more plainly shall His glory shine
Whose glory is His justice.’

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With the morn
Those pilgrims rose, and, prime entoned and lauds,
Poured out their blessing on that woodland clan
Which, round them pressing, kissed them, robe and knee;
Then on they journeyed till at set of sun
Shone out the roofs of Macha, and that tower
Where Dairè dwelt, its lord.

Saint Patrick sent
To Dairè embassage, vouchsafing prayer
As sire might pray of son; ‘Give thou yon hill
To Christ, that we may build His church thereon.’
And Dairè answered with a brow of storms
Bent forward darkly, and long, sneering lips,
‘Your master is a mighty man, we know.
Garban, that lied to God, he slew through prayer,
And banned full many a lake, and many a plain,
For trespass there committed! Let it be!
A Chief of souls he is! No signs we work,
Rulers earth-born: yet somewhat are we here—
Depart! By others answer we will send.’

So Dairè sent to Patrick men of might,
Fierce men, the battle's nurslings. Thus they spake:
‘High region for high heads! If build ye must,
Build on the plain: the hill is Dairè's. Hence!
Church site he grants you, and the field around.’
And Patrick, glancing from his Office Book,
Made answer, ‘Deo Gratias,’ and no more.

Upon that plain he built a little church
Ere long, a convent likewise, girt with mound
Banked from the meadow loam, and deftly set
With stone, and fence, and woody palisade,

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That neither warring clans, far heard by day,
Might hurt his cloistered charge, nor wolves by night,
Howling in woods; and there he served the Lord.

But Dairè scorned the Saint, and grudged his gift,
Though small; and half in spleen, and half in greed,
Sent down two stately coursers all night long
To graze the deep sweet pasture round the church:
Ill deed:—and so, for guerdon of that sin,
Dead lay the coursers twain at the break of dawn.

Then fled the servants back, and told their lord,
Fearing for negligence rebuke and scath,
‘Thy Christian slew the coursers!’ and the king
Gave word to slay or bind him. But from God
A sickness fell on Dairè nigh to death
That day and night. When morning brake, the queen,
A woman leal with kind barbaric heart,
Her bosom from the sick man's head withdrew
A moment while he slept; and, round her gazing,
Closed with both hands upon a liegeman's arm,
And sped him to the Saint for pardon and peace.
Then Patrick, dipping in the inviolate fount
A chalice, blessed the water, with command
‘Sprinkle the stately coursers and the king;’
And straightway as from death the king arose,
And rose from death the coursers.

Dairè then,
His tall frame boastful with that life renewed,
Took with him men, and down the stone-paved hill
Rode from his tower, and through the woodlands green,
And bare with him an offering of those days,
A brazen cauldron vast. Embossed it shone
With sculptured shapes. On one side hunters rode:

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Low stretched their steeds: the dogs pulled down the stag
Unseen, except the branching horns that rose
Like hands in protest. Feasters, on the other,
Raised high the cup pledging the safe return.
This offering Dairè brought, and, entering, spake:
‘A gift for guerdon and for grace, O Priest!’
And Patrick, upward glancing from his book,
Made answer, ‘Deo Gratias!’ and no more.

King Dairè, homeward riding with knit brow
Muttered, ‘Churl's welcome for a kingly boon!’
And, drinking late that night the stormy breath
Of others' anger blent with his, commanded,
‘Ride forth at morn and bring me back my gift!
Spurn it he shall not, though he prize it not.’
They heard him, and obeyed. At noon the king
Demanded thus, ‘What answer made the Saint?’
They said, ‘His eyes he raised not from his book,
But answered, “Deo Gratias!” and no more.’

Then Dairè stamped his foot, like war-horse stung
By gadfly: musing next, and mute he sat
A space, and lastly roared great laughter peals
Till roared in mockery back the raftered roof,
And clashed his hands together shouting thus:
‘A gift, and “Deo Gratias!”—gift withdrawn,
And “Deo Gratias!” Sooth, the word is good!
Madman is this, or man of God? We'll know!’
So from his frowning fortress once again
Adown the resonant road o'er street and bridge
Rode Dairè, at his right the queen in fear,
With dumbly pleading countenance; close behind,
With tangled locks and loose-hung battle-axe

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Ran the wild kerne; and loud the bull-horn blew.
The convent reached, King Dairè from his horse
Flung his great limbs, and at the doorway towered
In gazing stern: the queen beside him stood,
Her lustrous violet eyes all lost in tears:
One hand on Dairè's garment lay like light
Wandering on dusky ripple; one, upraised,
Held in the high-necked horse that champed the bit,
His head near hers. Within, the man of God,
Sole-sitting, read his office book unmoved,
And ending fixed his keen eye on the king,
Not rising from his seat.

Then fell from God
Insight on Dairè, and aloud he cried,
‘A kingly man, of mind unmovable
Art thou; and as the rock beneath my tower
Shakes not in storm so shakes not heart of thine:
Such men are of the height and not the plain:
Therefore that hill to thee I grant unsought
Which whilome I refused. Possession take
This day, lest hostile demon warp my mood;
And build thereon thy church. The same shall stand
Strong mother-church of all thy great clan Christ!’

Thus Dairè spake ; and Patrick, at his word
Rising, gave thanks to God, and to the king
High blessing heard in heaven; and making sign
Went forth, attended by his priestly train,
Benignus first, his dearest, then the rest.
In circuit thrice they girt that hill, and sang
Anthem first heard when unto God was vowed
That House which David offered in his heart,
His son in act, and hymn of holy Church
Hailing that City like a bride attired,

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From heaven to earth descending. With them sang
An angel choir above them borne. The birds
Forbore their songs, listening that angel strain,
Ethereal music and by men unheard
Except the Elect. The king in reverence paced
Behind, his liegemen next, a mass confused
With saffron standard gay and spears upheld
Flashing through thickets green. These kept not line,
For Alp was still recounting battles old,
Aodh of wizards sang, and Ir of love;
While bald-pate Conan, sharpening from his eye
The sneering light, shot from his plastic mouth
Shrill taunt and biting gibe. The younger sort
Eyed the dense copse and launched full many a shaft
Through it at flying beast. From ledge to ledge
Clomb Angus, keen of sight, with hand o'er brow,
Forth gazing on some far blue ridge of war
With nostril wide outblown, and snorting cried,
‘Would I were there!’

Meantime, the man of God
Had reached the fair crown of that sacred hill,
A circle girt with woodland branching low,
And roofed with heaven. Beyond its tonsure fringe,
Birch trees and oaks, there pushed a thorn milkwhite,
And close beside it slept in shade a fawn
Whiter. The startled dam had left its side,
And through the dark stems fled like flying gleam.
Minded they were, the kernes, to kill that fawn,
And all the priests stood silent; but the Saint
Put forth his hand, and o'er her signed the Cross,
And, stooping, on his shoulder placed her firm,
And bade the brethren mark with stones her lair
Dewless and dusk: then, singing as he went

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‘Like as the hart desires the water brooks,’
He walked, that hill descending. Light from God
O'ershone his face. Meantime the awakened fawn
Now rolled her dark eye on the silver head
Close by, now turning licked the wrinkled hand,
Unfearing. Soon, with little whimpering sob,
The doe drew near and paced at Patrick's side.
At last they reached a little field low down
Beneath that hill: there Patrick laid the fawn.

King Dairè questioned Patrick of that deed,
Incensed; and scornful asked, ‘Shall mitred man
Play thus the shepherd and the forester?’
And Patrick answered, ‘Aged men, O king,
Forget their reasons oft. Benignus seek,
If haply God has shown him for what cause
I wrought this thing.’ Then Dairè turned him back
And faced Benignus; and with lifted hand,
Pure as a maid's, and dimpled like a child's,
Picturing his thoughts on air, the little monk
Thus glossed that deed. ‘Great mystery, king, is Love:
Poets its worthiness have sung in lays
Unread by ruder ones like me; and yet
Thus much the simplest and the rudest know,
Dear is the fawn to her that gave it birth,
And to the sceptred monarch dear the child
That mounts his knee. Nor here the marvel ends;
For, like yon star, the great Paternal Heart
Through all the unmeted, unimagined years,
While yet Creation uncreated hung,
A thought, a dawn-streak on the verge extreme
Of lonely Godhead's inner Universe,
Panted and pants with splendour of its love,

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The Eternal Sire rejoicing in the Son
And Both in Him Who still from Both proceeds,
Bond of their love. Moreover, king, that Son
Who, Virgin-born, raised from the ruinous gulf
Our world, and made it footstool to God's throne,
The same is Love, and died for Love, and reigns:
Loveless, His Church were but a corse stone-cold;
Loveless, her creed were but a winter leaf
Network of barren thoughts, the cerement wan
Of Faith extinct. Therefore our Saint revered
The love and anguish of that mother doe,
And inly vowed that where her offspring couched
Christ's chiefest church should stand, from age to age
Confession plain 'mid raging of the clans
That God is Love;—His worship void and vain
Disjoined from Love that, rising to the heights
Even to the depths descends.’

Conversing thus,
Macha they reached. Ere long where lay the fawn
Stood God's new altar; and, ere many years,
Far o'er the woodlands rose the church high-towered,
Preaching God's peace to still a troubled world.
The Saint who built it found not there his grave
Though wished for; him God buried otherwhere,
Fulfilling thus the counsels of His Will:
But old, and grey, when many a winter's frost
To spring had yielded, bent by wounds and woes
Upon that church's altar looked once more
King Dairè; at its font was joined to Christ;
And, midway 'twixt that altar and that font,
Rejoined his beauteous mate a later day.

University of Virginia Library

SAINT PATRICK AND THE FOUNDING OF ARMAGH CATHEDRAL.

ARGUMENT.