The cold of Milcho's heart has winter-nipt
That glen he dwells in! From the sea it slopes
Unfinished, savage, like some nightmare dream,
Raked by an endless east wind of its own.
On wolf's milk was he suckled not on woman's!
To Milcho speed! Of Milcho claim belief!
Milcho will shrivel his small eye and say
He scorns to trust himself his father's son,
Nor deems his lands his own by right of race
But clutched by stress of brain! Old Milcho's God
Is gold. Forbear him, sir, or ere you seek him
Make smooth your way with gold."

Thus Dichu spake;
And Patrick, after musings long, replied:
"Faith is no gift that gold begets or feeds,
Oftener by gold extinguished. Unto God,
Unbribed, unpurchased, yearns the soul of man;
Yet finds perforce in God its great reward.
Not less this Milcho deems I did him wrong,
His slave, yet fleeing. To requite that loss
Gifts will I send him first by messengers
Ere yet I see his face."

Then Patrick sent
His messengers to Milcho, speaking thus:
"If ill befell thy herds through flight of mine
Fourfold that loss requite I, lest, for hate
Of me, thou disesteem my Master's Word.
Likewise I sue thy friendship; and I come