Tenderest for all its sadness, rang at last
With hymns of men and angels. Onward sailed
High o'er the long, unbreaking, azure waves
A mighty moon, full-faced, as though on winds
Of rapture borne. With earliest red of dawn
Northward once more the winged war-ships rushed
Swift as of old to that long hated shore -
Not now with axe and torch. His Name they bare
Who linked in one the nations.

On a cliff
Where Fochlut's Wood blackened the northern sea
A convent rose. Therein those sisters twain
Whose cry had summoned Patrick o'er the deep,
Abode, no longer weepers. Pallid still,
In radiance now their faces shone; and sweet
Their psalms amid the clangour of rough brine.
Ten years in praise to God and good to men
That happy precinct housed them. In their morn
Grief had for them her great work perfected;
Their eve was bright as childhood. When the hour
Came for their blissful transit, from their lips
Pealed forth ere death that great triumphant chant
Sung by the Virgin Mother. Ages passed;
And, year by year, on wintry nights, THAT song
Alone the sailors heard--a cry of joy.



SAINT PATRICK AND KING LAEGHAIRE.