Wednesday 12 August 2015

Saint Attracta's Stags


Below is a poem telling the story of the miracle of the hard-hearted King Keannfaelid and Saint Attracta, whose feast is celebrated on August 11:


ATHRACTA was a maiden fair,
A Prince's daughter she;
Down to her feet fell golden hair,
A wondrous sight to see.

And all amid this golden shower,
The sweetest rosebud face
Blossomed like a dew-fed flower
Upon a stem of grace.

Yet loved she not the court of kings,
But in the wild would be,
With but one maid her hair to braid
And bear her company.

So, near Lough Gara's silver sheen,
They built of turf and bark
A hut wherein from springtide green
They dwelt through winter's dark.

On seven cross-roads the hut was made,
That they might offer rest
To pilgrims by the night waylaid,
And strangers hunger-pressed.

To draw them water from the lake,
To till their little soil,
Two ancient horses did they take,
Outworn for other toil.

Once gallant chargers these had been,
Keen-eyed and prancing gay,
Who tourneys brave and wars had seen,
All decked in bright array.

But now their age in peace was spent
By kind Athracta's side ;
No gallant wars, no tournament,
And yet they served with pride.

Their neighbors in the forest glades
Were stately, antlered deer,
Nor of the two most holy maids
Had these, their brothers, fear.

So dwelt the maidens there alone
For many months and years,
The doings of the world unknown,
Its wars, its woes, its tears.

But strife was stirring in the land,
And kings must castles build,
To guard them from the foeman's hand
With fire and weapon filled.

And so the King's most stern decree
Went forth upon a day,
"My serfs must build a fort for me,
Each must his service pay".

"Each man and maiden must fulfill
In this great work his share ;
It is the King of Connaught's will,
Let tardy hands beware!"

Athracta sent unto the King :
"We be but maidens twain,
My Liege, we cannot do this thing,
I beg we may refrain."

But sternly sent he back the word,
"Ye maids must do your part."
He was a hard and cruel lord,
No pity touched his heart.

So forth they fared into the wood,
Athracta with her maid,
To fell the timber as they could,
Without of men for aid.

Heavy the axe and full of pain
Each weak and skill-less stroke,
Yet strove the maids again, again,
With walnut, beech, and oak.

Until upon the wagon cast
By which the horses stood,
Their bleeding hands had piled at last
The goodly logs of wood.

But when Athracta saw the steeds
Straining with feeble will
To draw the heavy load, it needs
Must make her eyes to fill.

Athracta spoke all piteously,
"Alack ! poor broken things,
Must you, too, bear your painful share
To save the pride of Kings?"

"How can I ease your burden, how,
My faithful servants still?
My little hands are bleeding now
With toil beyond their skill."

"O mistress dear," then spoke her maid,
"These be but feeble nags;
How would the King's pride be dismayed
If you could harness Stags!"

"Thou sayest well," Athracta vowed.
"Come hither, Stags!" she cried,
And lo! the thud of hoofs grew loud
Ere yet the echo died.

"Come hither, Stags!" O'er green and glade
The silver summons thrilled,
And soon the space about the maid
With antlered kings was filled.

Through moss and fern and tangled trees
Twelve panting creatures broke,
And bending low their stately knees
They knelt beneath the yoke.

Now harnessed in the horses' stead
The great Stags strained their best,
To please the Lady at their head
And follow her behest.

But lo! a vexing thing then happed;
Scarce had they gained the road,
The rusty chains of iron snapped
Beneath the heavy load.

Yet paused she not in weak despair,
This noble-hearted maid,
But loosed her heavy golden hair
Out from its double braid.

She loosed her locks so wonder-bright
And shook them to the breeze;
It seemed a beam of yellow light
Had sifted through the trees.

Then from amid this golden net
She plucked some silken strands,
And where the chains had first been set
She bound them with her hands.

She tied the ends against the strain,
And knotted them with care,
Then bade the Stags pull once again
Upon the ropes of hair.

And lo! the slender harness held,
And lo! the antlered steeds
Went forth to prove their generous love
Lent to a maiden's needs.

Straight to the King her gift they bore
To fill his heart with shame;
And her true maiden went before
To show him whence they came.

Now when the King this wonder saw
He turned all pale and red,
"She hath a greater power than law,"
He vowed, and bowed his head.

"She hath a greater power than I,
Whose slaves the wild stags be,
And golden hair like this might snare
E'en the wild heart of me.

"No need to her of castles stout,
No need of moat or tower,
With antlered guardians about
Her lonely wild-wood bower.

" No need to her of watch or ward,
With friends like these at hand ;
Bid her from me henceforth to be
Queen of her little land.

"Henceforth she is no serf of mine,
Nor subject to my throne;
Where'er her golden hair may shine
That is her realm alone."

So where the seven cross-roads met
Still dwelt the holy maid,
Her hut a place of refuge set
For all who shelter prayed.

Her realm a holy place of peace,
Where, with the ancient nags,
Lived out their days in pleasant ways
Athracta's faithful Stags.

Abbie Farwell Brown, The Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts (Boston and New York), 1900, 69-77.

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