A trouble lurked in the monarch’s eye When the guest he counted for dead drew nigh: He sat in state at his palace gate; His chiefs and nobles were ranged around; The Druids like ravens smelt some far fate; Their eyes were gloomily bent on the ground. Then spake Laeghaire: “He comes—beware! Let none salute him, or rise from his chair!”
Like some still vision men see by night, Mitred, with eyes of serene command, Saint Patrick moved onward in ghostly white: The Staff of Jesus was in his hand; Twelve priests paced after him unafraid, And the boy, Benignus, more like a maid; Like a maid just wedded he walked and smiled, To Christ new plighted, that priestly child.
They entered the circle; their anthem ceased; The Druids their eyes bent earthward still: On Patrick’s brow the glory increased As a sunrise brightening some sea-beat hill. The warriors sat silent: strange awe they felt: The chief bard, Dubtach, rose and knelt:
Then Patrick discoursed of the things to be When time gives way to eternity, Of kingdoms that fall, which are dreams not things, And the Kingdom built by the King of kings. Of Him he spake who reigns from the Cross; Of the death which is life, and the life which is loss; How all things were made by the Infant Lord, And the small hand the Magian kings adored. His voice sounded on like a throbbing flood That swells all night from some far-off wood, And when it ended—that wondrous strain— Invisible myriads breathed “Amen!”
While he spake, men say that the refluent tide On the shore by Colpa ceased to sink: They say that the white stag by Mulla’s side O’er the green marge bending forbore to drink: That the Brandon eagle forgat to soar; That no leaf stirred in the wood by Lee: Such stupor hung the island o’er, For none might guess what the end would be.
Then whispered the king to a chief close by, “It were better for me to believe than die!”
Yet the king believed not; but ordinance gave That whoso would might believe that word: So the meek believed, and the wise, and brave, And Mary’s Son as their God adored. And the Druids, because they could answer nought, Bowed down to the Faith the stranger brought. That day on Erin God poured His Spirit: Yet none like the chief of the bards had merit, Dubtach! He rose and believed the first, Ere the great light yet on the rest had burst.