Upon a spur Of Sleemish, eastward on its northern slope, Stood Patrick and his brethren, travel-worn, When distant o’er the brown and billowy moor Rose the white smoke, that changed ere long to flame, From site unknown; for by the seaward crest That keep lay hidden. Hands to forehead raised, Wondering they watched it. One to other spake: “The huge Dalriad forest is afire Ere melted are the winter’s snows!” Another, “In vengeance o’er the ocean Creithe or Pict, Favoured by magic, or by mist, have crossed, And fired old Milcho’s ships.” But Patrick leaned Upon his crosier, pale as the ashes wan Left by a burned out city. Long he stood Silent, till, sudden, fiercelier soared the flame Reddening the edges of a cloud low hung; And, after pause, vibration slow and stern Troubling the burthened bosom of the air, Upon a long surge of the northern wind Came up—a murmur as of wintry seas Far borne at night. All heard that sound; all felt it; One only know its import. Patrick turned; “The deed is done: the man I would have saved Is dead, because he willed to disbelieve.” Yet Patrick grieved for Milcho, nor that hour Passed further north. Three days on Sleemish hill He dwelt in prayer. To Tara’s royal halls Then turned he, and subdued the royal house And host to Christ, save Erin’s king, Laeghaire. But Milcho’s daughters twain to Christ were born In baptism, and each Emeria named: Like rose-trees in the garden of the Lord Grew they and flourished. Dying young, one grave Received them at Cluanbrain. Healing thence 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, Who spake, “Come up at noon and show Who lit thy fire and with what intent: These things the great king Laeghaire would know.” But Laeghaire had hid twelve men by the way, Who swore by the sun the Saint to slay.