The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Secknall, the poet, brings, in sport, three heavy charges against Saint Patrick, who, supposing them to be serious, defends himself against them. Lastly Secknall sings a hymn written in praise of a Saint. Saint Patrick commends it, affirming that for once Fame has dispensed her honours honestly. Upon this, Secknall recites the first stave, till then craftily reserved, which offers the whole homage of that hymn to Patrick, who, though the humblest of men, has thus arrogated to himself the saintly Crown. There is laughter among the brethren.

When Patrick now was old and nigh to death
Undimmed was still his eye; his tread was strong;
And there was ever laughter in his heart,
And music in his laughter. In a wood
Nigh to Ardmacha dwelt he with his monks;
And there, like birds that cannot stay their songs
Love-touched in Spring, or grateful for their nests,
They to the woodsmen preached of Christ, their King,
To swineherds, and to hinds that tended sheep,
Yea, and to pilgrim guests from distant clans;
His shepherd-worshipped birth when breath of kine
Went o'er the Infant; all His wondrous works
Or words from mount, or field, or anchored boat,
And Christendom upreared for weal of men
And Angel-wonder. Daily preached the monks
And daily built their convent. Wildly sweet

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The season, prime of unripe spring, when March
Distils from cup half gelid yet some drops
Of finer relish than the hand of May
Pours from her full-brimmed beaker. Frost, though gone,
Had left its glad vibration on the air;
Laughed the blue heavens as though they ne'er had frowned,
Through leafless oak-boughs; limes of kindlier grace
And swifter to believe Spring's ‘tidings good’
Took the sweet lights upon a breast bud-swoll'n,
And crimson as the redbreast's; while, as when
Clear rings a flute-note through sea-murmurs harsh,
At intervals ran out a streak of green
Across the dim-hued forest.

From their wood
The strong arms of the monks had hewn them space
For all their convent needed; farmyard stored
With stacks that all the winter long had clutched
Their hoarded harvest sunshine; pasture green
Whitened with sheep; fair garden fenceless still
With household herbs new-sprouting; but, as oft
Some conquered race, forth sallying in its spleen
When serves the occasion, wins a province back,
Or flouts at least the foe, so here once more
Wild flowers, a clan unvanquished, raised their heads
'Mid sprouting wheat; and where from craggy height
Pushed the grey ledge, the woodland host recoiled
As though in Parthian flight; while many a bird,
Barbaric from the inviolate forest launched
Wild-warbled scorn on all that life reclaimed,
Mute garth—still orchard. Child of distant hills,
A proud stream, swollen by midnight rains, down leaped

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From rock to rock. It spurned the precinct new
With airy dews silvering the bramble green
And redd'ning more the beech-stock.

'Twas the hour
Of rest, and every monk was glad at heart,
For each had wrought with might. With hands upheld,
Mochta, the priest, had thundered against sin,
Wrath-roused, as when some prince too late returned
Stares at his sea-side village all in flames,
The slave-thronged ship escaped. The bishop, Erc,
Had reconciled old feuds by Brehon Law
Where Brehon Law was lawful. Boys wild-eyed
Had from Benignus learned the church's song,
Boys brightened now, yet tempered, by that age
Gracious to stripling as to maid, that brings
Valour to one and modesty to both
Where youth is loyal to the Virgin-born.
The giant meek, Mac Cairthen, on bent neck
Had carried beam on beam, while Criemther felled
The oaks, and from the anvil Laeban dashed
The sparks in showers. A little way removed,
Beneath a pine three vestals sat close-veiled:
A song these childless sang of Bethlehem's Child,
Low-toned, and worked their Altar-cloth, a Lamb
All white on golden blazon; near it bled
The bird that with her own blood feeds her young:
Red drops affused her holy breast. These three
Were daughters of three kings. The best and fairest,
King Dairè's daughter, Erenait by name,
Had loved Benignus in her Pagan years.
He knew it not: full sweet to her his voice
Chaunting in choir. One day through grief of love
The maiden lay as dead: Benignus shook

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Dews from the font above her, and she woke
With heart emancipate that outsoared the lark
Lost in blue heavens. She loved the Spouse of Souls.
It was as though some child that, dreaming, wept
Its childish playthings lost, awaked by bells,
Bride-bells, had found herself a queen new wed
Unto her country's lord.

While monk with monk
Conversed, the son of Patrick's sister sat,
Secknall by name, beside the window sole
And marked where Patrick from his hill of prayer
Approached, descending slowly. At the sight
He, maker blithe of songs, and wild as hawk
Albeit a Saint, whose wont it was at times
Or shy, or strange, or shunning flattery's taint,
To attempt with mockery those whom most he loved,
Whispered a brother, ‘Speak to Patrick thus:
“When all men praised thee, Secknall made reply,
‘A blessed man were Patrick save for this,
Alms deeds he preaches not.’”’ The brother went:
Ere long among them entered Patrick, wroth,
Or, likelier, feigning wrath:—‘What man is he
Who saith I preach not alms deeds?’ Secknall rose:
‘I said it, Father, and the charge is true.’
Then Patrick answered, ‘Out of Charity
I preach not Charity. This people, won
To Christ, ere long will prove a race of Saints;
To give will be its passion, not to gain:
Its heart is generous; but its hand is slack
In all save war: herein there lurks a snare:
The priest will fatten, and the beggar feast:
But the lean land will yield nor chief nor prince
Hire of two horses yoked to chariot beam.’
Then Secknall spake, ‘O Father, dead it lies

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Mine earlier charge against thee. Hear my next,
Since in our Order's equal Brotherhood
Censure uncensured is the right of all.
You press to the earth your converts! gold you spurn;
Yet bind upon them heavier load than when
Conqueror his captive tasks. Have shepherds three
Bowed them to Christ? “Build up a church,” you cry;
So one must draw the sand, and one the stone
And one the lime. Honouring the seven great Gifts
You raise in one small valley churches seven.
Who serveth you fares hard!’ The Saint replied,
‘Second as first! I came not to this land
To crave scant service, nor with shallow plough
Cleave I this glebe. The priest that soweth much,
For here the land is fruitful, much shall reap:
Who soweth little nought but weeds shall bind
And poppies of oblivion.’ Secknall next:
‘Yet man to man will whisper, and the face
Of all this people darken like a sea
When pipes the coming storm.’ He answered, ‘Son,
I know this people better. Fierce they are
In anger; neither flies their thought direct;
For some, though true to Nature, lie to men,
And others, true to men, are false to God:
Yet as the prince's is the poor man's heart;
Burthen for God sustained no burden is
To him; and those who most have given to Christ
Largeliest His fulness share.’

Secknall replied,
‘Low lies my second charge; a third remains,
Which, as a shaft from seasoned bow, not green,
Shall pierce the mark. With convents still you sow

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The land: in other countries sparse and small
They swell to cities here. A hundred monks
On one late barren mountain dig and pray:
A hundred nuns gladden one woodland lawn,
Or sing in one small island. Well—'tis well!
Yet, balance lost and measure, nought is well.
The Angelic Life more common will become
Than life of mortal men.’ The Saint replied,
‘No shaft from homicidal yew-tree bow
Is thine, but winged of thistle-down! Now hear!
Measure is good; but measure's law with scale
Changeth; nor doth the part reflect the whole.
Each nation hath its gift, and each to all
Not equal ministers. If all were eye,
Where then were ear? If all were ear or hand,
Where then were eye? The nation is the part;
The Church the whole’—But Criemther where he stood,
Old warrior, shouted like a chief war-waked,
‘This land is Eire! No nation lives like her!
A part! Who portions Eire?’ The Saint, with smile
Resumed: ‘The whole that from the part receives,
Repaying still that part, till man's whole race
Grow to the fulness of Mankind redeemed.
What gift hath God in eminence given to Eire?
Singly, her race is feeble; strong when knit:
Nought knits them truly save a heavenly aim.
I knit them as an army unto God,
Give them God's War! Yon star is militant!
Its splendour 'gainst the dark must fight or die:
So wars that Faith I preach against the world;
And nations fitted least for this world's gain
Can speed Faith's triumph best. Three hundred years,

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Well used, should make of Eire a northern Rome.
Criemther! her destiny is this, or nought;
Secknall! the highest only can she reach;
Alone the Apostle's crown is hers: for this,
A Rule I give her, strong, yet strong in Love;
Monastic households build I far and wide;
Monastic clans I plant among her clans,
With abbots for their chiefs. The same shall live,
Long as God's love o'errules them.’

Secknall then
Knelt, reverent; yet his eye had in it mirth,
And round the full bloom of the red rich mouth,
No whit ascetic, ran a dim half smile.
‘Father, my charges three have futile fallen,
And thrice, like some great warrior of the bards,
Your conquering wheels above me you have driven.
Brought low, I make confession. Once, in woods
Wandering, we heard a sound, now loud, now low,
As he that treads the sand-hills hears the sea
High murmuring while he climbs the seaward slope,
Low, as he drops to landward. 'Twas a throng
Awed, yet tumultuous, wild-eyed, wondering, fierce,
That, standing round a harper, stave on stave
Acclaimed as each had ending. “War, still war!”
Thou saidst; “the bards but sing of War and Death!
Ah! if they sang that Death which conquered Death,
Then, like a tide, this people, music-drawn,
Would mount the shores of Christ! Bards love not us,
Prescient that power, that power wielded elsewhere
By priest, but here by them, shall pass to us:
Yet we love them for good one day their gift.”
Then didst thou turn on me an eye of might
Such as on Malach, when thou bad'st him raise

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By miracle of prayer that babe boar-slain,
And said'st, “Go, fell thy pine, and frame thy harp,
And in the hearing of this people sing
Some Saint, the friend of Christ.” Too long the attempt
Shame-faced, I shunned; at last, like him of old,
That better brother who refused, yet went,
I made my hymn. 'Tis called “A Child of Life.”’
Then Patrick, ‘Welcome is the praise of Saints:
Sing thou thy hymn.’

From kneeling Secknall rose
And stood, and singing, raised his hand as when
Her cymbal by the Red Sea Miriam raised
While silent stood God's hosts, and silent lay
Those host-entombing waters. Shook, like hers,
His slight form wavering 'mid the gusts of song.
He sang the Saint of God, create from nought
To work God's Will. As others gaze on earth,
Her vales, her plains, her green meads ocean-girt,
So gazed the Saint for ever upon God
Who girds all worlds—saw intermediate nought—
And on Him watched the sunshine and the storm,
And learned His Countenance, and from It alone
Drew in upon his heart its day and night.
That contemplation was for him no dream:
It hurled him on his mission. As a sword
He lodged his soul within the Hand Divine
And wrought, keen-edged, God's counsel. Next to God,
Next, and how near, he loved the souls of men:
Yea, men to him were Souls; the unspiritual herd
He saw as magic-bound, or chained to beast,
And groaned to free them. For their sakes, unfearing
He faced the ravening waves, and iron rocks,

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Hunger, and poniard's edge, and poisoned cup,
And faced the face of kings, and faced the host
Of demons raging for their realm o'erthrown.
This was the Man of Love. Self-love cast out,
The love made spiritual of a thousand hearts
Met in his single heart, and kindled there
A sun-like image of Love Divine. Within
That Spirit-shadowed heart was Christ conceived
Hourly through Faith, hourly through Love was born;
Sole secret this of fruitfulness to Christ.
Who heard him heard with his a lordlier Voice,
Strong as that Voice which said, ‘Let there be light,’
And light o'erflowed their beings. He from each
His secret won; to each God's secret told:
He touched them, and they lived. In each, the flesh
Subdued to soul, the affections, vassals proud
By conscience ruled, and conscience lit by Christ,
The whole man stood, planet full-orbed of powers
In equipoise, Image restored of God.
A nation of such men his portion was;
That nation's Patriarch he. No wrangler loud;
No sophist; lesser victories knew he none:
No triumph his of sect, or camp, or court;
The Saint his great soul flung upon the world,
And took the people with him like a wind
Missioned from God that with it wafts in spring
Some wingèd race, a multitudinous night,
Into new sun-bright climes.

As Secknall sang,
Nearer the Brethren drew. On Patrick's right
Benignus stood; old Mochta on his left,
Slow-eyed, with solemn smile and sweet; next Erc,
Whose ever-listening countenance that hour
Beyond its wont was listening; Criemther near,

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The workman Saint, his many-wounded hands
Together clasped: forward each mighty arm
On shoulders propped of Essa and of Bite,
Leaned the meek giant Cairthen: twelve in all
Clustering they stood and in them was one soul.
When Secknall ceased, in silence still they hung
Each upon each, glad-hearted since the meed
Of all their toils shone out before them plain,
Gold gates of heaven—a nation entering in.
A light was on their faces, and without
Spread a great light, for sunset now had fallen
A Pentecostal fire upon the woods,
Or else a rain of angels streamed o'er earth.
In marvel gazed the twelve: yea, clans far off
Stared from their hills, deeming the site aflame.
That glory passed away, discourse arose
On Secknall's hymn. Its radiance from his face
Had, like the sunset's, vanished as he spake:
‘Father, what sayst thou?’ Patrick made reply,
‘My son, the hymn is good; for Truth is good;
And Fame, obsequious often to base heads,
For once is loyal, and its crown hath laid
Where honour's debt was due.’ Then Secknall raised
In triumph both his hands, and chaunted loud
That hymn's first stave, earlier through craft withheld,
Stave that to Patrick's name, and his alone,
Offered that hymn's whole incense! Ceasing, he stood
Low-bowed, with hands upon his bosom crossed.
Great laughter from the Brethren came, their Chief
Thus trapped, though late—he meekest man of men—
To claim the saintly crown. First young, then old,

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Later the old, and sore against their will,
That laughter raised. Last from the giant chest
Of Cairthen forth it rolled its solemn bass,
Like sea-sound swallowing lighter sounds hard by.
But Patrick laughed not: o'er his face there passed
Shade lost in light; and thus he spake, ‘O friends,
That which I have to do I know in part:
God grant I work my work. That which I am
He knows Who made me. Saints He hath, good store:
Their names are written in His Book of Life;
Kneel down, my sons, and pray that if thus long
I seem to stand, I fall not at the end.’

Then in a circle kneeling prayed the twelve.
But when they rose, Secknall with serious brow
Advanced, and knelt, and kissed Saint Patrick's foot,
And said, ‘O Father, at thy hest that hymn
I made, long labouring, and thy crown it stands:
Thou, therefore, grant me gifts, for strong thy prayer.’

And Patrick said, ‘The house wherein thy hymn
Is sung at morn or eve shall lack not bread:
And if men sing it in a house new-built,
Where none hath dwelt, nor bridegroom yet, nor bride,
Nor hath the cry of babe been heard therein,
Upon that house the watching of the Saints
Of Eire, and Patrick's watching, shall be fixed
Even as the stars.’ And Secknall said, ‘What more?’

Then Patrick added, ‘They that night and morn
Down-lying and up-rising, sing that hymn,

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They too that softly whisper it, nigh death,
If pure of heart, and liegeful unto Christ,
Shall see God's face; and, since the hymn is long,
Its grace shall rest for children and the poor
Full measure on the last three lines; and thou
Of this dear company shalt die the first,
And first of Eire's Apostles.’ Then his cheek
Secknall laid down once more on Patrick's foot,
And answered, ‘Deo Gratias.’

Thus in mirth,
And solemn talk, and prayer, that brother band
In the golden age of Faith with great free heart
Gave thanks to God that blissful eventide,
A thousand and four hundred years and more
Gone by. But now clear rang the compline bell,
And two by two they wended towards their church
Across a space for cloister set apart,
Yet still with wood-flowers sweet, and scent beside
Of sod that evening turned. The night came on;
A dim ethereal twilight o'er the hills
Deepened to dewy gloom. Against the sky
Stood ridge and rock unmarked amid the day:
A few stars o'er them shone. As bower on bower
Let go the waning light, so bird on bird
Let go its song. Two songsters still remained,
Each feebler than a fountain soon to cease,
And claimed somewhile across the dusking dell
Rivals unseen in sleepy argument,
Each, the last word:—a pause; and then, once more,
An unexpected note:—a longer pause;
And then, past hope, one other note, the last.
A moment more the Brethren stood in prayer:
The rising moon upon the church-roof new
Glimmered; and o'er it sang an angel choir,

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‘Venite Sancti.’ Entering, soon were said
The psalm, ‘He giveth sleep,’ and hymn, ‘Lætare’;
And in his solitary cell each monk
Lay down, rejoicing in the love of God.

The happy years went by. When Patrick now
And all his company were housed with God
That hymn, at morning sung, and noon, and eve,
Even as it lulled the waves of warring clans
So lulled with music lives of toil-worn men
And charmed their ebbing breath. One time it chanced
When in his convent Kevin with his monks
Had sung it thrice, the board prepared, a guest,
Foot-sore and hungered, murmured, ‘Wherefore thrice?’
And Kevin answered, ‘Speak not thus, my son,
For while we sang it, visible to all,
Saint Patrick was among us. At his right
Benignus stood, and, all around, the Twelve,
God's light upon their brows; while Secknall knelt
Demanding meed of song. Moreover, son,
This self-same day and hour, twelve months gone by,
Patrick, our Patriarch, died; and happy Feast
Is that he holds, by two short days alone
Severed from his of Hebrew Patriarchs last,
And Chief. The Holy House at Nazareth
He ruled benign, God's Warder with white hairs;
And still his feast, that silver star of March,
When snows afflict the hill and frost the moor,
With temperate beam gladdens the vernal Church—
All praise to God Who draws that Twain so near.’

University of Virginia Library

THE ARRAIGNMENT OF SAINT PATRICK.

ARGUMENT.