Classic Poem

22

Noble Noah, the slim, white-sided son of Lamech, put out a pole; the agile fellow got a hold; he inhabited the world after the deluge. Only one group of eight, two quartets of companions escaped death by the dark flood of the progeny of the warrior Adam. Two companions of every species was the load of the red-planked bark; many were the couples in the ship caused by the woundings of the apple. The deluge ebbed away from the world — praise to the Father — and the misty canopy was taken from the slim, slender son of Lamech. He thought — slight the result — of a small occupation to feed them; hunting throughout the world was the craft he loved after the fruits of the earth had rotted. He stretched forth along the field the fair timber of a plough; the scriptural authority says that the pole was put there. He invented long ago the plough to follow oxen, he ordained the ploughshare to direct it, he divised the coulter in its slender, wooden socket to divide the furrows. He sent forth the haughty teams of oxen, he ordained the goad to urge them on; there were eight on the servile march in the group and one man driving it. What was the pole that the son of Lamech of the decorated ships put forth? I will speak of the meaning of the timber; O God, may it be easy for me. The tree is — right the judgment — correct, authoritative faith; the eight oxen we have mentioned — I find no fault — are the race of Adam. The ploughman of the curved timber is the man who fasts and fulfills the obligations of piety; the bright, swift driver is the versatile churchman. The tongue of the cleric inciting us is the goad urging on the oxen; the coulter is the heart — it is a division of repentance. What use is a coulter in the earth without the ploughshare following behind? The earth does not fall away from its neck without the share's being driven along on its heels. The best recipe for seeking heaven is confession and repentance; I seek repentance rather than sin — that is for me the most productive thing on earth. O ploughman who holds the shaft, let us engage in splendid ploughing upon the furrow without lack of good heart or good discipline. There are a dark-brown clod of earth, a bright, green clod that are wont to be along the furrow; though the green one is the more sightly, no seed grows from it. Not so is the other clod, that of the corn-rich loam; though one's sole be dirtied and one's shoe darkened, abundant produce come from that earth. The loamy, upper sod is confession that conceals nothing; the green, grassy, overgrown thicket is the complacent and loud-mouthed man. Confession is the ploughshare that opens up the wholesome earth; it takes gloom from the heart — it and repentance are two sisters. Confession with its grass showing is a creation pleasing to the eye but fraught with filth; the craftsman of the elements is displeased with it when the earth-side is not uppermost. Let us throw up the brown earth, let us hide the side of the grass, fair to look upon; let us moreover plant seed — what point would there be in ploughing without that? From the left-hand side seed is sown against Jesus, the High King; it would be a disgrace not to explain the practice: it is the right hand that is to do the broadcasting. The right hand that does the broadcasting means heaven of the holy feats; the other hand, the empty left one, means the earthly fruit. The seed is the secular tree that bends towards heaven of the holy deeds; the way after it has been ploughed, is the lawn of heaven among the saints. The showery day in harvest-time is the mighty day of judgment; it will be then that it will be ripe enough to reap, on the morning of the great Monday yonder. Let us sow the seed thickly and heavily — corn does not come without the ear; he who is lying in the house or sitting down, he will rise up. Imperfectly do I understand the heavenly reward; poorly do I deserve it and poorly do I seek it; too frequent is my delight at the gaming-board — slothful trout are caught on a hook. I shall not hide the erupting, virulent abscess in my heart; may the coulter come to my swelling to burst it open, O King of heaven. The first eight sins of the world lie in my path; a perilous stake is piercing me — eight wounds from one body. May my confession and my repentance completely purify my heart; so that I may sweep on yonder hearth may it not be a bargain made with a harsh fortune.EnglishGiolla Brighde Mac Con Midhe