Padraic Colum. Swift's Pastoral. Harriet Monroe, ed. Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912-22

Verse > Anthologies > Harriet Monroe, ed. > Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, 1912–22

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Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22.

Swift’s Pastoral

By Padraic Colum


A Story That Has for its Background Saint Patrick’s Purgatory Characters: Jonathan Swift and Esther Vanhomrigh Esther. I know the answer: ’tis ingenious.
I’m tired of your riddles, Doctor Swift.

Swift. Faith, so am I.

Esther. But that’s no reason why you’ll be splenetic.

Swift. Then let us walk.	5

Esther. But will you talk too? Oh, is there nothing
For you to show your pupil on this highway?

Swift. The road to Dublin, and the road that leads
Out of this sunken country.

Esther. I see a Harper:	10
A Harper and a country lout, his fellow
Upon the highway.

Swift. I know the Harper.

Esther. The Doctor knows so much, but what of that?
He’ll stay splenetic.	15

Swift. I have seen this Harper
On many a road. I know his name too—
I know a story that they tell about him.

Esther. And will it take the pucker off his brow
If Cadenus to Vanessa tell the tale?	20

Swift. God knows it might! His name’s O’Carolan—
Turlough O’Carolan; and there is a woman
To make this story almost pastoral.

Esther. Some Oonagh or some Sheelah, I’ll engage.

Swift. Her name	25
Was Bridget Cruise. She would not wed him,
And he wed one who had another name,
And made himself a Minstrel, but a Minstrel
Of consequence. His playing on the harp
Was the one glory that in Ireland stayed	30
After lost battles and old pride cast down.
Where he went men would say:
“Horses we may not own, nor swords may carry;
But Turlough O’Carolan plays upon the harp,
And Turlough O’Carolan’s ten fingers bring us	35
Horses and swords, gold, wine, and victory.”

Esther. Oh, that is eloquence!

Swift. I know their rhapsodies. But to O’Carolan:
He played, and drank full cups; made proper songs
In praise of banquets, wine-cups, and young maids—	40
Things easily praised. And then when he was old—

Esther. How old?

Swift. Two score of years and ten.

Esther. But that’s not old!

Swift. And that’s not old! Good God, how soon we grow	45
Into the Valley of the Shadow of Death!—
Not into the Valley, Vanessa, mark, of Death,
But into the Shadow! Two score of years and ten—
Have we not three score and some more to live?
So has that tree that’s withered at the top—	50
Dead in the head! Aye, we, Vanessa, grow
Into the Shadow, and in the Shadow stay
So long!

Esther. I thought the story would divert Cadenus.

Swift. It will, it will, Vanessa. What was I	55
Then saying?

Esther. When he was old—

Swift. When he was old
And blind—did I say he was blind?

Esther. You did not say it.	60

Swift. He’s blind—not book-blind, but stone-blind.
He cannot see
The wen that makes two heads upon the fellow
That goes beside him, hunched up with the harp;
He cannot see	65
The Justice to the assizes riding
With soldiers all in red to give him state.
He cannot see
The beggar’s lice and sores.

I tell a story:	70
When this O’Carolan was old and blind,
As I have said, he made the pilgrimage:
’Twas to … No, no, ’twas not the place
That I’m proscribed to, but yet one that is called
Saint Patrick’s Purgatory.	75

’Tis on an island in a lake, a low
Island or islet. The water round
Is dun, unsunned; there are no meadows near,
No willows grow, no lark nor linnet sings.
A fissure in the island leads down to	80
The Purgatory of Souls, their fable says.
And now the Harper is but one of those,
The countless wretches, who have brought their sores
To that low island, and brought darkened spirits—
Such stream has flowed there for a thousand years.	85
I do not know
What length of time the Harper stays, while crowds
Are shambling all around him, weeping, praying,
Famishing themselves; or drinking the dun water
Of the lake for wine; or kneeling, with their knees	90
On sharpened stones; or crowded
In narrow, stony cells.

Esther. It is a place
Papistical.

Swift. It is a place	95
Most universal. Do we not walk
Upon a ground that’s drenched with tears, and breathe
An air that’s thickened with men’s darkened spirits?
Aye, and on an islet,
Suffering pain and hearing cries of wretches;	100
Cut-off, remote, banished, alone, tormented!
Name the place as you will, or let it be
Saint Patrick’s Purgatory.

But comes a time the blind man rows to shore
From that low island. He touches shore, and cries,	105
“Hands for a blind man’s help!” and hands were held—
He touched a hand.
Here then’s the pastoral:
The hand, the fingers of the hand, the clasp,
The spirit flowing through—he knew them all.	110
He knew all well, and in an instant knew them;
And he cried out, “The hand of Bridget Cruise!”

Oh, in the midmost of our darkened spirits
To touch a hand, and know the truth within it—
The truth that’s clasped, that holds, the truth that’s all	115
For us—for every day we live, the truth!
To touch that hand, and then once more to turn
To turn around upon the world’s highway,
And go alone—poor hand, poor hand!

But she,	120
This Bridget Cruise, was leaving that dull shore
For that low island, and had cares beyond
The memory of O’Carolan. Well, they passed,
He going and she coming; well, and then
He took his harp, and the country lout, his fellow,	125
Went with him, as we see them going now.

Esther. They’ve passed: there is no one now beside us.
And will you take my hand? You used to call me
A white witch, but there is no witchery
In this plain hand of mine!	130

You told a double story, Doctor Swift.

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