The Hymn of St. Philip

Philip the Apostle holy
At an Aonach once was telling
Of the immortal birds and shapely
Afar in Inis Eidheand dwelling.

East of Africa abiding
They perform a labour pleasant;
Unto earth there comes no colour
That on their pinions is not present.

Since the fourth Creation morning
When their God from dust outdrew them,
Not one plume has from them perished,
And not one bird been added to them.

Seven fair streams with all their channels
Pierce the plains wherethrough they flutter,
Round whose banks the birds go feeding,
Then soar thanksgiving songs to utter.

Midnight is their hour apportioned,
When, on magic coursers mounted,
Through the starry skies they circle,
To chants of angel choirs uncounted.

Of the foremost birds the burthen
Most melodiously unfolded
Tells of all the works of wonder
God wrought before the world He moulded.

Then a sweet crowd heavenward lifted,
When the nocturn bells are pealing,
Chants His purposes predestined
Until the Day of Doom's revealing.

Next a flock whose thoughts are blessed,
Under twilight's curls dim sweeping,
Hymn God's wondrous words of Judgment
When His Court of Doom is keeping.

One and forty on a hundred
And a thousand, without lying,
Was their number, joined to virtue,
Put upon each bird-flock flying.

Who these faultless birds should hearken,
Thus their strains of rapture linking,
For the very transport of it,
Unto death would straight be sinking.

Pray for us, O mighty Mary!
When earth's bonds no more are binding,
That these birds our souls may solace,
In the Land of Philip's finding.