To many from their relics passed; to more
The spirit's happier healing, Love and Faith.



SAINT PATRICK AT TARA.

The King is wroth with a greater wrath
Than the wrath of Nial or the wrath of Conn!
From his heart to his brow the blood makes path,
And hangs there, a red cloud, beneath his crown.

Is there any who knows not, from south to north,
That Laeghaire to-morrow his birthday keeps?
No fire may be lit upon hill or hearth
Till the King's strong fire in its kingly mirth
Up rushes from Tara's palace steeps!

Yet Patrick has lighted his Paschal fire
At Slane--it is holy Saturday -
And blessed his font 'mid the chaunting choir!
From hill to hill the flame makes way;
While the king looks on it his eyes with ire
Flash red, like Mars, under tresses grey.

The chiefs and the captains with drawn swords rose:
To avenge their Lord and the Realm they swore;
The Druids rose and their garments tore;
"The strangers to us and our Gods are foes!"
Then the king to Patrick a herald sent,