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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
SAINT BRIGID OF THE LEGENDS.
A BARD SONG.
A soft child-saint she lit the shade
With brightness more than human:
Her little hand was soft, they said,
As any breast of woman.
With brightness more than human:
Her little hand was soft, they said,
As any breast of woman.
147
Through ways bemired to haunts of woe
She sped, nor hindrance heeded:
Yet still her foot retained its snow;
No stream her white robe needed.
She sped, nor hindrance heeded:
Yet still her foot retained its snow;
No stream her white robe needed.
It chanced one eve she moved, foot-bare,
Among the kine sweet-breathing,
With boughs the insect tribe to scare
Their hornèd foreheads wreathing.
Among the kine sweet-breathing,
With boughs the insect tribe to scare
Their hornèd foreheads wreathing.
Slowly on her their dark eyes grave
They rolled in sleepy pleasure
Like things by music charmed, and gave
Their milk in twofold measure.
They rolled in sleepy pleasure
Like things by music charmed, and gave
Their milk in twofold measure.
That hour there passed a beggar clan
Through sultry fields on faring:
‘Come drink,’ she cried, ‘from pail and pan!’
That small hand was unsparing.
Through sultry fields on faring:
‘Come drink,’ she cried, ‘from pail and pan!’
That small hand was unsparing.
In wrath her Mother near them drew:
Those pails that late held nothing,
Like fountains tapped foamed up anew
And buzzed with milk-floods frothing!
Those pails that late held nothing,
Like fountains tapped foamed up anew
And buzzed with milk-floods frothing!
O Saint, the favourite of the poor,
The afflicted, weak, and weary!
Like Mary's was that face she bore:
Men called her ‘Erin's Mary.’
The afflicted, weak, and weary!
Like Mary's was that face she bore:
Men called her ‘Erin's Mary.’
In triple vision God to her
Revealed her country's story:
She saw the cloud its greatness blur
She saw, beyond, its glory!
Revealed her country's story:
She saw the cloud its greatness blur
She saw, beyond, its glory!
148
Kildare of Oaks! thy quenchless Faith,
Her gift it was: she taught it!
The shroud Saint Patrick wore in death,
'Twas she, 'twas she that wrought it!
Her gift it was: she taught it!
The shroud Saint Patrick wore in death,
'Twas she, 'twas she that wrought it!
Thus sang they on the sunburnt land
Among the stacks of barley;
And singing, smiled, by breezes fanned
From Erin's dream-land early.
Among the stacks of barley;
And singing, smiled, by breezes fanned
From Erin's dream-land early.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |