Classic Poem

Love makes man's like a glory; Hate, a hell;
A warning to all warriors, this I tell:

Strongest of the Fini, he, the Prince, alone
Knelt by the river, sad, and made his moan.
His lands were wide, his people staunch and true,
And in his palace four fair children grew.

His wife was Ethna, Princess mild of Meath,
Graceful and tall — a lily in its sheath.
The Mass was said each day beneath his roof,
And evil from his household held aloof.

And he had seen great Patrick when he came,
At Paschal time, and lighted Christian flame.
And he had seen the saint make poison good
By words of prayer, while hatred near him stood.

And only in defense of clan and life,
Since he had learned of Christ, had he made strife.
But though his cattle grazed in richest green,
Black spots and red spots by the river's sheen;

And though his bards his prowess daily sang,
His moans beside the reedy river rang
At fall of night — some piercing loud and shrill,
Others that brought to hearers death-like chill.

" Forgive, forgive! " he murmured; " oh! forgive!
How can I bear my load of sin and live?
Oh! words of fire you spoke, great Patrick, Saint,
Ere the clear stream had washed from me sin's taint.

" Even Red Conn, the slayer of your kin,
Forgive, forgive, if you would Heaven win."
" He slew my men ." " Forgive," the Saint replied,
" Though through his wrath your clansmen oft have died."

" Forgive," he said. " He laughed my threats to scorn! "

" Forgive, forgive! and win eternal morn."
" Forgive Red Conn, and hurt him not, I pray;
Your sister's son is he. Forgive, I say!"

" Let me but fight for Christ with sword and brand — "
" Thou canst not fight thy sin with carnal hand!"
And then I promised, and the water flowed,
And all my heart with love of Patrick glowed.

Conn came not near me; hid he dark and deep
In marsh and bog where strange, wild creatures sleep.
Once, when I thought of clansmen cold and dead,
Killed by his hand ere he to bogs had fled,

My wrath awoke, but dying soon in peace,
It to my better musings gave release.
Peace made me proud. One day I chased the deer,
And found my enemy crouched low in fear

Among the fern. I made a bound at him;
He fled, not fighting, to this river's brim.
Pale, worn, he was; my hatred quick awoke,
But in my heart the voice of Patrick spoke.

" Forgive, forgive!" I heard the whisper run
All through the reeds. " Remember Mary's Son."
I listened not: I drove Conn to his knee;
His eyes were like a deer's in agony.

My brain was drunk with rage, my blood was fire,
His death — the death of Conn was my desire.
His eyes were all that spoke; the whispering leaves
Said, " Oh! forgive; great Patrick for you grieves."

I struck him down, and then looked in his face.
O Christ! O God! how I did lose Thy grace!
I saw his face! 'Twas Conn's no more! O sight!
Wouldst Thou hadst shriveled me, O Lord of light!

I saw His face, as He is on the cross!
There He lay prone upon the sodden moss.
The blood was His, not Conn's, that reddened all
The little shallows where the reeds grew tall. "

*****

And, as the world shall last, the legends say,
Sweet Ethna's husband moans his life away.
Among the reeds his sighing all may hear;
And may it such grace-losing make us fear!

For Love makes life a glory; Hate is vain,
Except to wound our Saviour's heart again.