The Blessing of Dublin

Chill and dead

Lies the King of Dublin's son:
At his head

Sits gray Alpin, stern and still,

Neither eat nor drink he will,

Till the Earth have had her fill,
And Valhall be won.

Patrick came,

Lauding loud of holier things,
Flashed the flame

From the Viking eyes: "Can He,
Maker of all things, make be
That which is no more for me?
Thy King of Kings!

"Speak the word,
Let the sovran deed be done,
Then, thy Lord

Lord of mine is — Lord of all —
Each a liegeman at his call,
Bows in battle, horns in hall,
For him — my son!"

Patrick prayed,
Moving as the sun moves round;
Naught dismayed,

King and jarls thrice followed him,
Heard, with understanding dim,
Of the mystic murmured hymn,
The strange weird sound.

Then great dread
Fell upon them, and behold!
Stood the Dead

In their midst, erect, with gaze
Fixed on them, in mute amaze,
Lit with red returning rays,
The visage cold.

Said the king,
Standing with his war-men nigh,
"For this thing

We are vassals to thy Lord,
Followers fast by field and fiord,
True at trysting, staunch at sword,
Sea, shore, or sky!

"I pronounce
Tribute to this King of thine:
Each an ounce

Weighed aright of ruddy gold
Ev'ry year shall be thrice told,
From the Northman's Dublin hold,
At Macha's shrine."

Patrick raised
His right hand in benediction,
"God be praised!

If the toll be paid each year,
Not the world need Dublin fear:

Else, three times the Gaelic spear
Shall bring affliction.

"Gifts eleven,

Guerdons, in return shall fall,
From high Heaven:

Goodly wives the wives shall be,

The men live manful and die free,

Beauty still the maidens' fee
Of the pure proud Gall.

"Feats of swimming
Mark the youth, sea-loved, sea-strong;
Bright horns brimming,

Welcome all to bounteous board,
Gift of war-triumphant sword,
Gift of trophies, many a hoard,
Make its glory long.

"Champions brave,
Gallant kings to bear the crown
On land and wave,

Gift of commerce from all parts,
Gift of ever-widening marts, —
Gift in church of reverent hearts,
Bless stout Dublin town.

"Through the haze
Whence, in long succeeding lines,
Come our days —

I behold ascending spires:
When to Darkness all retires,
One of Erinn's last Three Fires,
The Fire of Dublin shines.

"Tara proud
Over woods upstanding airy,
Not thus crowd

Gracious gifts around thy name,
From Tara here this day I came,
Great its mighty monarch's fame,-
My curse on Laere!"

Patrick spoke:
Benean, I, have shaped this lay,
With measured stroke

In the right-resounding rime,
That his words in every clime
Should re-echo through all Time
Till the Judgment Day.