The Legends of Saint Patrick by Aubrey de Vere
page 50 of 195 (25%)
page 50 of 195 (25%)
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Fronted the confine of that forest old.
Then entered they that darkness; and the wood Closed as a cavern round them. O'er its roof Leaned roof of cloud, and hissing ran the wind, And moaned the trunks for centuries hollowed out Yet stalwart still. There, rooted in the rock, Stood the huge growths, by us unnamed, that frowned Perhaps on Partholan, the parricide, When that first Pagan settler fugitive Landed, a man foredoomed. Between the stems The ravening beast now glared, now fled. Red leaves, The last year's phantoms, rattled here and there. The oldest wood that ever grew in Eire Was Fochlut Wood, and gloomiest. Spirits of Ill Made it their palace, and its labyrinths sowed With poisons. Many a cave, with horrors thronged Within it yawned, and many a chasm unseen Waited the unwary treader. Cry of wolf Pierced the cold air, and gibbering ghosts were heard; And o'er the black marsh passed those wandering lights That lure lost feet. A thousand pathways wound From gloom to gloom. One only led to light: That path was sharp with flints. Then Patrick mused, "O life of man, how dark a wood art thou! Erring how many track thee till Despair, Sad host, receives them in his crypt-like porch At nightfall." Mute he paced. The brethren feared; |
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