and murders and burnings. It records the first rumblings of that storm so soon to break over that land and make of our island a vast coliseum, drenching it with the blood of martyrs. I have often thought what a pang it must have cost the heart of Brother Michael Oblery to pen such entries as these:
"1195, Rury, son of Dunlere, chief of Ulidia, plunders Derry-Columbkille with an English force."
"1197, Sir John De Courcy plunders the abbey of Derry."
"1198, Sir John De Courcy again plunders Derry abbey."
How his eyes must have filled as he glanced in memory over the long tale of his country's sufferings, on the record of which he was about to enter. 'Twas bad enough to see the Dane lay sacrilegious hands on the sacred vessels; but it was worse still to behold one's fellow-Catholic apply the robber's torch to the church of God where, perhaps, at that very moment our Lord himself lay hid under the sacramental veils. Yet these were the men who, from the Loire to the Jordan had fought the church's battle so gallantly,—whose countrymen would only hold the Calabrian kingdom, that their lances had purchased so dearly, as vassals of the Pope,—the very men who themselves were studding the Pale with those architectural gems, of which the ruins of Dunbrody and its sister abbeys still speak so eloquently. It was a strange fancy that made them tumble the Irish monastery to-day, and lay the foundation of an Anglo-Irish one to-morrow. Yet so it was; for in the charters of many of those monasteries, in which, it was enacted in 1380, that no mere Irishman should be allowed to take vows, the name of John De Courcy is entered as founder or benefactor. One hardly knows whether to condemn him for destroying Columba's favorite abbey, or praise him for the solicitude he expresses in his letter to the Pope for the proper preservation of Columba's relics. The acts of the man and his nation are so contradictory, that the only reasonable conclusion we can draw from them is the practical one, never again to wonder that the faith of such men withered at the first blast of persecution.
Nevertheless, the monastery survived these attacks; for in the early part of the fifteenth century, we find the then abbot of Derry negotiating a peace between the English and O'Donnell. But in its subsequent annals nothing more than the mere date of an inmate's death meets us till we come to the great catastrophe, which ended at once the monastery and order of Columba. Cox thus tells the story: "Colonel Saintlow succeeded Randolph in the command of the garrison and lived as quietly as could be desired, for the rebels were so daunted by the former defeat that they did not dare to make any new attempt; but unluckily on the 24th of April, 1566, the ammunition took fire and blew up the town and fort of Derry, so that the soldiers were obliged to embark for Dublin."4 "This disaster was regarded at the time as a divine chastisement for the profanation of St. Columba's church and cell, the latter being used by the heretical soldiery as a repository of ammunition, while the former was defiled by their profane worship."5
An actor once delivered a letter of introduction to a manager, which described him as an actor of great merit, and concluded: "He plays Virginius, Richelieu, Hamlet, Shylock, and billiards. He plays billiards the best."
The Penitent on the Cross
Few deeds of guilt are strangers to my eyes,
These hands of mine have wrought full share of sin,
My very heart seemed steeled to pity's cries:
Whence then this thought that melts my soul within?
What is there in that Form that moves me so?
So sweet a victim ne'er mine eyes beheld;
That beauteous face, that majesty of woe,
That hidden something from my sight withheld.
Cease thou at least, nor join the mocking throng,
Thou heartless sharer in our common doom!
Just meed for us, but He hath done no wrong;
All seems so strange—what means the gathering gloom?
That lonely mother, there oppressed with woe,
O'erheard me now I saw her raise her eyes;
To bless me—and with clasping hands as though
She craved a something, through the darkening skies.
Hear how the priests discuss with mocking scorn
The triple scroll above His crownèd head.
"Jesus of Nazareth," the lowly born;
"King of the Jews," in Royal David's stead.
Ah, me; but I have heard that name of old
From waylaid victims in my outlaw den.
They won me from fell purpose as they told
His deeds of love and wonder amongst men.
They told me how the sea in billows dashed
Became as marble smooth beneath His feet;
How He rebuked the winds to fury lashed,
And they were hushed to murmurs low and sweet.
He, then it was that gave the blind their sight,
And made the palsied leap with bounding tread;
And as you'd wake the sleeping in the night
From even their sleep awoke the slumbering dead.
Oh, Master, had I known Thee in those days,
Fain might I too have followed Thee as Friend;
But then I was an outlaw by the ways,
And now 'tis late—my days are at an end.
"No, not too late." Oh, God! whose is that voice
That sounds within me such a heavenly strain,
And makes my being to its depths rejoice
As if it felt creation's touch again?
What is that light, that glorious light which brings
Such wondrous knowledge of things all unseen,
And yet wherein I see fair, far-off things
To mortal vision hid, however keen.
And centred in that flood of golden light,
One truth that catches all its scattered beams—
Illumed above the rest so fair, so bright:
It is thy God whose blood beside thee streams.
Oh, God of glory! hear the outlaw's prayer,
And in Thy home but kindly think of me;
I dare but ask to be remembered there,
Nor heaven I seek, but to be loved by Thee.
From off the Cross whereon the Saviour hung
Fell on his ears response of wondrous love,
More sweet than though the cherubim had sung
The sweetest songs they sing in heaven above.
Yes, loved but not remembered thou shalt be—
The absent only may remembrance claim—
But in my kingdom thou shalt dwell with me,
Companion of my glory as my shame.
Amen, amen, I say to thee that thou,
Ere yet another day illume the skies,
With crown unlike to this that binds my brow
Shalt share the glories of my paradise.
The
Cox. Hist. pt. I. p. 322.
O'Sulliv. Cath. Hist. p. 96.
