She rose; she found that other tomb; she knelt; And o’er it went her wandering palms, as though Some stone-blind mother o’er an infant’s face Should spread an agonising hand, intent To choose betwixt her own and counterfeit; She found that cross deep-grav’n, and further sign Close by, to her well known. One piercing shriek— Another moment, and her body lay Along that grave with kisses, and wild hands As when some forest beast tears up the ground, Seeking its prey there hidden. Then once more Rang the wild wail above that lonely heath, While roared far off the vast invisible woods, And with them strove the blast, in eddies dire Whirling both branch and bough. Through hurrying clouds The scared moon rushed like ship that naked glares One moment, lightning-lighted in the storm, Anon in wild waves drowned. An hour went by: Still wailed that woman, and the tempest roared; While in the heart of ruin Patrick prayed. He loved that woman. Unto Patrick dear, Dear as God’s Church was still the single Soul, Dearest the suffering Soul. He gave her time; He let the floods of anguish spend themselves: But when her wail sank low; when woods were mute, And where the skiey madness late had raged Shone the blue heaven, he spake with voice in strength Gentle like that which calmed the Syrian lake, “My sister, God hath shown me of thy wound, And wherefore with the blind old Pagan’s cry Hopeless thou mourn’st. Returned from far, thou found’st Thy son had Christian died, and saw’st the Cross On Christian graves: and ill thy heart endured That tomb so dear should lack its reverence meet. To him thou gav’st the Cross, albeit that Cross Inly thou know’st not yet. That knowledge thine, Thou hadst not left thy son amerced of prayer, And given him tears, not succour.” “Yea,” she said, “Of this new Faith I little understand, Being an aged woman and in woe: But since my son was Christian, such am I; And since the Christian tomb is decked with Cross He shall not lack his right.”
Then Patrick spake: “O woman, hearken, for through me thy son Invokes thee. All night long for thee, unknown, My hands have risen: but thou hast raised no prayer For him, thy dearest; nor from founts of God, Though brimful, hast thou drawn for lips that thirst. Arise, and kneel, and hear thy loved one’s cry: Too long he waiteth. Blessed are the dead: They rest in God’s high Will. But more than peace, The rapturous vision of the Face of God, Won by the Cross of Christ—for that they thirst As thou, if viewless stood thy son close by, Wouldst thirst to see his countenance. Eyes sin-sealed Not yet can see their God. Prayer speeds the time: The living help the dead; all praise to Him Who blends His children in a league of help, Making all good one good. Eternal Love! Not thine the will that love should cease with life, Or, living, cease from service, barren made, A stagnant gall eating the mourner’s heart That hour when love should stretch a hand of might Up o’er the grave to heaven. O great in love, Perfect love’s work: for well, sad heart, I know, Hadst thou not trained thy son in virtuous ways, Christian he ne’er had been.”