75 COLUMBA. I WILL sing a song of heroes, When the ages rang the knell Of the iron-hearted Rome, That like a palsied Titan fell. Of that foul Ægean stable, Where the rank corruption grew, Paul's sure word made sweeping clearance; Old things passed away, and new Shot into life. I sing COLUMBA, Born far West in sea-girt home, In the clovered green Ierne Named, not known, by mighty Rome. God hath chosen the barbarian, Things unvalued, worthless, weak, To abase the lordly Roman, To confound the subtle Greek. Vainly had imperial rancour Like a sanguine deluge spread, When the axe of Diocletian Severed Alban's holy head. Vainly might the painted idols Bar from light their dark dominion; In the far Galwegian outland Rose the pure white shrine of Ninian. Like the coming of the swallows, When sweet showers uncoil the fern, Came a host of God-sent teachers, Serf, Palladius, Kentigern, To redeem from heathen darkness All the roving Scots that be, Where the huge-heaved Grampian bulwark Slopeth eastward to the sea. To the fierce hot-blooded Erin Patrick brought the Gospel grace; But brawls and battles, feuds and factions, Swayed the old untempered race Then, when Phelim's son far-venturing For a ban was laid upon him, For that once in plunge of passion He had drawn the sword of vengeance, In a hot unpriestly fashion, At the battle of Culdreimhne, When from all the brave O'Neills Diarmid and the men of Connaught Fled with terror at their heels. |