This was a thing that happened long and long ago, in the glimmering
morning of the Christian time in Erinn. And it may have happened to
the holy Maedog of Ferns, or to Enan the Angelic, or it may have been
Molasius of Devenish--I cannot say. But over the windy sea in his
small curragh of bull's hide the Saint sailed far away to the southern
land; and for many a month he travelled afoot through the dark forests,
and the sunny corn-lands, and over the snowy mountain horns, and along
the low shores between the olive-grey hills and the blue sea, till at
last he came in sight of a great and beautiful city glittering on the
slopes and ridges of seven hills.
"What golden city may this be?" he asked of the dark-eyed market folk
whom he met on the long straight road which led across the open country.
"It is the city of Rome," they answered him, wondering at his
ignorance. But the Saint, when he heard those words, fell on his knees
and kissed the ground.
"Hail to thee, most holy city!" he cried; "hail, thou queen of the
world, red with the roses of the martyrs and white with the lilies of
the virgins; hail, blessed goal of my long wandering!"
And as he entered the city his eyes were bright with joy, and his heart
seemed to lift his weary feet on wings of gladness.
There he sojourned through the autumn and the winter, visiting all the
great churches and the burial-places of the early Christians in the
Catacombs, and communing with the good and wise men in many houses of
religion. Once he conversed with the great Pope whose name was
Gregory, and told him of his brethren in the beloved isle in the
western waters.
When once more the leaf of the fig-tree opened its five fingers, and
the silvery bud of the vine began to unfurl, the Saint prepared to
return home. And once more he went to the mighty Pope, to take his
leave and to ask a blessing for himself and his brethren, and to beg
that he might bear away with him to the brotherhood some precious relic
of those who had shed their blood for the Cross.
As he made that request in the green shadowy garden on the Hill
Caelian, the Pope smiled, and, taking a clod of common earth from the
soil, gave it to the Saint, saying, "Then take this with thee," and
when the Saint expressed his surprise at so strange a relic, the
Servant of the Servants of God took back the earth and crushed it in
his hand, and with amazement the Saint saw that blood began to trickle
from it between the fingers of the Pope.
Marvelling greatly, the Saint kissed the holy pontiff's hand, and bade
him farewell; and going to and fro among those he knew, he collected
money, and, hiring a ship, he filled it with the earth of Rome, and
sailed westward through the Midland Sea, and bent his course towards
the steadfast star in the north, and so at last reached the beloved
green island of his home.
In the little graveyard about the fair church of his brotherhood he
spread the earth which had drunk the blood of the martyrs, so that the
bodies of those who died in the Lord might await His coming in a
blessed peace.
Now it happened that but a few days after his return the friend of his
boyhood, a holy brother who had long shared with him the companionship
of the cloister, migrated from this light, and when the last requiem
had been sung and the sacred earth had covered in the dead, the Saint
wept bitterly for the sake of the lost love and the unforgotten years.
And at night he fell asleep, still weeping for sorrow. And in his
sleep he saw, as in a dream, the grey stone church with its round tower
and the graveyard sheltered by the woody hills; but behold! in the
graveyard tall trees sprang in lofty spires from the earth of Rome, and
reached into the highest heavens; and these trees were like trees of
green and golden and ruddy fire, for they were red with the blossoms of
life, and every green leaf quivered with bliss, like a green flame; and
among the trees, on a grassy sod at their feet, sat a white lark,
singing clear and loud, and he knew that the lark was the soul of the
friend of his boyhood.
As he listened to its song, he understood its unearthly music; and
these were the words of its singing: "Do not weep any more for me; it
is pity for thy sorrow which keeps me here on the grass. If thou wert
not so unhappy I should fly."
And when the Saint awoke his grief had fallen from him, and he wept no
more for the dead man whom he loved.