The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

From realm to realm had Patrick trod the Isle;
And evermore God's work beneath his hand,
Since God had blessed that hand, ran out fullsphered,
And brighter than a new-created star.
The Island race, in feud of clan with clan
Barbaric, gracious else and high of heart,
Nor worshippers of self, nor dulled through sense,
Beholding, not alone his wondrous works,
But, wondrous more, the sweetness of his strength
And how he neither shrank from flood nor fire,
And how he couched him on the wintry rocks,
And how he sang great hymns to One who heard,
And how he cared for poor men and the sick,
And for the souls invisible of men,
To him made way—not simple hinds alone,
But chiefly wisest heads, for wisdom then
Prime wisdom saw in Faith; and, mixt with these,

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Chieftains and sceptred kings. Nigh Tara, first,
Scorning the king's command, had Patrick lit
His Paschal fire, and heavenward as it soared,
The royal fire and all the Beltaine fires
Shamed by its beam had withered round the Isle
Like fires on little hearths whereon the sun
Looks in his greatness. Later, to that plain
Central 'mid Eire, ‘of Adoration’ named,
Down-trampled for two thousand years and more
By erring feet of men, the Saint had sped
In Apostolic might, and kenned far off
Ill-pleased, the nation's idol lifting high
His head, and those twelve vassal gods around
All mailed in gold and shining as the sun,
A pomp impure. Ill-pleased the Saint had seen them,
And raised the Staff of Jesus with a ban;
Then he, that demon named of men Crom-dubh,
With all his vassal gods, into the earth
That knew her Maker, to their necks had sunk
While round the island rang three times the cry
Of fiends tormented.

Not for this as yet
Had Patrick perfected his strength: as yet
The depths he had not trodden; nor had God
Drawn forth His total forces in the man
Hidden long since and sealed. For this cause he,
Who still his own heart in triumphant hour
Suspected most, remembering Milcho's fate,
With fear lest aught of human mar God's work,
And likewise from his handling of the Gael
Knowing not less their weakness than their strength,
Paused on his conquering way, and lonely sat
In cloud of thought. The great Lent Fast had come:
Its first three days went by; the fourth, he rose,

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And meeting his disciples that drew nigh
Vouchsafed this greeting only: ‘Bide ye here
Till I return,’ and straightway set his face
Alone to that great hill ‘of Eagles’ named
Huge Cruachan, that o'er the western deep
Hung through sea-mist, with shadowing crag on crag,
High-ridged, and dateless forest long since dead.

That forest reached, the angel of the Lord
Beside him, as he entered, stood and spake:
‘The gifts thy soul demands, demand them not;
For they are mighty and immeasurable,
And over great for granting.’ And the Saint:
‘This mountain Cruachan I will not leave
Alive till all be granted, to the last.’

Then knelt he on the shrouded mountain's base,
And was in prayer; and, wrestling with the Lord,
Demanded wondrous things immeasurable,
Not easy to be granted, for the land;
Nor brooked repulse; and when repulse there came,
Repulse that quells the weak and crowns the strong,
Forth from its gloom like lightning on him flashed
Intelligential gleam and insight winged
That plainlier showed him all his people's heart,
And all the wound thereof: and as in depth
Knowledge descended, so in height his prayer
Rose, and far spread; nor roused alone those Powers
Regioned with God; for as the strength of fire
When flames some palace pile, or city vast,
Wakens a tempest round it dragging in
Wild blast, and from the aggression mightier grows,
So wakened Patrick's prayer the demon race,
And drew their legions in upon his soul

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From near and far. First came the Accursed encamped
On Connact's cloudy hills and watery moors;
Old Umbhall's Heads, Iorras, and Arran Isle,
And where Tyrawley clasps that sea-girt wood
Fochlut, whence earliest rang the Children's Cry,
To demons trump of doom. In stormy rack
They came, and hung above the invested Mount
Expectant. But, their mutterings heeding not,
When Patrick still in puissance rose of prayer
O'er all their armies round the realm dispersed
There ran prescience of fate; and, north and south,
From all the mountain-girdled coasts—for still
Best site attracts worst Spirit—on they came,
From Aileach's shore and Uladh's hoary cliffs,
Which held the aeries of that eagle race
More late in Alba

Scotland.

throned, ‘Lords of the Isles’—
High chiefs whose bards, in strong transmitted line,
Filled with the name of Fionn, and thine, Oiseen,
The blue glens of that never-vanquished land—
From those purpureal mountains that o'ergaze
Rock-bowered Loch Lene

Killarney.

broidered with sanguine bead,
They came, and many a ridge o'er sea-lake stretched
That, autumn-robed in purple and in gold,
Pontific vestment, guard the memories still
Of monks who reared thereon their mystic cells,
Finian and Kieran, Fiacre, and Enda's self
Of hermits sire, and that sea-facing Saint
Brendan, who, in his wicker boat of skins
Before that Genoese a thousand years
Found a new world; and many more that now
Under wind-wasted Cross of Clonmacnoise
Await the day of Christ.

So rushed they on

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From all sides, and, close met, in circling storm
Besieged the enclouded steep of Cruachan,
That scarce the difference knew 'twixt night and day
More than the sunless pole. Him sought they, him
Whom infinitely near they might approach,
Not touch, while firm his faith—their Foe that dragged,
Sole-kneeling on that wood-girt mountain's base,
With both hands forth their realm's foundation stone.
Thus ruin filled the mountain: day by day
The forest torment deepened; louder roared
The great aisles of the devastated woods;
Black cave replied to cave; and oaks, whole ranks,
Colossal growth of immemorial years,
Sown ere Milesius landed, or that race
He vanquished, or that earliest Scythian tribe,
Fell in long line, like deep-mined castle wall,
At either side God's warrior. Slowly died
At last, far echoed in remote ravines,
The thunder: then crept forth a little voice
That shrilly whispered to him thus in scorn:
‘Two thousand years yon race hath walked in blood
Neck-deep; and shall it serve thy Lord of Peace?’
That whisper ceased. Again from all sides burst
Tenfold the storm; and as it waxed, the Saint
Waxed in strong heart; and, kneeling with stretched hands,
Made for himself a panoply of prayer,
And wound it round his bosom twice and thrice,
And made a sword of comminating psalm,
And smote at them that mocked him. Day by day,
Till now the second Sunday's vesper bell
Gladdened the little churches round the isle,
That conflict raged: then, maddening in their ire,

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Sudden the Princedoms of the Dark, that rode
This way and that way through the tempest, brake
Their sceptres, and with one great cry it fell:
At once o'er all was silence: sunset lit
The world, that shone as though with face upturned
It gazed on heavens by angel faces thronged
And answered light with light. A single bird
Carolled: and from the forest skirt down fell,
Gem-like, the last drops of the exhausted storm.

Then bowed the Saint his forehead to the ground
Thanking his God; and there in sacred trance,
Which was not sleep, abode not hours alone
But silent nights and days; and, 'mid that trance,
God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments,
Immortal food. Awaking, Patrick felt
Yearnings for nearer commune with his God,
Though great its cost; and gat him on his feet,
And, mile by mile, ascended through the woods
Till stunted were its growths; and still he clomb
Printing with sandalled foot the dewy steep:
But when above the mountain rose the moon
Brightening each mist, while sank the prone morass
In double night, he came upon a stone
Tomb-shaped, that flecked that steep: a little stream
Dropped by it from the summits to the woods:
Thereon he knelt; and was once more in prayer.

Nor prayed unnoticed by that race abhorred.
No sooner had his knees the mountain touched
Than through their realm vibration went; and straight
His prayer detecting back they trooped in clouds
And o'er him closed, blotting with bat-like wing
And inky pall, the moon. Then thunder pealed

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Once more, nor ceased from pealing. Over all
Night ruled, except when blue and forkèd flash
Revealed the on-circling waterspout or plunge
Of rain beneath the blown cloud's ravelled hem,
Or, huge on high, that lion-coloured steep
Which, like a lion, roared into the night
Answering the roaring from sea-caves far down.
Dire was the strife. That hour the Mountain old,
An anarch throned 'mid ruins, flung himself
In madness forth on all his winds and floods,
An omnipresent wrath! For God reserved,
Too long the prey of demons he had been;
Possession foul and fell. Now nigh expelled
Those demons rent their victim freed. Aloft,
They burst the rocky barrier of the tarn
That downward dashed its countless cataracts,
Drowning far vales. On either side the Saint
A torrent rushed—mightiest of all these twain—
Peeling the softer substance from the hills
Their flesh, till glared, deep-trenched, the mountain's bones;
And as those torrents widened, rocks down rolled
Showering upon that unsubverted head
Sharp spray ice-cold. Before him closed the flood,
And closed behind, till all was raging flood,
All but that tomb-like stone whereon he knelt.

Unshaken there he knelt with hands outstretched,
God's Athlete! For a mighty prize he strove,
Nor slacked, nor any whit his forehead bowed:
Fixed was his eye and keen; the whole white face
Keen as that eye itself, though—shapeless yet—
The infernal horde to ear not eye addressed
Their battle. Back he drave them, rank on rank,

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Routed, with psalm, and malison, and ban,
As from a sling flung forth. Revolt's blind spawn
He named them; one time Spirits, now linked with brute,
Yea, bestial more and baser: and as a ship
Mounts with the mounting of the wave, so he
O'er all the insurgent tempest of their wrath
Rising rode on triumphant. Days went by,
Then came a lull; and lo! a whisper shrill,
Once heard before, again its poison cold
Distilled: ‘Albeit to Christ this land should bow,
Some conqueror's foot one day would quell her Faith.’
It ceased. Tenfold once more the storm burst forth:
Once more the ecstatic passion of his prayer
Met it, and, breasting, overbore, until
Sudden the Princedoms of the dark that rode
This way and that way through the whirlwind, dashed
Their vanquished crowns of darkness to the ground
With one long cry. Then silence came; and lo!
The white dawn of the fourth fair Day of God
O'erflowed the world. Slowly the Saint upraised
His wearied eyes. Upon the mountain lawns
Lay happy lights; and birds sang; and a stream
That any five-years' child might overleap,
Beside him lapsed crystalline between banks
With violets all empurpled, and smooth marge
Green as that spray which earliest sucks the spring.

Then Patrick raised to God his orison
On that fair mount, and planted in the grass
His crosier staff, and slept; and in his sleep
God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments,
Manna of might divine. Three days he slept;

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The fourth he woke. Upon his heart there rushed
Yearning for closer converse with his God
Though great its cost; and on his feet he gat,
And high, and higher yet, that mountain scaled,
And reached at noon the summit. Far below
Basking the island lay, through rainbow shower
Gleaming in part, with shadowy moor, and ridge
Blue in the distance looming. Westward stretched
A galaxy of isles, and, these beyond,
Infinite sea with sacred light ablaze,
And high o'erhead there hung a cloudless heaven.

Upon that summit kneeling, face to sea
The Saint, with hands held forth and thanks returned,
Claimed as his stately heritage that realm
From north to south: but instant as his lip
Printed with earliest pulse of Christian prayer
That clear aërial clime Pagan till then,
The Host Accursed, sagacious of his act,
Rushed back from all the isle and round him met
With anger seven times heated, since their hour,
And this they knew, was come. Nor thunder din
And challenge through the ear alone, sufficed
That hour their rage malign that, craving sore
Material bulk to rend his bulk—their foe's—
Through fleshly strength of that their murder-lust
Flamed forth in fleshly form phantoms night-black
Though bodiless, yet to bodied mass as nigh
As Spirits can reach. More thick than vultures winged
To fields with carnage piled, the Accursèd thronged
Making thick night which neither earth nor sky
Could pierce, from sense expunged. In phalanx now,

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Anon in breaking legion, or in globe,
With clang of iron pinion on they rushed
And spectral dart high-held. Nor quailed the Saint,
Contending for his people on that Mount,
Nor spared God's foes; for as old minster towers
Besieged by midnight storm send forth reply
In storm outrolled of bells, so sent he forth
Defiance from fierce lip, vindictive chaunt,
And blight and ban, and maledictive rite
Potent on face of Spirits impure to raise
These plague-spots three, Defeat, Madness, Despair;
Nor stinted flail of taunt—‘When first my bark
Threatened your coasts, as now upon the hills
Hung ye in cloud; as now, I raised this Cross;
Ye fled before it and again shall fly!’
So hurled he back their squadrons. Day by day
The hurricanes of war shook earth and heaven:
Till now, on Holy Saturday, that hour
Returned which maketh glad the Church of God
When over Christendom in widowed fanes
Two days by penance stripped, and dumb as though
Some Antichrist had trodd'n them down, once more
Swells forth amid the new-lit paschal lights
The ‘Gloria in Excelsis’: sudden then
That mighty conflict ceased, save one low voice
Twice heard before, now edged with bitterer scoff,
‘That race thou lov'st, though fierce in wrath, is soft:
Plenty and peace will melt their Faith one day:’
Then with that whisper dying, died the night:
Then forth from darkness issued earth and sky:
Then fled the phantoms far o'er ocean's wave,
Thence to return not till the day of doom.

But he, their conqueror wept, upon that height

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Standing; nor of his victory had he joy,
Nor of that jubilant isle restored to light,
Nor of that heaven relit; so worked that scoff
Winged from the abyss; and ever thus the man
With darkness communed and that poison cold:
‘If Faith indeed should flood the land with peace,
And peace with gold, and gold eat out her heart
Once true, till Faith one day through Faith's reward
Or die, or live diseased, the shame of Faith,
Then blacker were this land and more accursed
Than lands that knew no Christ.’ And musing thus
The whole heart of the man was turned to tears,
A fount of bale and chalice brimmed with death—
For oft a thought chance-born more racks than truth
Proven and sure—and, weeping, still he wept
Till drenched was all his sad monastic cowl
As sea-weed on the dripping shelf storm-cast
Latest, and tremulous still.

As thus he wept
Sudden beside him on that summit broad,
Ran out a golden beam like sunset path
Gilding the sea; and, turning, by his side
Victor, God's angel, stood with lustrous brow
Fresh from that Face no man can see and live.
He, putting forth his hand, with living coal
Snatched from God's altar, made that dripping cowl
Dry as an Autumn sheaf. The angel spake:
‘Rejoice, for they are fled that hate thy land,
And those are nigh that love it.’ Then the Saint
Upraised his head; and lo! in snowy sheen
Cresting high rock, and ridge, and airy peak,
Innumerable the Sons of God all round
Vested the invisible mountain with white light,
As when the foam-white birds of ocean throng

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Sea-rock so close that none that rock may see.
In trance the Living Creatures stood, with wings
That pointing crossed upon their breasts; nor seemed
As new arrived but native to that site
Though veiled till now from mortal vision. Song
They sang to soothe the vexed heart of the Saint—
Love-song of Heaven: and slowly as it died
Their splendours waned: and through that vanishing light
Earth, sea, and heaven returned.

To Patrick then,
Thus Victor spake: ‘Depart from Cruachan,
Since God hath given thee wondrous gifts, immense,
And through thy prayer routed that rebel host.’
And Patrick, ‘Till the last of all my prayers
Be granted, I depart not though I die:—
One said, “Too fierce that race to bend to faith.”’
Then spake God's angel, mild of voice, and kind:
‘Not all are fierce that fiercest seem, for oft
Fierceness is blindfold love, or love ajar.
Souls thou wouldst have: for every hair late wet
In this thy tearful cowl and habit drenched
God gives these myriads seven of Souls redeemed
From sin and doom; and Souls, beside, as many
As o'er yon sea in legioned flight might hang
Far as thine eye can range. But get thee down
From Cruachan, for mighty is thy prayer.’
And Patrick made reply: ‘Not great thy boon!
Watch have I kept, and wearied are mine eyes
And dim; nor see they far o'er yonder deep.’
And Victor: ‘Have thou Souls from coast to coast
In cloud full-stretched; but get thee down: this Mount
God's Altar is, and puissance adds to prayer.’

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And Patrick: ‘On this Mountain wept have I;
And therefore giftless will I not depart:
One said, “Although that People should believe
Yet conqueror's heel one day would quell their Faith.”’
To whom the angel, mild of voice, and kind:
‘Conquerors are they that subjugate the soul:
This also God concedes thee; conquering foe
Trampling this land, shall tread not out her Faith
Nor sap by fraud, so long as thou in heaven
Look'st on God's Face; nay, by that Faith subdued,
That foe shall serve and live. But get thee down
And worship in the vale.’ Then Patrick said,
‘Live they that list! Full sorely wept have I,
Nor will I hence depart unsatisfied:
One said, “Grown soft, that race their Faith will shame;”
Say therefore what the Lord thy God will grant,
Nor stint His hand; since never scanter grace
Fell yet on head of nation-taming man
Than thou to me hast portioned till this hour.’

Then answer made the angel, soft of voice:
‘Not all men stumble when a Nation falls;
There are that stand upright. God gives thee this:
They that are faithful to thy Faith, that walk
Thy way, and keep thy covenant with God,
And daily sing thy hymn, when comes the Judge
With Sign blood-red facing Jehosaphat,
And fear lays prone the many-mountained world,
The same shall 'scape the doom.’ And Patrick said,
‘That hymn is long, and hard for simple folk,
And hard for children.’ And the angel thus:
‘At least from “Christum Illum” let them sing,

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And keep thy Faith: when comes the Judge, the pains
Shall take not hold of such. Is that enough?’
And Patrick answered, ‘That is not enough.’
Then Victor: ‘Likewise this thy God accords:
The Dreadful Coming and the Day of Doom
Thy land shall see not; for before that day
Seven years, a great wave arched from out the deep,
Ablution pure, shall sweep the isle and take
Her children to its peace. Is that enough?’
And Patrick answered, ‘That is not enough.’

Then spake once more that courteous angel kind:
‘What boon demand'st thou?’ And the Saint, ‘No less
Than this. Though every nation, ere that day
Recreant from creed and Christ, old troth forsworn,
Should flee the sacred scandal of the Cross
Through pride, as once the Apostles fled through fear,
This Nation of my love, a priestly house,
Beside that Cross shall stand, fate-firm, like him
That stood beside Christ's Motion.’ Straightway, as one
Who ends debate, the angel answered stern:
‘That boon thou claimest is too great to grant:
Depart thou from this mountain, Cruachan,
In peace: and find that Nation which thou lov'st,
That like thy body is, and thou her head,
For foes are round her set in valley and plain,
And instant is the battle.’ Then the Saint:
‘The battle for my People is not there,
With them, low down, but here upon this height
From them apart, with God. This Mount of God
Dowerless and bare I quit not till I die;

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And dying, I will leave a Man Elect
To keep its keys, and pray my prayer, and name
Dying in turn, his heir, successive line,
Even till the Day of Doom.’

Then heavenward sped
Victor, God's angel, and the Man of God
Turned to his offering; and all day he stood
Offering in heart that Offering Undefiled
Which Abel offered, and Melchisedek,
And Abraham, Patriarch of the faithful race,
In type, and which in fulness of the times
The Victim-Priest offered on Calvary,
And, bloodless, offers still in Heaven and Earth,
Whose impetration makes the whole Church one.
Thus offering stood the man till eve, and still
Offered; and as he offered, far in front
Along the aërial summit once again
Ran out that beam like fiery pillar prone
Or sea-path sunset-paved; and by his side
That angel stood. Then Patrick, turning not
His eyes in prayer upon the West close held
Demanded, ‘From the Maker of all worlds
What answer bring'st thou?’ Victor made rep
‘Down knelt in Heaven the Angelic Orders Nin
And all the Prophets and the Apostles knelt,
And all the Creatures of the hand of God
Visible, and invisible, down knelt,
While thou thy mighty Mass, though altarless,
Offeredst in spirit, and thine Offering joined;
And all God's Saints on earth, or roused from sleep
Or on the wayside pausing, knelt, the cause
Not knowing; likewise yearned the Souls to God
In that fire-clime benign that clears from sin;
And lo! the Lord thy God hath heard thy prayer,

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Since fortitude in prayer—and this thou know'st,’—
Smiling the Bright One spake, ‘is that which lays
Man's hand upon God's sceptre. That thou sought'st
Shall lack not consummation. Many a race
Shrivelling in sunshine of its prosperous years,
Shall cease from faith, and, shamed though shameless, sink
Back to its native clay; but over thine
God shall extend the shadow of His Hand,
And through the night of centuries teach to her
In woe that song which, when the nations wake,
Shall sound their glad deliverance: nor alone
This nation, from the blind dividual dust
Of instincts brute, thoughts driftless, warring wills
By thee evoked and shapen by thy hands
To God's fair image which confers alone
Manhood on nations, shall to God stand true;
But nations far in undiscovered seas,
Her stately progeny, while ages fleet
Shall wear the kingly ermine of her Faith,
Fleece uncorrupted of the Immaculate Lamb,
For ever: lands remote shall raise to God
Her fanes; and eagle-nurturing isles hold fast
Her hermit cells: thy nation shall not walk
Accordant with the Gentiles of this world,
But as a race elect sustain the Crown
Or bear the Cross: and when the end is come,
When in God's Mount the Twelve great Thrones are set,
And round it roll the Rivers Four of fire,
And in their circuit meet the Peoples Three
Of Heaven, and Earth, and Hell, fulfilled that day
Shall be the Saviour's word, what time He stretched
Thy crosier-staff forth from His glory-cloud

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And sware to thee, “When they that with Me walked
Sit with Me on their everlasting thrones
Judging the Twelve Tribes of Mine Israel,
Thy People thou shalt judge in righteousness.”

Thou therefore kneel, and bless thy Land of Eire.’

Then Patrick knelt, and blessed the land, and said,
‘Praise be to God who hears the sinner's prayer.’

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