Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SAINT PATRICK AND THE IMPOSTOR, by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE Poem Explanation Poet's Biography First Line: In uladh, near magh inis, lived a chief Subject(s): Impostors And Imposture; Patrick, Saint (5th Century) | ||||||||
In Uladh, near Magh Inis, lived a chief, Fierce man and fell. From orphaned childhood he Through lawless youth to blood-stained middle age Had rushed as stormy morn to stormier noon, Working, except that still he spared the poor, All wrongs with iron will; a child of death. Thus spake he to his followers, while the woods Snow-cumbered creaked, their scales of icy mail Angered by winter winds: "At last he comes, He that deceives the people with great signs, And for the tinkling of a little gold Preaches new Gods. Where rises yonder smoke Beyond the pinewood, camps this Lord of Dupes: How say ye? Shall he track o'er Uladh's plains, As o'er the land beside, his venomous way? Forth with your swords! and if that God he serves Can save him, let him prove it!" Dark with wrath Thus spake Mac Kyle; and all his men approved, Shouting, while downward fell the snows hard-caked Loosened by shock of forest-echoed hands, Save Garban. Crafty he, and full of lies, That thing which Patrick hated. Sideway first Glancing, as though some secret foe were nigh, He spake: "Mac Kyle! a counsel for thine ear! A man of counsel I, as thou of war! The people love this stranger. Patrick slain, Their wrath will blaze against us, and demand An eric for his head. Let us by craft Unravel first his craft: then safe our choice; We slay a traitor, or great ransom take: Impostors lack not gold. Lay me as dead Upon a bier: above me spread yon cloth, And make your wail: and when the seer draws nigh Worship him, crying, 'Lo, our friend is dead! Kneel, prophet, kneel, and pray that God thou serv'st To raise him.' If he kneels, no prophet he, But like the race of mortals. Sweep the cloth Straight from my face; then, laughing, I will rise." Thus counselled Garban; and the counsel pleased; Yet pleased not God. Upon a bier, branch-strewn, They laid their man, and o'er him spread a cloth; Then, moving towards that smoke behind the pines, They found the Saint and brought him to that bier, And made their moan-and Garban 'neath that cloth Smiled as he heard it-"Lo, our friend is dead! Great prophet kneel; and pray the God thou serv'st To raise him from the dead." The man of God Upon them fixed a sentence-speaking eye: "Yea! he is dead. In this ye have not lied: Behold, this day shall Garban's covering be The covering of the dead. Remove that cloth." Then drew they from his face the cloth; and lo! Beneath it Garban lay, a corpse stone-cold. Amazement fell upon that bandit throng, Contemplating that corpse, and on Mac Kyle Grief for his friend, remorse, and strong belief, A threefold power: for she that at his birth, Her brief life faithful to that Law she knew, Had died, in region where desires are crowned 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." Then Patrick where he stood Above the dead, with hands uplifted preached To these in anguish and in terror bowed The tidings of great joy from Bethlehem's Crib To Calvary's Cross. Sudden upon his knees, Heart-pierced, as though he saw that Head thorn-pierced, Fell that wild chief, and was baptised to God; And, lifting up his great strong hands, while still The waters streamed adown his matted locks, He cried, "Alas, my master, and my sire! I sinned a mighty sin; for in my heart Fixed was my purpose, soon as thou hadst knelt, To slay thee with my sword. Therefore judge thou What eric I must pay to quit my sin?" Him Patrick answered, "God shall be thy Judge: Arise, and to the seaside flee, as one That flies his foe. There shalt thou find a boat Made of one hide: eat nought, and nothing take Except one cloak alone: but in that boat Sit thou, and bear the sin-mark on thy brow, Facing the waves, oarless and rudderless; And bind the boat chain thrice around thy feet, And fling the key with strength into the main, Far as thou canst: and wheresoe'er the breath Of God shall waft thee, there till death abide Working the Will Divine." Then spake that chief, "I, that commanded others, can obey; Such lore alone is mine: but for this man That sinned my sin, alas, to see him thus!" To whom the Saint, "For him, when thou art gone, My prayer shall rise. If God will raise the dead He knows: not I." Then rose that chief, and rushed Down to the shore, as one that flies his foe; Nor ate, nor drank, nor spake to wife or child, But loosed a little boat, of one hide made, And sat therein, and round his ankles wound The boat chain thrice; and flung the key far forth Above the ridged sea foam. The Lord of all Gave ordinance to the wind, and, as a leaf Swift rushed that boat, oarless and rudderless, Over the on-shouldering, broad-backed, glaucous wave Slow-rising like the rising of a world, And purple wastes beyond, with funeral plume Crested, a pallid pomp. All night the chief Under the roaring tempest heard the voice That preached the Son of Man; and when the morn Shone out, his coracle drew near the surge Reboant on Manann's Isle. Not unbeheld Rose it, and fell; not unregarded danced A black spot on the inrolling ridge, then hung Suspense upon the mile-long cataract That, overtoppling, changed grass-green to light, And drowned the shores in foam. Upon the sands Two white-haired Elders in the salt air knelt, Offering to God their early orisons, Coninri and Romael. Sixty years These two unto a hard and stubborn race Had preached the Word; and gaining by their toil But thirty souls, had daily prayed their God To send ere yet they died some ampler arm, And reap the ill-grown harvest of their youth. Ten years they prayed, not doubting, and from God, Who hastens not, this answer had received, "Ye shall not die until ye see his face." Therefore, each morning, peered they o'er the waves, Long-watching. These through breakers dragged the man, Their wished-for prize, half-frozen, and nigh to death, And bare him to their cell, and warmed and fed him, And heaped his couch with skins. Deep sleep he slept Till evening lay upon the level sea With roses strewn like bridal chamber's floor; Within it one star shone. Rested, he woke And sought the shore. From earth, and sea, and sky, Then passed into his spirit the Spirit of Love; And there he vowed his vow, fierce chief no more, But soldier of the cross. The weeks ran on, And daily those grey Elders ministered God's teaching to that chief, demanding still, "Son, understandst thou? Gird thee like a man To clasp, and hold, the total Faith of Christ, And give us leave to die." The months fled fast: Ere violets bloomed, he knew the creed; and when Far heathery hills purpled the autumnal air, He sang the psalter whole. That tale he told Had power, and Patrick's name. His strenous arm Labouring with theirs, reaped harvest heavy and sound, Till wondering gazed their wearied eyes on barns Knee-deep in grain. At last an eve there fell, When, on the shore in commune, with such might Discoursed that pilgrim of the things of God, Such insight calm, and wisdom reverence-born, Each on the other gazing in their hearts Received once more an answer from the Lord, "Now is your task completed: ye shall die." Then on the red sand knelt those Elders twain With hands upraised, and all their hoary hair Tinged like the foam-wreaths by that setting sun, And sang their "Nunc Dimittis." At its close High on the sandhills, 'mid the tall hard grass That sighed eternal o'er the unbounded waste With ceaseless yearnings like their own for death They found the place where first, that bark descried, Their sighs were changed to songs. That spot they marked, And said, "Our resurrection place is here:" And, on the third day dying, in that place The man who loved them laid them, at their heads Planting one cross because their hearts were one And one their lives. The snowy-breasted bird Of ocean o'er their undivided graves Oft flew with wailing note; but they rejoiced 'Mid God's high realm glittering in endless youth. These two with Christ, on him, their son in Christ Their mantle fell; and strength to him was given. Long time he toiled alone; then round him flocked Helpers from far. At last, by voice of all He gat the Island's great episcopate, And king-like ruled the region. This is he, Mac Kyle of Uladh, bishop, and Penitent, Saint Patrick's missioner in Manann's Isle, Sinner one time, and, after sinner, Saint World-famous. May his prayer for sinners plead! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN IRISH FANTASY by JOHN FRANKLIN BLUNT THE PURGATORY OF SAINT PATRICK by PEDRO CALDERON DE LA BARCA THE WEARER OF THE GREEN; TO MY FRIEND JOHN JAMES DONOGHUE, M.D. by DAVID MERRITT CARLYLE ST. PATRICK [OF IRELAND, MY DEAR!] by WILLIAM MAGINN ST. 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