Aubrey De Vere

“ That sin had found me out! He knew my mission:
When in mine absence slander sought my name,
Mine honour he had cleared. Yet now—yet now—
That hour the iron passed into my soul:
Yea, well nigh all was lost. I wept, “Not one,
No heart of man there is that knows my heart,
Or in its anguish shares.”
Yet, O my God!
I blame him not: from Thee that penance came:
Not for man’s love should Thine Apostle strive,
Thyself alone his great and sole reward.
Thou laid’st that hour a fiery hand of love
Upon a faithless heart; and it survived. ”

“ Be ye barbaric, ay, but savage not:
Hew down the baser lest they drag you down;
Ye cannot raise them: they fulfil their fates:
Be terrible to foes, be kind to friend:
Be just; be true. Revere the Household Hearth;
This knowing, that beside it dwells a God:
Revere the Priest, the King, the Bard, the Maid,
The Mother of the heroic race—five strings
Sounding God's Lyre. Drive out with lance for goad
That idiot God by Rome called Terminus,
Who standing sleeps, and holds his reign o'er fools.
The earth is God's, not Man's: that Man from Him
Holds it whose valour earns it. ”

“ PART III. I. In vain thine altars do they heap With blooms of violated May Who fail the words of Christ to keep; Thy Son who love not, nor obey. Their songs are as a serpent's hiss; Their praise a poniard's poisoned edge; Their offering taints, like Judas' kiss, Thy shrine; their vows are sacrilege. Sadly from such thy countenance turns: Thou canst not stretch thy Babe to such (Albeit for all thy pity yearns) As greet Him with a leper's touch. Who loveth thee must love thy Son. Weak Love grows strong thy smile beneath: But nothing comes from nothing; none Can reap Love's harvest out of Death. ”

“ The Saint made answer: 'Beggar's use, my King!
What was that horse? The foal of some poor mare!
The least of men—the sinner—is God's child!'
Then dropped the King on both his knees, and cried:
'Father, forgive me!' As they sat at meat
Oswin was mirthful, and at jest and tale
His hungry thanes laughed loud. But great, slow tears
In silence trickled down old Aidan's face:
These all men marked; yet no man question made.
At last to one beside him Aidan spake
In Irish tongue, unknown to all save them,
'God will not leave such meekness long on earth.'
Who loved not Oswin? ”

“ It stood the Archetype sublime Of that fair world of finite things Which, in the bands of Space and Time, Creation's glittering verge enrings. Star-like within the depths serene Of that still vision, Mary, thou With Him, thy Son, of God wert seen Millenniums ere the lucid brow {50} Of Eye o'er Eden founts had bent,— Millenniums ere that second Fair With dust the hopes of man had blent, And stained the brightness once so fair. Elect of Creatures! Man in thee Beholds that primal Beauty yet,— Sees all that Man was formed to be,— Sees all that Man can ne'er forget! ”

“ O fool, for ne’er since boyhood choice was mine
Save choice to subject will of mine to God—
“At great Ardmacha.” Thitherward I turned;
But in my pathway, with forbidding hand,
Victor, God’s angel stood. “Not so,” he said,
“For in Ardmacha stands thy princedom fixed,
Age after age, thy teaching, and thy law,
But not thy grave. Return thou to that shore
Thy place of small beginnings, and thereon
Lessen in body and mind, and grow in spirit:
Then sing to God thy little hymn and die.” ”

“ By softness sapped, so Rome. Behold, this day,
Following the Pole Star of my just revenge,
I lead my people forth to clearer fates
[Pg 4] Through cloudier fortunes. They are brave and strong:
'Tis but the rose-breath of their vale that rots
Their destiny's bud unblown. I lead them forth,
A race war-vanquished, not a race of slaves;
Lead them, not southward to Euphrates' bank,
Not Eastward to the realms of rising suns,
Not West to Rome and bondage. Hail, thou North!
Hail, boundless woods, by nameless oceans girt,
And snow-robed mountain islets, founts of fire! ”

“ Death-sick three days on his throne he sate;
Then died, as his father died, great in hate.
They buried their king upon Tara’s hill,
In his grave upright—there stands he still:
Upright there stands he as men that wade
By night through a castle-moat, undismayed;
On his head is the crown, the spear in his hand;
And he looks to the hated Lagenian land.
Such rites in the time of wrath and wrong
Were Eire’s: baptised, they were hers no longer:
For Patrick had taught her his sweet new song,
“Though hate is strong, yet love is stronger.”
SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR ”

“ The sinless Eden still was fair. They, they alone, whose light of grace But late made Paradise look dim, Stood now, a blot upon its face, Before their God; nor gazed on Him. They glanced not up; or they had seen In that severe, death-dooming eye Unutterable depths serene Of sadly-piercing sympathy. Not them alone that Eye beheld, But, by their side, that other Twain, In whom the race whose doom was knelled Once more should rise; once more should reign. {10} It saw that Infant crowned with blood;— And her from whose predestined breast That Infant ruled the worlds. ”

“ Thus pagan died old Penda as he lived:
Yet Penda's sons were Christian, kindlier none;
His daughters nuns; and lamb-like Mercia's House,
Lion one while, made end. King Oswy raised
His monasteries twelve: benigner life
Around them spread: wild waste, and robber bands
Vanished: the poor were housed, the hungry fed:
And Oswy sent his little new-born babe
Dewed with her mother's tear-drops, Eanfleda,
Like some young lamb with fillet decked and flower,
Yet dedicated not to death, but life,
To Hilda sent on Whitby's sea-washed hill,
Who made her Bride of Christ. ”

“ Making all good one good. Eternal Love!
Not thine the will that love should cease with life,
Or, living, cease from service, barren made,
A stagnant gall eating the mourner’s heart
That hour when love should stretch a hand of might
Up o’er the grave to heaven. O great in love,
Perfect love’s work: for well, sad heart, I know,
Hadst thou not trained thy son in virtuous ways,
Christian he ne’er had been.”
Those later words
That solitary mourner understood,
The earlier but in part, and answered thus:
“A loftier Cross, and farther seen, shall rise
Upon this grave new-found! ”

“ O Alpine City, with thy walls Of rock eterne and spires of ice, Where torrent still to torrent calls, And precipice to precipice;— How like that holier City thou, The heavenly Salem's earthly porch, Which rears among the stars her brow, And plants firm feet on earth—the Church! "Decaying, ne'er to be decayed," Her woods, like thine, renew their youth: Her streams, in rocky arms embayed, Are clear as virtue, strong as truth. {102} At times the lake may burst its dam; Black pine and rock the valley strew; But o'er the ruin soon the lamb Its flowery pasture crops anew. ”

“ Or tenderer gladness for their young new-fledged,
So piercing was that harmony, the place
Eden to Sebert looked, while brake and bower
Shone like the Tree of Life. 'What minster choir,'
The Bishop cried, 'could better chant God's praise?
Here shall your church ascend:—its altar rise
Where yonder thorn tree stands!' The old man spake;
Yet in him lived a thought unbreathed: 'How oft
Have trophies risen to blazon deeds accursed!
Angels this church o'er-winging, age on age
Shall see that boy at prayer!'
In peace, in war,
Daily the work advanced. ”

“ Of song! My father, do I vainly dream
Oft thinking that the bards, perchance the birds,
Sing something vaster than they think or know?
Some fire immortal lives within their strings:
Therefore the people love them. War divine,
God’s war on sin—true love-song best and sweetest—
Perforce they chaunt in spirit, not wars of clans:
Yea, one day, conscious, they shall sing that song;
One day by river clear of south or north,
Pagan no more, the laurelled head shall rise,
And chaunt the Warfare of the Realm of Souls,
The anguish and the cleansing, last the crown—
Prelude of songs celestial! ”

“ PROLOGUE. That sun-eyed Power which stands sublime Upon the rock that crowns our globe, Her feet on all the spoils of time, With light eternal on her robe, She, sovereign of the orb she guides, On Truth's broad sun may root a gaze That deepens, onward as she rides, And shrinks not from the fontal blaze: But they—her daughter Arts—must hide Within the cleft, content to see Dim skirts of glory waving wide, And steps of parting Deity. 'Tis theirs to watch Religion break In types from Nature's frown or smile, The legend rise from out the lake, The relic consecrate the isle. ”

“ Each age its garland found:
Fair shone on trustful childhood faith divine:
Eld, once a weight of wrinkles now upsoared
In venerable lordship of white hairs,
Seer-like and sage. Healed was a nation’s wound:
All men believed who willed not disbelief;
And sat in that oppugnancy steel-mailed:
They cried, “Before thy priests our bards shall bow,
And all our clans put on thy great Clan Christ!”
For your sake, O my brethren, and my sons
These things have I recorded. Something I wrought:
Strive ye in loftier labours; strive, and win:
Your victory shall be mine: my crown are ye. ”

“ She stood: she sang a death-song centuries old,
The dirge prophetic both of Gods and men:
'The iron age shall make an iron end:
The men who lived in hate, or impious love,
Shall meet in one red battle field. That day
The forests of the earth, blackening, shall die;
The stars down-fall; the Wingèd Hound of Heaven,
That chased the Sun from age to age, shall close
O'er it at last; the Ash Tree, Ygdrasil,
Whose boughs o'er-roof the skies, whose roots descend
To Hell, whose leaves are lives of men, whose boughs
The destined empires that o'er-awe the world,
Shall drop its fruit unripe. ”

“ From room to room those children roam, Heart-stricken by the unwonted black: Their house no longer seems their home: They search; yet know not what they lack. Years pass: Self-Will and Passion strike Their roots more deeply day by day; Old servants weep; and "how unlike" Is all the tender neighbours say. And yet at moments, like a dream, A mother's image o'er them flits: Like her's their eyes a moment beam; The voice grows soft; the brow unknits. Such, Mary, are the realms once thine, That know no more thy golden reign. Hold forth from heaven thy Babe divine! O make thine orphans thine again! ”

“ Kenwalk was king.
A valiant man was he,
A man of stubborn will, but yet at heart
Magnanimous and just. To one who said,
'Strike, for thine hour is come!' the king new-crowned
Made answer, 'Never! Each man choose his path!
My father chose the Christian—Odin's I.
I crossed my father oft a living man;
I war not on him dead.'
That giant hand
Which spared Religion ruled in all beside:
He harried forth the robbers from the woods,
And wrecked the pirates' ships. He burned with fire
A judge unjust, and thrice o'er Severn drave
The invading Briton. ”

“ With face of one who notes not shapes around,
But dreams some happy dream. The king drew nigh,
And on her golden head the sceptre staff
Leaning, but not to hurt her, thus began:
“Your prophets of the day, I trust them not!
If sent from God, why came they not long since?
Our Druids came before them, and, belike,
Shall after them abide! With these new seers
I count not Patrick. Things that Patrick says
I ofttimes thought. His lineage too is old—
Wide-browed, grey-eyed, with downward lessening face,
Not like your baser breeds, with questing eyes
And jaw of dog. ”

“ Come fair and fairer than the day! Our hearts are wounded with thine eyes: They character in words of light Thereon the mystery of the skies: The "Name o'er every name" they write. Come from thy Lebanonian peaks Whose sacerdotal cedars nod Above the world, when morning breaks— The Mountain of the House of God. The land thou lov'st—well is she! The ploughers on her back may plough; But in her vales upgrows the Tree Of Life, and binds the bleeding brow. ”

“ Loud clamouring, “Death is dead; and not for long
That dreadful grave can part us.” Last of all,
He too believed. That hoary head had shaped
Full many a crafty scheme:—behind them all
Nature held fast her own.
O happy night!
Back through the gloom of centuries sin-defaced
With what a saintly radiance thou dost shine!
They slept not, on the loud-resounding shore
In glory roaming. Many a feud that night
Lay down in holy grave, or, mockery made,
Was quenched in its own shame. Far shone the fires
Crowning dark hills with gladness: soared the song ”

“ Happiest of nations should that nation be
Which died His willing victim!'
'King, and Son,'
With voice a moment troubled he resumed,
'Thy future rests with God! Yet shake, Oh shake
One boding grief—'tis causeless—from thy breast,
Deeming thy race less valiant than the North:
Faithfuller they stand and nearer to their sires!
Remorseless less to others and to self
I grant them; that implies not valiant less:
The brave are still in spirit the merciful;
Far down within their being stirs a sense
Of more than race or realm. ”

“ Yet Nature's virginal suspense Is not forgetfulness nor sloth: Where'er we wander, soul and sense Discern a blindly working growth. Her throne once more the daisy takes, That white star of our dusky earth; And the sky-cloistered lark down-shakes Her passion of seraphic mirth. Twixt barren hills and clear cold skies She weaves, ascending high and higher, Songs florid as those traceries Which took, of old, their name from fire. Sing! thou that need'st no ardent clime To sun the sweetness from thy breast; And teach us those delights sublime Wherein ascetic spirits rest! ”

“ This day, though darkling, yet so innocent,
Barbaric, not depraved, on greater heights
May'st sin in malice—sin the great offence,
Changing thy light to darkness, knowing God,
Yet honouring God no more; that time may come
When, rich as Carthage, great in arms as Rome,
Keen-eyed as Greece, this isle, to sensuous gaze
A sun all gold, to angels may present
Aspect no nobler than a desert waste,
Some blind and blinding waste of sun-scorched sands,
Trod by a race of pigmies not of men,
Pigmies by passions ruled!'
Once more he mused;
Then o'er his countenance passed a second change ”

“ 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,
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. ”

“ Who Is ignorant that from Godhead's height To what is loftiest here below The interval is infinite? O Mary! with that smile thrice-blest Upon their petulance look down;— Their dull negation, cold protest— Thy smile will melt away their frown! Show them thy Son! That hour their heart Will beat and burn with love like thine; Grow large; and learn from thee that art Which communes best with things divine. The man who grasps not what is best In creaturely existence, he Is narrowest in the brain; and least Can grasp the thought of Deity. ”

“ For thee reward remaineth. Happy thou
Through prayer his sight restoring to thy foe,
Sole foe that e'er thou knew'st though more his own!
Child! darkness is there worse than blindness far,
Wherein erroneous wanders human Pride;
That prayer of thine from age to age shall guard
A realm against such darkness. Where yon kine
Stand in mid ford, quenching their noontide thirst,
Thy footsteps crossed of old the waters. God
In the unerasing current sees them still!
Close by, a nation from a purer flood
Shall quench a thirst more holy, quaffing streams
Of Knowledge loved as Truth. ”

“ Not a few have a character of the sublime; many are pathetic; some have a profound meaning under a strange disguise; but their predominant character is their brightness and gladsomeness. A large tract of Irish history is dark: but the time of Saint Patrick, and the three centuries which succeeded it, were her time of joy. That chronicle is a song of gratitude and hope, as befits the story of a nation’s conversion to Christianity, and in it the bird and the brook blend their carols with those of angels and of men. It was otherwise with the later legends connecting Ossian with Saint Patrick. ”

“ Odin's work
Stands then consummate. Odin's name thenceforth
Goes down to darkness.
Farewell, Ararat!
How many an evening, still and bright as this,
In childhood, youth, or manhood's sorrowing years,
Have I not watched the sunset hanging red
Upon thy hoary brow! Farewell for ever!
A legend haunts thee that the race of man
In earliest days, a sad and storm-tossed few,
From thy wan heights descended, making way
Into a ruined world. A storm-tossed race,
But not self-pitying, once again thou seest
Into a world all ruin making way
Whither they know not, yet without a fear. ”

“ Their clans were Patriarch households, rude through war:
Old Pagan Rome had known them not; their Isle
Virgin to Christ had come. Oh how unlike
Her sons to those old Roman Senators,
Scorn of Germanus oft, who breathed the air
Fouled by dead Faiths successively blown out,
Or Grecian sophist with his world of words,
That, knowing all, knew nothing! Praise to Thee,
Lord of the night-time as the day, Who keep’st
Reserved in blind barbaric innocence,
Pure breed, when boastful lights corrupt the wise,
With healthier fruit to bless a later age. ”

“ Stood up with queenly port: she turned; she saw
Earth's King, mankind's great Father: taught by God,
Immaculate, unastonished, undismayed,
In love and reverence to her Lord she drew,
And, kneeling, kissed his hand: and Adam laid
That hand, made holier, on that kneeler's head,
And spake; 'For this shall man his parents leave,
And to his wife cleave fast.'
When Ceadmon ceased,
Thus spake the Man Divine: 'At break of day
Seek out some prudent man, and say that God
Hath loosed thy tongue; nor hide henceforth thy gift.'
Then Ceadmon turned, and slept among his kine
Dreamless. ”

“ 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. ”

“ But Saxo waved his sword,
And, laughing, shouted, 'Odin's sons, be still!
Count it no sin to battle with high gods!
Great-hearted they! They give the blow and take!
To Odin who was ever leal as I?'
As sudden as it rose the tumult fell:
So ceased the storm without: but with it ceased
The rapture and the madness, and the shout:
The wine-cup still made circuit; but the song
Froze in mid-air. Strange shadow hung o'er all:
Neighbour to neighbour whispered: courtiers slid
Through doors scarce open. Rumour had arrived,
If true or false none knew. ”

“ Beside the font Aengus stood; his face
Sweet as a child’s, yet grave as front of eld:
For reverence he had laid his crown aside,
And from the deep hair to the unsandalled feet
Was raimented in white. With mitred head
And massive book, forward Saint Patrick leaned,
Stayed by the gem-wrought crosier. Prayer on prayer
Went up to God; while gift on gift from God,
All Angel-like, invisibly to man,
Descended. Thrice above that princely brow
Patrick the cleansing waters poured, and traced
Three times thereon the Venerable Sign,
Naming the Name Triune. ”

“ That thou art glad. Perchance thou hear'st me not,
For thou wert still a heedless man of mirth,
Though sage as strong at need. If this were so,
Not less thy God would hear my prayer to thee,
And grant it in thy reverence. Ethelbert!
Thou hadst thy trial time, since, many a year
All shepherdless thy well-loved people strayed
What time thyself, their shepherd, knew'st not Christ,
Sole shepherd of man's race. King Ethelbert!
Rememberest thou that day in Thanet Isle? ”

“ 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.” ”

“ In ages of effeminate civilisation the Christian emotions, even more than those inherent in unassisted human nature, lose that ardour which belongs to them when in a healthy condition—an ardour which especially reveals itself during that great crisis, a nation's conversion, when, beside a throng of new feelings and new hopes, a host of new Truths has descended upon the intelligence of a whole people, and when a sense of new knowledge and endless progress is thus communicated to it, far exceeding that which is the boast of nations devoted chiefly to physical science. ”

“ 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.” ”

“ The retributive smoke leaped up to heaven,
He closed with iron hand on Kenwalk's arm
And slowly spake—a whisper heard afar—
'See you that town? Its judgment is upon it!
I gave it respite twice. This day its doom
Is irreversible.'
The invader quelled,
Anna and Kenwalk on their homeward way
Rode by the grave of saintly Sigebert,
King Anna's predecessor. Kenwalk spake:
'Some say the people keep but memory scant
Of benefits: I trust the things I see:
I never passed that tomb but round it knelt
A throng of supplicants! ”

“ 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 gold;
And Fame, obsequious often to base heads,
For once is loyal, and its crown hath laid
Where honour’s debt was due.” ”

“ Then wept the King:
'Alas for Odin and his brethren Gods
That in their great hands stayed the northern land!
Alas for man!' But Heida, with fixed face
Whereon there sat its ancient calm, replied:
'Nothing that lived but shall again have life,
Such life as virtue claims. Ill-working men
With Loki and with Hela, evil Gods,
Shall dwell far down in Náströnd's death-black pile
Compact of serpent scales, whose thousand gates
Face to the North, blinded by endless storm:
But from the sea shall rise a happier earth,
Holier and happier. ”

“ And felt like him, that Saint who cried, flame-girt,
“At last do I begin to be a Christian?”
Have I not seen old foes embrace? Seen him,
That white-haired man who dashed him on the ground,
Crying aloud, “My buried son, forgive!
Thy sire hath touched the hand that shed thy blood?”
Fierce chiefs knelt down in penance! Lord! how oft
Shook I their tear-drop sparkles from my gown!
’Twas the forgiveness taught them all the debt,
Great-hearted penitents! How many a youth
Contemned the praise of men! ”

“ Before by Gods or mortals: from their feast
The everlasting synod of the Gods
Rush forth, gold-armed, with chariot and with horse:
First rides the Father of the flock divine,
Odin, our King, and, at his right hand, Thor
Whose thunder hammer splits the mountain crags
And level lays the summits of the world;
Heimdall and Bragi, Uller, Njord, and Tyr,
Behind them throng; with these the concourse huge
Of lesser Gods, and Heroes snatched from earth,
Since man's first battle, part to bear with Gods
In this their greatest. ”

“ That hour was strong in prayer. “From God he came,”
Thus cried they; “and we worked a work accursed,
Tempting God’s prophet.” Patrick heard, and spake;
“Not me ye tempted, but the God I serve.”
At last Mac Kyle made answer: “I have sinned;
I, and this people, whom I made to sin:
Now therefore to thy God we yield ourselves
Liegemen henceforth, his thralls as slave to Lord,
Or horse to master. That which thou command’st
That will we do.” And Patrick said, “Believe;
Confess your sins; and be baptised to God,
The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit,
And live true life.” ”

“ Still send me deed of gift, or chronicle
Or missive from the Apostolic See:
Praise be to God Who fitteth for his place
Not only high but mean! With wisdom's strength
He filled our mitred Wilfred, born to rule;
To saintly Cuthbert gave the spirit of prayer;
On me, as one late born, He lays a charge
Slender, yet helpful still.'
Then spake a man
Burly and big, that last at banquet sat,
'Father, is history true?' and Bede replied;
'The man who seeks for Truth like hidden gold,
And shrinks from falsehood as a leper's touch
Shall write true history ”