A Celtic Psaltery Part 5

THE HYMN OF ST. PHILIP

(From the Early Irish)

Philip the Apostle holy At an Aonach[A] once was telling Of the immortal birds and shapely Afar in Inis Eidheand dwelling.

East of Africa abiding They perform a labour pleasant; Unto earth there comes no colour That on their pinions is not present.

Since the fourth Creation morning When their G.o.d from dust outdrew them, Not one plume has from them perished, And not one bird been added to them.

Seven fair streams with all their channels Pierce the plains wherethrough they flutter, Round whose banks the birds go feeding, Then soar thanksgiving songs to utter.

Midnight is their hour apportioned, When, on magic coursers mounted, Through the starry skies they circle, To chants of angel choirs uncounted.

Of the foremost birds the burthen Most melodiously unfolded Tells of all the works of wonder G.o.d wrought before the world He moulded.

Then a sweet crowd heavenward lifted, When the nocturn bells are pealing, Chants His purposes predestined Until the Day of Doom's revealing.

Next a flock whose thoughts are blessed, Under twilight's curls dim sweeping, Hymn G.o.d's wondrous words of Judgment When His Court of Doom is keeping.

One and forty on a hundred And a thousand, without lying, Was their number, joined to virtue, Put upon each bird-flock flying.

Who these faultless birds should hearken, Thus their strains of rapture linking, For the very transport of it, Unto death would straight be sinking.

Pray for us, O mighty Mary!

When earth's bonds no more are binding, That these birds our souls may solace, In the Land of Philip's finding.

[Footnote A: A fair, or open-air a.s.sembly.]

Lays of Monk and Hermit

THE SCRIBE

(From the Early Irish)

For weariness my hand writes ill, My small sharp quill runs rough and slow; Its slender beak with failing craft Gives forth its draught of dark blue flow.

And yet G.o.d's blessed wisdom gleams And streams beneath my fair brown palm, The while quick jets of holly ink The letters link of prayer or psalm.

So still my dripping pen is fain To cross the plain of parchment white, Unceasing, at some rich man's call, Till wearied all am I to-night.

THE HERMIT'S SONG

(See _Eriu_, vol. I, p. 39, where the Irish text will be found. It dates from the ninth century)

I long, O Son of the living G.o.d, Ancient, eternal King, For a hidden hut on the wilds untrod, Where Thy praises I might sing; A little, lithe lark of plumage grey To be singing still beside it, Pure waters to wash my sin away, When Thy Spirit has sanctified it.

Hard by it a beautiful, whispering wood Should stretch, upon either hand, To nurse the many-voiced fluttering brood In its shelter green and bland.

Southward, for warmth, should my hermitage face, With a runnel across its floor, In a choice land gifted with every grace, And good for all manner of store.

A few true comrades I next would seek To mingle with me in prayer, Men of wisdom, submissive, meek; Their number I now declare, Four times three and three times four, For every want expedient, Sixes two within G.o.d's Church door, To north and south obedient; Twelve to mingle their voices with mine At prayer, whate'er the weather, To Him Who bids His dear sun s.h.i.+ne On the good and ill together.

Pleasant the Church with fair Ma.s.s cloth, No dwelling for Christ's declining To its crystal candles, of bees-wax both, On the pure, white Scriptures s.h.i.+ning.

Beside it a hostel for all to frequent, Warm with a welcome for each, Where mouths, free of boasting and ribaldry, vent But modest and innocent speech.

These aids to support us my husbandry seeks, I name them now without hiding-- Salmon and trout and hens and leeks, And the honey-bees' sweet providing.

Raiment and food enow will be mine From the King of all gifts and all graces; And I to be kneeling, in rain or s.h.i.+ne, Praying to G.o.d in all places.

CRINOG

A.D. 900-1000

This poem relates "to one who lived like a sister or spiritual wife with a priest, monk, or hermit, a practice which, while early suppressed and abandoned everywhere else, seems to have survived in the Irish Church till the tenth century."

Crinog of melodious song, No longer young, but bashful-eyed, As when we roved Niall's Northern Land, Hand in hand, or side by side.

Peerless maid, whose looks ran o'er With the lovely lore of Heaven, By whom I slept in dreamless joy, A gentle boy of summers seven.

We dwelt in Banva's broad domain, Without one stain of soul or sense; While still mine eye flashed forth on thee Affection free of all offence.

To meet thy counsel quick and just, Our faithful trust responsive springs; Better thy wisdom's searching force Than any smooth discourse with kings.

In sinless sisterhood with men, Four times since then, hast thou been bound, Yet not one rumour of ill-fame Against thy name has travelled round.

At last, their weary wanderings o'er, To me once more thy footsteps tend; The gloom of age makes dark thy face, Thy life of grace draws near its end.

O, faultless one and very dear, Unstinted welcome here is thine.

h.e.l.l's haunting dread I ne'er shall feel, So thou be kneeling at my side.

Thy blessed fame shall ever bide, For far and wide thy feet have trod.

Could we their saintly track pursue, We yet should view the Living G.o.d.

You leave a pattern and bequest To all who rest upon the earth-- A life-long lesson to declare Of earnest prayer the precious worth.

G.o.d grant us peace and joyful love!

And may the countenance of Heaven's King Beam on us when we leave behind Our bodies blind and withering.