THE STRIVING OF SAINT PATRICK ON MOUNT CRUACHAN.

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 full-sphered,

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,

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 Milchoe'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,

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

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 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 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

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,

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

Once more, nor ceased from pealing. Over all

Night ruled, except when blue and forked 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,

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 crozier staff, and slept; and in his sleep

God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments,

Manna of might divine. Three days he slept;

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 aerial 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 Accursed thronged

Making thick night which neither earth nor sky

Could pierce, from sense expunged. In phalanx now,

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

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

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 thee 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.”

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,

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 then?” 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 Mother.” 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;

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 aerial 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 reply:

“Down knelt in Heaven the Angelic Orders Nine,

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,

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 crozier-staff forth from His glory-cloud

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.”