So rushed they on From all sides, and, close met, in circling storm Besieged the enclouded steep of Cruachan, That scarce the difference knew ’twixt night and day More than the sunless pole. Him sought they, him Whom infinitely near they might approach, Not touch, while firm his faith—their Foe that dragged, Sole-kneeling on that wood-girt mountain’s base, With both hands forth their realm’s foundation stone. Thus ruin filled the mountain: day by day The forest torment deepened; louder roared The great aisles of the devastated woods; Black cave replied to cave; and oaks, whole ranks, Colossal growth of immemorial years, Sown ere Milesius landed, or that race He vanquished, or that earliest Scythian tribe, Fell in long line, like deep-mined castle wall, At either side God’s warrior. Slowly died At last, far echoed in remote ravines, The thunder: then crept forth a little voice That shrilly whispered to him thus in scorn: “Two thousand years yon race hath walked in blood Neck-deep; and shall it serve thy Lord of Peace?” That whisper ceased. Again from all sides burst Tenfold the storm; and as it waxed, the Saint Waxed in strong heart; and, kneeling with stretched hands, Made for himself a panoply of prayer, And wound it round his bosom twice and thrice, And made a sword of comminating psalm, And smote at them that mocked him. Day by day, Till now the second Sunday’s vesper bell Gladdened the little churches round the isle, That conflict raged: then, maddening in their ire, Sudden the Princedoms of the Dark, that rode This way and that way through the tempest, brake Their sceptres, and with one great cry it fell: At once o’er all was silence: sunset lit The world, that shone as though with face upturned It gazed on heavens by angel faces thronged And answered light with light. A single bird Carolled; and from the forest skirt down fell, Gem-like, the last drops of the exhausted storm.
Then bowed the Saint his forehead to the ground Thanking his God; and there in sacred trance, Which was not sleep, abode not hours alone But silent nights and days; and, ’mid that trance, God fed his heart with unseen Sacraments, Immortal food. Awaking, Patrick felt Yearnings for nearer commune with his God, Though great its cost; and gat him on his feet, And, mile by mile, ascended through the woods Till stunted were its growths; and still he clomb Printing with sandalled foot the dewy steep: But when above the mountain rose the moon Brightening each mist, while sank the prone morass In double night, he came upon a stone Tomb-shaped, that flecked that steep: a little stream Dropped by it from the summits to the woods: Thereon he knelt; and was once more in prayer.