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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
401
SAINT COLUMBA'S STORK.
A MINSTREL SONG.
Columba raised in wrath a war;
Heart-stricken then for penance prayed:
‘See thou thy native land no more:’—
The Hermit spake: the Saint obeyed.
Heart-stricken then for penance prayed:
‘See thou thy native land no more:’—
The Hermit spake: the Saint obeyed.
He sailed: he reached an island green:
Alone he clomb its grassy steep:
Though dimly, Eire could still be seen:
Once more he launched into the deep.
Alone he clomb its grassy steep:
Though dimly, Eire could still be seen:
Once more he launched into the deep.
Iona's soil at last he trod.
There, there once more, they say he mixed
His hymns of Eire with hymns of God
Standing with dim eyes southward fixed.
There, there once more, they say he mixed
His hymns of Eire with hymns of God
Standing with dim eyes southward fixed.
Three years went by. One stormy morn
He grasped a Monk that near him stood:
‘Go down to yonder beach forlorn
O'er which the northward sea-mists scud.
He grasped a Monk that near him stood:
‘Go down to yonder beach forlorn
O'er which the northward sea-mists scud.
‘There, bleeding thou shalt find ere long
A Stork from Eire that loves her well
Sore wounded by the tempest's wrong:
Uplift and bear her to thy cell.
A Stork from Eire that loves her well
Sore wounded by the tempest's wrong:
Uplift and bear her to thy cell.
‘Three days that Stork shall be thy guest:
The fourth o'er yonder raging main
The exile, strong through food and rest,
Will seek her native Eire again.’
The fourth o'er yonder raging main
The exile, strong through food and rest,
Will seek her native Eire again.’
402
The Monk obeyed: that Stork he found
And fed, three days. Those three days o'er
The exile, soaring, gazed around,
Then winged her to her native shore.
And fed, three days. Those three days o'er
The exile, soaring, gazed around,
Then winged her to her native shore.
The Harper ended. Loud and shrill
They raised their shout, and praised that Stork,
And praised the Saint that, exiled, still
Could sing for Eire; for God could work.
They raised their shout, and praised that Stork,
And praised the Saint that, exiled, still
Could sing for Eire; for God could work.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |