KING. I but wanted this alone
After what I've heard, that he
Who escaped from slavery,
And to distant Rome had flown,
Now with purpose too well known,
Has to Ireland come again,
Where proclaiming the new reign
Of the faith, he has enticed
Many to believe in Christ,
Rending all the world in twain.
A magician he must be,
Since condemned, so rumour saith,
By some other kings to death,
He though tied upon the tree
In an instant set him free,
With such prodigies of wonder
That the earth (within whose womb
The dead lie as in a tomb)
Trembled, the air groaned in thunder,
Dark eclipse the sun lay under,
Deigning not a single glance
Of his radiant countenance
To the moon: from which I see
That this Patrick, for 'tis he,
Lords it over fate and chance;
Awe-struck by the prodigy,
Fearing they may punished be,
Crowds attend him on his way.
And 'tis said that he to-day
Comes to try his spells on me.
Let him come, and once for all
Wave in vain his conjuring rod!
We shall see who is this God,
Whom their God the Christians call.
By my hand must Patrick fall,
Were it but to see if he
Can escape his destiny,
Or my will subvert and master,
He this Bishop, he this Pastor,
He Pope's Legate, though he be.
* * * * *