Secknall replied, “Low lies my second charge; a third remains, Which, as a shaft from seasoned bow, not green, Shall pierce the marl. With convents still you sow The land: in other countries sparse and small They swell to cities here. A hundred monks On one late barren mountain dig and pray: A hundred nuns gladden one woodland lawn, Or sing in one small island. Well—’tis well! Yet, balance lost and measure, nought is well. The Angelic Life more common will become Than life of mortal men.” The Saint replied, “No shaft from homicidal yew-tree bow Is thine, but winged of thistle-down! Now hear! Measure is good; but measure’s law with scale Changeth; nor doth the part reflect the whole. Each nation hath its gift, and each to all Not equal ministers. If all were eye, Where then were ear? If all were ear or hand, Where then were eye? The nation is the part; The Church the whole”—But Criemther where he stood, Old warrior, shouted like a chief war-waked, “This land is Eire! No nation lives like her! A part! Who portions Eire?” The Saint, with smile Resumed: “The whole that from the part receives, Repaying still that part, till man’s whole race Grow to the fulness of Mankind redeemed. What gift hath God in eminence given to Eire? Singly, her race is feeble; strong when knit: Nought knits them truly save a heavenly aim. I knit them as an army unto God, Give them God’s War! Yon star is militant! Its splendour ’gainst the dark must fight or die: So wars that Faith I preach against the world; And nations fitted least for this world’s gain Can speed Faith’s triumph best. Three hundred years, Well used, should make of Eire a northern Rome. Criemther! her destiny is this, or nought; Secknall! the highest only can she reach; Alone the Apostle’s crown is hers: for this, A Rule I give her, strong, yet strong in Love; Monastic households build I far and wide; Monastic clans I plant among her clans, With abbots for their chiefs. The same shall live, Long as God’s love o’errules them.”
Secknall then Knelt, reverent; yet his eye had in it mirth, And round the full bloom of the red rich mouth, No whit ascetic, ran a dim half smile. “Father, my charges three have futile fallen, And thrice, like some great warrior of the bards, Your conquering wheels above me you have driven. Brought low, I make confession. Once, in woods Wandering, we heard a sound, now loud, now low, As he that treads the sand-hills hears the sea High murmuring while he climbs the seaward slope, Low, as he drops to landward. ’Twas a throng Awed, yet tumultuous, wild-eyed, wondering, fierce, That, standing round a harper, stave on stave Acclaimed as each had ending. ‘War, still war!’ Thou saidst; ‘the bards but sing of War and Death! Ah! if they sang that Death which conquered Death, Then, like a tide, this people, music-drawn, Would mount the shores of Christ! Bards love not us, Prescient that power, that power wielded elsewhere By priest, but here by them, shall pass to us: Yet we love them for good one day their gift.’ Then didst thou turn on me an eye of might Such as on Malach, when thou had’st him raise By miracle of prayer that babe boar-slain, And said’st, ‘Go, fell thy pine, and frame thy harp, And in the hearing of this people sing Some Saint, the friend of Christ.’ Too long the attempt Shame-faced, I shunned; at last, like him of old, That better brother who refused, yet went, I made my hymn. ’Tis called ‘A Child of Life.’” Then Patrick, “Welcome is the praise of Saints: Sing thou thy hymn.”