Dark was the earth and dank ere yet he reached That spot; and lo! where lamb had lain, and dove Had mourned, and child had raced, there stood indeed High-raised, the Cross of Christ. Before it long He prayed, and kneeling, marked that on a tomb That Cross was raised. Then, inly moved by God, The Saint demanded, “Who, of them that walked The sun-warmed earth lies here in darkness hid?” And answer made a lamentable Voice: “Pagan I lived, my own soul’s bane:—when dead, Men buried here my body.” Patrick then: “How stands the Cross of Christ on Pagan grave?” And answered thus the lamentable Voice: “A woman’s work. She had been absent long; Her son had died; near mine his grave was made; Half blind was she through fleeting of her tears, And, erring, raised the Cross upon my tomb, Misdeeming it for his. Nightly she comes, Wailing as only Pagan mothers wail; So wailed my mother once, while pain tenfold Ran through my bodiless being. For her sake, If pity dwells on earth or highest heaven, May it this mourner comfort! Christian she, And capable of pity.”
Then the Saint Cried loud, “O God, Thou seest this Pagan’s heart, That love within it dwells: therefore not his That doom of Souls all hate, and self-exiled To whom Thy Presence were a woe twice told. Eternal Pity! pity Thou Thy work;— Sole Peace of them that love Thee, grant him peace.” Thus Patrick prayed; and in the heaven of heavens God heard his servant’s prayer. Then Patrick mused “Now know I why I passed that Cross unmarked; It was not that it seemed.”
As thus he knelt, Behold, upon the cold and bitter wind Rang wail on wail; and o’er the moor there moved What seemed a woman’s if a human form. That miserable phantom onward came With cry succeeding cry that sank or swelled As dipped or rose the moor. Arrived at last, She heeded not the Saint, but on that grave Dashed herself down. Long time that woman wailed; And Patrick, long, for reverence of her woe Forbore. At last he spake low-toned as when Best listener knows not when the strain begins. “Daughter! the sparrow falls not to the ground Without his Maker. He that made thy son Hath sent His Son to bear all woes of men, And vanquish every foe—the latest, Death.” Then rolled that woman on the Saint an eye As when the last survivor of a host Glares on some pitying conqueror. “Ho! the man That treads upon my grief! He ne’er had sons; And thou, O son of mine, hast left no sons, Though oft I said, ‘When I am old, his babes Shall climb my knees.’ My boast was mine in youth; But now mine age is made a barren stock And as a blighted briar.” In grief she turned; And as on blackening tarn gust follows gust, Again came wail on wail. On strode the night: The jagged forehead of that forest old Alone was seen: all else was gloom. At last With voice, though kind, upbraiding, Patrick spake: “Daughter, thy grief is wilful and it errs; Errs like those sad and tear-bewildered eyes That for a Christian’s take a Pagan’s grave, And for a son’s a stranger’s. Ah! poor child, Thy pride it was to raise, where lay thy son, A Cross, his memory’s honour. By thee close All dewed and glimmering in yon rising moon, Low lies a grave unhonoured, and unknown: No cross stands on it; yet upon its breast Graved shalt thou find what Christian tomb ne’er lacks, The Cross of Christ. Woman, there lies thy son.”