SAINT PATRICK AND KING EOCHAID.

Eochaid, son of Crimther, reigned, a King

Northward in Clochar. Dearer to his heart

Than kingdom or than people or than life

Was he, the boy long wished for. Dear was she,

Keine, his daughter. Babyhood's white star,

Beauteous in childhood, now in maiden dawn

She witched the world with beauty. From her eyes

A light went forth like morning o'er the sea;

Sweeter her voice than wind on harp; her smile

Could stay men's breath. With winged feet she trod

The yearning earth that, if it could, like waves

Had swelled to meet their pressure. Ah, the pang!

Beauty, the immortal promise, like a cheat

If unwed glides into the shadow land,

Childless and twice defeated. Beauty wed

To mate unworthy, suffers worse eclipse -

“Ill choice between two ills!” thus spleenfull cried

Eochaid; but not his the pensive grief:

He would have kept his daughter in his house

For ever; yet, since better might not be,

Himself he chose her out a mate, and frowned,

And said, “The dog must have her.” But the maid

Wished not for marriage. Tender was her heart;

Yet though her twentieth year had o'er her flown,

And though her tears had dewed a mother's grave,

In her there lurked, not flower of womanhood,

But flower of angel texture. All around

To her was love. The crown of earthly love

Seemed but its crown of mockery. Love Divine -

For that she yearned, and yet she knew it not;

Knew less that love she feared.

She walked in woods

While all the green leaves, drenched by sunset's gold,

Upon a shower-bespangled sycamore

Shivered, and birds among them choir on choir

Chanted her praise — or spring's. “Ill sung,” she laughed,

“My dainty minstrels! Grant to me your wings,

And I for them will teach you song of mine:

Listen!” A carol from her lip there gushed

That, ere its time, might well have called the spring

From winter's coldest cave. It ceased; she turned.

Beside her Patrick stood. His hand he raised

To bless her. Awed, though glad, upon her knees

The maiden sank. His eye, as if through air,

Saw through that stainless soul, and, crystal-shrined

Therein, its inmate, Truth. That other Truth

Instant to her he preached — the Truth Divine —

( For whence is caution needful, save from sin? )

And those two Truths, each gazing upon each,

Embraced like sisters, thenceforth one. For her

No arduous thing was Faith, ere yet she heard

In heart believing: and, as when a babe

Marks some bright shape, if near or far, it knows not,

And stretches forth a witless hand to clasp

Phantom or form, even so with wild surmise

And guesses erring first, and questions apt,

She chased the flying light, and round it closed

At last, and found it substance. “This is He.”

Then cried she, “This, whom every maid should love,

Conqueror self-sacrificed of sin and death:

How shall we find, how please Him, how be nigh?”

Patrick made answer: “They that do His will

Are nigh Him.” And the virgin: “Of the nigh,

Say, who is nighest?” Thus, that winged heart

Rushed to its rest. He answered: “Nighest they

Who offer most to Him in sacrifice,

As when the wedded leaves her father's house

And cleaveth to her husband. Nighest they

Who neither father's house nor husband's house

Desire, but live with Him in endless prayer,

And tend Him in His poor.” Aloud she cried,

“The nearest to the Highest, that is love; -

I choose that bridal lot!” He answered, “Child,

The choice is God's. For each, that lot is best

To which He calls us.” Lifting then pure hands,

Thus wept the maiden: “Call me, Virgin-born!

Will not the Mother-Maid permit a maid

To sit beside those nail-pierced feet, and wipe,

With hair untouched by wreaths of mortal love,

The dolorous blood-stains from them? Stranger guest,

Come to my father's tower! Against my will,

Against his own, in bridal bonds he binds me:

My suit he might resist: he cannot thine!”

She spake; and by her Patrick paced with feet

To hers accordant. Soon they reached that fort:

Central within a circling rath earth-built

It stood; the western tower of stone; the rest,

Not high, but spreading wide, of wood compact;

For thither many a forest hill had sent

His wind-swept daughter brood, relinquishing

Converse with cloud and beam and rain forever

To echo back the revels of a Prince.

Mosaic was the work, beam laced with beam

In quaint device: high up, o'er many a door

Shone blazon rich of vermeil, or of green,

Or shield of bronze, glittering with veined boss,

Chalcedony or agate, or whate'er

The wave-lipped marge of Neagh's broad lake might boast,

Or ocean's shore, northward from Brandon's Head

To where the myriad-pillared cliffs hang forth

Their stony organs o'er the lonely main.

And trembles yet the pilgrim, noting at eve

The pride Fomorian, and that Giant Way

Trending toward eastern Alba. From his throne

Above the semicirque of grassy seats

Whereon by Brehons and by Ollambs girt

Daily be judged his people, rose the king

And bade the stranger welcome.

Day to day

And night to night succeeded. In fit time,

For Patrick, sometimes sudden, oft was slow,

He spoke his Master's message. At the close,

As though in trance, the warriors circling stood

With hands outstretched; the Druids downward frowned,

Silent; and like a strong man awed for once,

Eochaid round him stared. A little while,

And from him passed the amazement. Buoyant once more,

And bright like trees fresher for thunder-shower,

With all his wonted aspect, bold and keen,

He answered: “O my prophet, words, words, words!

We too have Prophets. Better thrice our Bards;

Yet, being no better these than trumpet's blast,

The trumpet more I prize. Had words been work,

Myself in youth had led the loud-voiced clan!

Deeds I preferred. What profit e'er had I

From windy marvels? Once with me in war

A seer there camped that, bending back his head,

Fit rites performed, and upward gazing, blew

With rounded lips into the heaven of heavens

Druidic breath. That heaven was changed to cloud,

Cloud that on borne to Claire's hated bound

Down fell, a rain of blood! To me what gain?

Within three weeks my son was trapped and snared

By Aodh of Hy Brinin, king whose hosts

Number my warriors fourfold. Three long years

Beyond those purple mountains in the west

Hostage he lies.” Lightly Eochaid spake,

And turned: but shaken chin betrayed that grief

Which lived beneath his lightness.

Sudden thronged

High on the neighbouring hills a jubilant troop,

Their banners waving, while the midway vale

With harp and horn resounded. Patrick spake:

“Rejoice! thy son returns! not sole he comes,

But in his hand a princess, fair and good,

A kingdom for her dowry. Aodh's realm,

By me late left, welcomed MY King with joy:

All fire the mountains shone.‘ The God I serve,’

Thus spake I, Aodh pointing to those fires,

‘ In mountains of rejoicing hath no joy

While sad beyond them sits a childless man,

His only son thy captive. Captive groaned

Creation; Bethlehem's Babe set free the slave.

For His sake loose thy thrall!’ A sweeter voice

Pleaded with mine, his daughter's‘ mid her tears.

‘ Aodh,’ I said,‘ these two each other love!

What think'st thou? He who shaped the linnet's nest,

Indifferent unto Him are human loves?

Arise! thy work make perfect! Righteous deeds

Are easier whole than half.’ In thought awhile

Old Aodh sat; then to his daughter turned,

And thus, imperious even in kindness, spake:

‘ Well fought the youth ere captured, like the son

Of kings, and worthy to be sire of kings:

Wed him this hour: and in three days, at eve,

Restore him to his father!’ King, this hour

Thou know'st if Christ's strong Faith be empty words,

Or truth, and armed with power.”

That night was passed

In feasting and in revel, high and low

Rich with a common gladness. Many a torch

Flared in the hand of servitors hill-sent,

That standing, each behind a guest, retained

Beneath that roof clouded by banquet steam

Their mountain wildness. Here, the splendour glanced

On goblet jewel-chased and dark with wine,

Swift circling; there, on walls with antlers spread,

And rich with yew-wood carvings, flower or bud,

Or clustered grape pendent in russet gleam

As though from nature's hand. A hall hard by

Echoed the harp that now nor kindled rage,

Nor grief condoled, nor sealed with slumber's balm

Tempestuous spirits, triumphs three of song,

But raised to rapture, mirth. Far shone that hall

Glowing with hangings steeped in every tinct

The boast of Erin's dyeing-vats, now plain,

Now pranked with bird or beast or fish, whate'er

Fast-flying shuttle from the craftsman's thought

Catching, on bore through glimmering warp and woof,

A marvellous work; now traced by broiderer's hand

With legends of Ferdiadh and of Meave,

Even to the golden fringe. The warriors paced

Exulting. Oft they showed their merit's prize,

Poniard or cup, tribute ordained of tribes

From age to age, Eochaid's right, on them

With equal right devolving. Slow they moved

In mantle now of crimson, now of blue,

Clasped with huge torque of silver or of gold

Just where across the snowy shirt there strayed

Tendril of purple thread. With jewelled fronts

Beauteous in pride‘ mid light of winsome smiles,

Over the rushes green with slender foot

In silver slipper hid, the ladies passed,

Answering with eyes not lips the whispered praise,

Or loud the bride extolling — “When was seen

Such sweetness and such grace?”

Meantime the king

Conversed with Patrick. Vexed he heard announced

His daughter's high resolve: but still his looks

Went wandering to his son. “My boy! Behold him!

His valour and his gifts are all from me:

My first-born!” From the dancing throng apart

His daughter stood the while, serene and pale,

Down-gazing on that lily in her hand

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. But for thy Heavenly Spouse,

I like not Him! At least, wed Cormac first!

If rude his ways, yet noble is his name,

And being but poor the man will bide with me:

He's brave, and likeliest soon in fight may fall!

When Cormac dies, wed next —” a music clash

Forth bursting drowned his words.

Three days passed by:

To Patrick, then preparing to depart,

Thus spake Eochaid in the ears of all:

“Herald Heaven-missioned of the Tidings Good!

Those tidings I have pondered. They are true:

I for that truth's sake, and in honour bound

By reason of my son set free, resolve

The same, upon conditions, to believe,

And suffer all my people to believe,

Just terms exacted. Briefly these they are:

First, after death, I claim admittance frank

Into thy Heavenly Kingdom: next, till death

For me exemption from that Baptism Rite,

Imposed on kerne and hind. Experience-taught,

I love not rigid bond and written pledge:

‘ Tis well to brand your mark on sheep or lamb:

Kings are of lion breed; and of my house

‘ Tis known there never yet was king baptized.

This pact concluded, preach within my realm

Thy Faith; and wed my daughter to thy God.

Not scholarly am I to know what joy

A maid can find in psalm, and cell, and spouse

Unseen: yet ever thus my sentence stood,

‘ Choose each his way.’ My son restored, her loss

To me is loss the less.” Thus spake the king.

Then Patrick, on whose face the princess bent

The supplication softly strong of eyes

Like planets seen through mist, Eochaid's heart

Knowing, which miracle had hardened more,

Made answer, “King, a man of jests art thou,

Claiming free range in heaven, and yet its gate

Thyself close barring! In thy daughter's prayers

Belike thou trustest, that where others creep

Thou shalt its golden bastions over-fly.

Far otherwise than in that way thou ween'st,

That daughter's prayers shall speed thee. With thy word

I close, that word to frustrate. God be with thee!

Thou living, I return not. Fare thee well.”

Thus speaking, by the hand he took the maid,

And led her through the concourse. At her feet

The poor fell low, kissing her garment's hem,

And many brought their gifts, and all their prayers,

And old men wept. A maiden train snow-garbed,

Her steps attending, whitened plain and field,

As when at times dark glebe, new-turned, is changed

To white by flock of ocean birds alit,

Or inland blown by storm, or hunger-urged

To filch the late-sown grain. Her convent home

Ere long received her. There Ethembria ruled,

Green Erin's earliest nun. Of princely race,

She in past years before the font of Christ

Had knelt at Patrick's feet. Once more she sought him:

Over the lovely, lovelier change had passed,

As when on childish girlhood,‘ mid a shower

Of lilies earthward wafted, maidenhood

In peacefuller state assumes her spotless throne;

So, from that maiden, vestal now had risen: -

Lowlier she seemed, more tender, soft, and grave,

Yet loftier; hushed in quiet more divine,

Yet wonder-awed. Again she knelt, and o'er

The bending queenly head, till then unbent,

He flung that veil which woman bars from man

To make her more than woman. Nigh to death

The Saint forgat not her. With her remained

Keine; but Patrick dwelt far off at Saul.

Years came and went: yet neither chance nor change,

Nor war, nor peace, nor warnings from the priests,

Nor whispers‘ mid the omen-mongering crowd,

Might from Eochaid charm his wayward will,

Nor reasonings of the wise that still preferred

Safe port to victory's pride. He reasoned too,

For confident in his reasonings was the king,

Reckoning on pointed fingers every link

That clenched his mail of proof. “On Patrick's word

Ye tell me Baptism is the gate of Heaven:

Attend, Sirs! I have Patrick's word no less

That I shall enter Heaven. What need I more?

If, Death, truth-speaker, shows that Patrick lied,

Plain is my right against him! Heaven not won,

Patrick bare hence my daughter through a fraud:

He must restore her fourfold — daughters four,

As fair and good. If not, the prophet's pledge

For honour's sake his Master must redeem,

And unbaptized receive me. Dupes are ye!

Doomed‘ mid the common flock, with branded fleece

Bleating to enter Heaven!”

The years went by;

And weakness came. No more his small light form

To reverent eyes seemed taller than it was:

No more the shepherd watched him from the hill

Heading his hounds, and hoped to catch his smile,

Yet feared his questions keen. The end drew near.

Some wept, some railed; restless the warriors tramped;

The Druids conned their late discountenanced spells;

The bard his lying harpstrings spurned, so long

Healing, unhelpful now. But far away,

Within that lonely convent tower from her

Who prayed for ever, mightier rose the prayer.

Within the palace, now by usage old

To all flung open, all were sore amazed,

All save the king. The leech beside the bed

Sobbed where he stood, yet sware, “The fit will pass:

Ten years the King may live.” Eochaid frowned:

“Shall I, to patch thy fame, live ten years more,

My death-time come? My seventy years are sped:

My sire and grandsire died at sixty-nine.

Like Aodh, shall I lengthen out my days

Toothless, nor fit to vindicate my clan,

Some losel's song? The kingdom is my son's!

Strike from my little milk-white horse the shoes,

And loose him where the freshets make the mead

Greenest in springtide. He must die ere long;

And not to him did Patrick open Heaven.

Praise be to Patrick's God! May He my sins,

Known and unknown, forgive!”

Backward he sank

Upon his bed, and lay with eyes half closed,

Murmuring at times one prayer, five words or six;

And twice or thrice he spake of trivial things;

Then like an infant slumbered till the sun,

Sinking beneath a great cloud's fiery skirt,

Smote his old eyelids. Waking, in his ears

The ripening cornfields whispered‘ neath the breeze,

For wide were all the casements that the soul

By death delivered hindrance none might find

( Careful of this the king ); and thus he spake:

“Nought ever raised my heart to God like fields

Of harvest, waving wide from hill to hill,

All bread-full for my people. Hale me forth:

When I have looked once more upon that sight

My blessing I will give them, and depart.”

Then in the fields they laid him, and he spake.

“May He that to my people sends the bread,

Send grace to all who eat it!” With that word

His hands down-falling, back once more he sank,

And lay as dead; yet, sudden, rising not,

Nor moving, nor his eyes unclosing, said,

“My body in the tomb of ancient kings

Inter not till beside it Patrick stands

And looks upon my brow.” He spake, then sighed

A little sigh, and died.

Three days, as when

Black thunder cloud clings fast to mountain brows,

So to the nation clung the grief: three days

The lamentation sounded on the hills

And rang around the pale blue meres, and rose

Shrill from the bleeding heart of vale and glen,

And rocky isle, and ocean's moaning shore;

While by the bier the yellow tapers stood,

And on the right side knelt Eochaid's son,

Behind him all the chieftains cloaked in black;

And on his left his daughter knelt, the nun,

Behind her all her sisterhood, white-veiled,

Like tombstones after snowstorm. Far away,

At “Saul of Patrick,” dwelt the Saint when first

The king had sickened. Message sent he none

Though knowing all; and when the end was nigh,

And heralds now besought him day by day,

He made no answer till o'er eastern seas

Advanced the third fair morning. Then he rose,

And took the Staff of Jesus, and at eve

Beside the dead king standing, on his brow

Fixed a sad eye. Aloud the people wept;

The kneeling warriors eyed their lord askance;

The nuns intoned their hymn. Above that hymn

A cry rang out: it was the daughter's prayer;

And after that was silence. By the dead

Still stood the Saint, nor e'er removed his gaze.

Then — seen of all — behold, the dead king's hands

Rose slowly, as the weed on wave upheaved

Without its will; and all the strengthless shape

In cerements wrapped, as though by mastering voice

From the white void evoked and realm of death,

Without its will, a gradual bulk half rose,

The hoar head gazing forth. Upon the face

Had passed a change, the greatest earth may know;

For what the majesty of death began

The majesties of worlds unseen, and life

Resurgent ere its time, had perfected,

All accidents of flesh and sorrowful years

Cancelled and quelled. Yet horror from his eyes

Looked out as though some vision once endured

Must cling to them for ever. Patrick spake:

“Soul from the dead sent back once more to earth

What seek'st thou from God's Church?” He answer made,

“Baptism.” Then Patrick o'er him poured the might

Of healing waters in the Name Triune,

The Father, and the Son, and Holy Spirit;

And from his eyes the horror passed, and light

Went from them, as the light of eyes that rest

On the everlasting glory, while he spake:

“Tempest of darkness drave me past the gates

Celestial, and, a moment's space, within

I heard the hymning of the hosts of God

That feed for ever on the Bread of Life

As feed the nations on the harvest wheat.

Tempest of darkness drave me to the gates

Of Anguish: then a cry came up from earth,

Cry like my daughter's when her mother died,

That stayed the on-rushing whirlwind; yet mine eyes

Perforce looked in, and, many a thousand years,

Branded upon them lay that woful sight

Now washed from them for ever.” Patrick spake:

“This day a twofold choice I give thee, son;

For fifteen years the rule o'er Erin's land,

Rule absolute, Ard-Righ o'er lesser kings;

Or instant else to die, and hear once more

That hymn celestial, and that Vision see

They see who sing that anthem.” Light from God

Over that late dead countenance streamed amain,

Like to his daughter's now — more beauteous thrice -

Yet awful, more than beauteous. “Rule o'er earth,

Rule without end, were nought to that great hymn

Heard but a single moment. I would die.”

Then Patrick, on him gazing, answered, “Die!”

And died the king once more, and no man wept;

But on her childless breast the nun sustained

Softly her father's head.

That night discourse

Through hall and court circled in whispers low.

First one, “Was that indeed our king? But where

The sword-scar and the wrinkles?” “Where,” rejoined,

Wide-eyed, the next, “his little cranks and girds

The wisdom, and the whim?” Then Patrick spake:

“Sirs, till this day ye never saw your king;

The man ye doted on was but his mask,

His picture — yea, his phantom. Ye have seen

At last the man himself.” That night nigh sped,

While slowly o'er the darkling woods went down,

Warned by the cold breath of the up-creeping morn

Invisible yet nigh, the August moon,

Two vestals, gliding past like moonlight gleams,

Conversed: one said, “His daughter's prayer prevailed!”

The second, “Who may know the ways of God?

For this, may many a heart one day rejoice

In hope! For this, the gift to many a man

Exceed the promise; Faith's invisible germ

Quickened with parting breath; and Baptism given,

It may be, by an angel's hand unseen!”