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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 73 |
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Gossip there were who, wondrous keen of ken, Surmised that he must be a child of shame;
Others declared him of the Druids, then —
Thro' Patrick's labors—fallen from power and fame. |
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He lived apart, wrapt up in many plans;
He wooed not women, tasted not of wine; He shunned the sports and councils of the clans;
Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine. His orisons were old poetic ranns
Which the new Olamhs deem'd an evil sign; To most he seemed one of those Pagan Khans
Whose mystic vigor knows no cold decline.
He was the builder of the wondrous Towers,
Which, tall and straight and exquisitely round, Rise monumental round this isle of ours,
Index-like, marking spots of holy ground. In glooming silent glens, in lowland bowers,
On river banks, these Cloichteachs old abound, Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hours
And Science ponders, wondering and spell-bound.
Lo, wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire,
Heroes and holy men repose below ; The bones of some, gleaned from a pagan pyre,
Others in armor lie, as for a foe; It was the mighty Master's life-desire
To chronicle his great ancestors so; What holier duty, what achievement higher
Remains to us, than this he thus doth show ? |
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