A Celtic Psaltery Part 3
I invoke, on my journey arising, The power of Christ's Birth and Baptizing, The powers of the hours of His dread Crucifixion, Of His Death and Abode in the Tomb, The power of the hour of His glorious Resurrection From out the Gehenna of gloom, The power of the hour when to Heaven He ascended, And the power of the hour when by Angels attended, He returns for the Judgment of Doom!
On my perilous way To Tara to-day, I, Patrick, G.o.d's servant, Invoke from above The Cherubim's love!
Yea! I summon the might of the Company fervent Of Angel obedient, ministrant Archangel To speed and to prosper my Irish Evangel.
I go forth on my path in the trust Of the gathering to G.o.d of the Just; In the power of the Patriarchs' prayers; The foreknowledge of Prophets and Seers; The Apostles' pure preaching; The Confessors' sure teaching; The virginity blest of G.o.d's Dedicate Daughters, And the lives and the deaths of His Saints and His Martyrs!
I arise to-day in the strength of the heaven, The glory of the sun, The radiance of the moon, The splendour of fire and the swiftness of the levin, The wind's flying force, The depth of the sea, The earth's steadfast course, The rock's austerity.
I arise on my way, With G.o.d's Strength for my stay, G.o.d's Might to protect me, G.o.d's Wisdom to direct me, G.o.d's Eye to be my providence, G.o.d's Ear to take my evidence, G.o.d's Word my words to order, G.o.d's Hand to be my warder, G.o.d's Way to lie before me, G.o.d's Shield and Buckler o'er me, G.o.d's Host Unseen to save me, From each ambush of the Devil, From each vice that would enslave me.
And from all who wish me evil, Whether far I fare or near.
Alone or in a mult.i.tude.
All these Hierarchies and Powers I invoke to intervene, When the adversary lowers On my path, with purpose keen Of vengeance black and b.l.o.o.d.y On my soul and my body; I bind these Powers to come Against druid counsel dark, The black craft of Pagandom, And the false heresiarch, The spells of wicked women, And the wizard's arts inhuman, And every knowledge, old and fresh, Corruptive of man's soul and flesh.
May Christ, on my way To Tara to-day, Shield me from prison, Shield me from fire, Drowning or wounding By enemy's ire, So that mighty fruition May follow my mission.
Christ behind and before me, Christ beneath me and o'er me, Christ within and without me, Christ around and about me, Christ on my left and Christ on my right, Christ with me at morn and Christ with me at night; Christ in each heart that shall ever take thought of me, Christ in each mouth that shall ever speak aught of me; Christ in each eye that shall ever on me fasten, Christ in each ear that shall ever to me listen.
I invoke, upon my path To the King of Ireland's rath, The Almighty Power of the Trinity; Through belief in the Threeness, Through confession of the Oneness Of the Maker's Eternal Divinity.
ST. PATRICK'S EVENSONG
Christ, Thou Son of G.o.d most High, May thy Holy Angels keep Watch around us as we lie In our shining beds asleep.
Time's hid veil with truth to pierce Let them teach our dreaming eyes, Arch-King of the Universe, High-Priest of the Mysteries.
May no demon of the air, May no malice of our foes, Evil dream or haunting care Mar our willing, prompt repose!
May our vigils hallowed be By the tasks we undertake!
May our sleep be fresh and free, Without let and without break.
ST. COLUMBA'S GREETING TO IRELAND
(An old Irish poem recounting the Saint's voyage from Erin to Alba (Scotland), from which he but once returned)
Delightful to stand on the brow of Ben Edar, Before being a speeder on the white-haired sea!
The dashing of the wave in wild disorder On its desolate border delightful to me!
Delightful to stand on the brow of Ben Edar, After being a speeder o'er the white-bosomed sea, After rowing and rowing in my little curragh!
To the loud sh.o.r.e thorough, O, Och, Ochonee!
Great is the speed of my little wherry, As afar from Derry its path it ploughs; Heavy my heart out of Erin steering And nearing Alba of the beetling brows.
My foot is fast in my chiming curragh, Tears of sorrow my sad heart fill.
Who lean not on G.o.d are but feeble-minded, Without His Love we go blinded still.
There is a grey eye that tears are thronging, Fixed with longing on Erin's sh.o.r.e, It shall never see o'er the waste of waters The sons and daughters of Erin more.
Its glance goes forth o'er the brine wave-broken, Far off from the firm-set, oaken seat; Many the tears from that grey eye streaming, The faint, far gleaming of Erin to meet.
For indeed my soul is set upon Erin, And all joys therein from Linnhe to Lene, On each pleasant prospect of proud Ultonia, Mild Momonia and Meath the green.
In Alba eastward the lean Scot increases, Frequent the diseases and murrain in her parts, Many in her mountains the scanty-skirted fellows, Many are the hard and the jealous hearts.
Many in the West are our Kings and Princes n.o.ble, Orchards bend double beneath their fruitage vast; Sloes upon the thorn-bush shine in blue abundance, Oaks in redundance drop the royal mast.
Melodious are her clerics, melodious Erin's birds are, Gentle her youths' words are, her seniors discreet; Famed far her chieftains--goodlier are no men-- Very fair her women for espousal sweet.
'Tis within the West sweet Brendan is residing, There Colum MacCriffan is indeed abiding now; And 'tis unto the West ruddy Baithir is repairing And Ad.a.m.nan shall be faring to perform his vow.
Salute them courteously, salute them all and single, After them Comgall, Eternity's true heir, Then to the stately Monarch of fair Navan Up from the haven my greeting greatly bear.
My blessing, fair youth, and my full benediction Without one restriction be bearing to-day-- One half above Erin, one half seven times over, And one half above Alba to hover for aye.
Carry to Erin that full load of blessing, For sorrow distressing my heart's pulses fail, If Death overtake me, the whole truth be spoken!
My heart it was broken by great love for the Gael.
"Gael, Gael," at that dear word's repeating, Again with glad beating my heart takes my breast.
Beloved is c.u.mmin of the tresses most beauteous, And Cainnech the duteous and Comgall the Blest.
Were all of Alba mine now to enter, Mine from the centre and through to the sea; I would rather possess in deep-leaved Derry The home that was very very dear to me.
To Derry my love is ever awarded, For her lawns smooth-swarded, her pure clear wells, And the hosts of angels that hover and hover Over and over her oak-set dells.
Indeed and indeed for these joys I love her, Pure air is above her, smooth turf below; While evermore over each oak-bough leafy A beautiful bevy of angels go.
My Derry, my little oak grove of Erin!
My dwelling was therein, my small dear cell.
Strike him, O Living G.o.d out of Heaven, With Thy red Levin who works them ill.
Beloved shall Derry and Durrow endure, Beloved Raphoe of the pure clear well, Beloved Drumhome with its sweet acorn showers, Beloved the towers of Swords and Kells!
Beloved too at my heart as any Art thou Drumcliffe on Culcinne's strand, And over Loch Foyle--'tis delight to be gazing-- So shapely are her sh.o.r.es on either hand.
Delightful indeed, is the purple sea's glamour, Where sea-gulls clamour in white-winged flight, As you view it afar from Derry beloved, O the peace of it, the peace and delight!
ST. COLUMBA IN IONA