Prince Ragnal, and other holiday verses — A Reader’s Guide

AND OTHER HOLIDAY VERSES

Copyright, 1898, by Eleanor C. Donnelly.

MY REVERED FRIEND OF MANY YEARS,

Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J.,

Editor of the “Irish Monthly,” Dublin, Ireland,

THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED

BY HIS SPECIAL PERMISSION.

THE STABLE OF BETHLEHEM 31

THE THREE MASSES ON CHRISTMAS DAY 34

A Christmas Legend of Early Christian Ireland.

White and chill from the wintry skies, The starlight falls upon ancient Eire: The wind makes moan thro’ the leafless trees Of Devenish Isle, like a soul in fear,-- Deep in the heart of its snowy woods, Fanning a peat-flame, lone and drear.

The ruined hut where that turf-fire glows Hath never a roof of thatch or stone, But bow and spear on the rude walls hang, And a bed of skins on the floor is strewn, Where, close to the embers, stern and still, Ragnal the leper sits alone.

Ragnal of Errigal, prince of doom, His face, a death-mask of despair;-- The foul disorder’s loathly scales Lacquer his skin with their hideous glair: Dulling the blue of his brave young eye, Dimming the gold of his tangled hair.

Bowed like a churl of three-score ten, His peakéd chin in his wasted hands, He watches the flames with a sluggish eye, Sparkle and glow in their fiery dance; Till, deep in the embers, pictured, lie His life’s lost hopes--its dead romance.

A royal castle beside the sea, On breezy cliffs, exultant, set: A Prince and Princess, young and fair, Pacing the grassy parapet, The golden fringe of his long, bright hair Sweeping the maiden’s locks of jet.

Thro’ perfum’d air, replete with peace, The swallows skim the blue waves’ flow: The lovely Dympna’s hand, at rest On her lover’s arm (a thing of snow)-- Thrills, as he bends his head, and breathes In her blushing ear, a whisper low.

She gathers the fleece of her floating veil From the nodding shade of his raven plume, As, gravely pleading, he bends again To hear those bright lips speak his doom. --Why does she start and lift her head? Why are her cheeks devoid of bloom?

He sees the flash of her wide, dark eye, He hears her clear voice rise and fall: “Sooner than sell my faith in Christ, My life I’d yield--my love--my all! Content my bridal vows should prove A martyr’s grave and a virgin’s pall!”

Then, in the flames, his other self He sees, erect in scorn and pride: “Sooner would I a leper be, Far from the world to crouch and hide, Than bend to a Christian priest mine knee, Or take to mine arms a Christian bride!”

The royal blood leaps in her face, Her voice rings out its golden knell: “O Christ! incline Thy pitying grace, And pardon this poor infidel!” Then, with averted, shuddering gaze, “Unhappy Ragnal! fare thee well!”

A sudden darkness shuts her in ... The flutter of her snowy gown-- The sunlit towers--the sparkling waves In pallid embers, crumble down; As Ragnal by the fire sits, A leprous Prince without a crown!

“O lily, nurtured by the sea! Sweet Dympna, long-lost, promised bride! Thine unknown Christ”--(he cries aloud): “This night hath triumph’d o’er my pride! Forgive me!”--Lo! a gust of song Fills all the wintry world outside!

A thrilling, heavenly harmony From silvern harps and lutes divine: The Leper, prostrate on his face, Drinks in the glorious draught like wine; Then, rising, reels like drunken wight, Into the starlight’s wondrous shine.

For strange, unearthly lustres fill The frosty air. To Ragnal blown, Across Lough Erne, there comes the breath Of sweetest blossoms ever grown; Yet, right or left, above, below, No living thing or shape is shown.

All wordless, o’er the sparkling Lough, The music steals again--but hark! “_Gloria in excelsis!_” sings A voice, up-soaring like a lark; While: “_Et in terra pax!_” (strange words!) Drop down to Ragnal thro’ the dark.

His breast heaves with a mighty fear, The strong man trembles like a reed: The while the minstrels float before, (Tho’ ulcer’d feet and ankles bleed), Straight onward through the shining wood, He needs must follow where they lead;

And walks, and walks, and walks, and walks, His bare feet buried in the snow; While flaming eyes of savage beasts From bog and thicket, glare and glow. He sees the stars slide down the east, He hears the cocks begin to crow.

Yet walks, and walks, and walks, and walks, Till ev’ry nerve and sinew aches, And sweat and blood and loathly scales Mark ev’ry painful step he takes-- When, suddenly, the rapturous sound That lured him on--his path forsakes!