I have fasted and prayed for naught. My children wander as stray sheep having no shepherd. Thus thinking, the old man sighed; a wearied expression born of failure stole into his eyes — eyes which looked beyond the passing show of things into the realities of being.
Nature was weaving her veil of forgetful ness as she crooned her evening lullaby. The lakes which had glittered and danced all day in the sparkling sunshine now lay in calm repose, save where the moonbeams formed a shimmering pathway for the fairies. These tiny sprites made revel all night long on the quiet waters of Innisfree, whilst "Ben bulben" watched the sport peeping over the shoulders of "The Twins." The purple shadows were chasing each other across Killarney's hills when Patrick's deep drawn sigh disturbed the silence. In a thorn bush a blackbird sang its evensong, its little heart was well-nigh bursting with the rapturous pain — the joy and mystery of living. Still the old man sat disconsolate. In the neighboring villages, and indeed all over the Island, Patrick was known and loved for his wise counsel and kindness of heart. Not yet had the aureole of saintship encircled his name. A good and holy man, the people flocked to hear him preach — pressed close so as to touch his threadbare habit. Rumors were afloat of miracles which had been performed. All evil and loathsome things hated Patrick as they hated the sun. Reptiles, toads and lizards hid themselves when he passed. Some said he cursed these crawling things, forbidding them access to his beloved country, altho' of this we don't feel very sure. But we can readily believe that his deep violet grey eyes shone with the light of wisdom, gained by childlike deeds of love and kindliness. Round his mouth played a sweet witching smile, as tho' hidden founts of humor lay within. Thus Patrick, Ireland's favorite saint, appeared to the simple country folk, who listened to his teachings. Tonight, as we have seen, depression and doubt were his unwelcome guests. There he sat, on a moss-covered stone, regardless of the Divine Enchantress who beckoned him to follow her into the land of forgetfulness. Patrick's thoughts had slain despair and doubt, o'er these fallen enemies he had passed thro' the Golden Gates, which stand at the entrance to Eternal Life. He remembered when a God he trod the Plains of Light knowing and possessing all things; he remembered when on wings of love and sacrifice he descended to uplift and redeem. Then he thought of these poor ignorant peasants who flocked round him day by day, and he saw that within each the soul was imprisoned, striving to awaken and redeem. Heroes and Warriors every one, did they but know it? His Great Soul longed to awaken these sleepers, but in this task he had failed. Fearing God, they were bribing his son to plead for them, whilst the Holy Ghost watched their agony.
"How shall I teach them that God and Man are one — that Truth, beauty and love are but different aspects of the One Eternal Life, manifesting in all things; Creator, Preserver, Destroyer, Body, Soul and Spirit. Reveal! reveal thyself, Soul of the Soul of Things, Spirit of Space. Yea, Thou art truly here in this place. Reveal Thyself!" The night wind softly whispered: "Brother, He is nigh." The blackbird sang: "One Life thrills me and thee," whilst the stars responded: "Amen." Then out stepped Night's stately queen from her cloud embowered chamber and gently touched with silver finger tips a tuft of emerald green growing by the wayside. The Cross fell from Patrick's hand as he rose to worship. At his feet it lay encircled by a wreath of shamrocks — Truth, beauty and love — the triune God — made glad the old man's heart. Stooping, he lifted the tiny leaf, then bowed his head in adoration to this Messenger of the Gods.