Page 85 - Demo

Chapter three 85
forth, for centuries, the Abbess of the house of Kildare came to be looked up to as their head by all the “nuns” then in Ireland, just as the Primate of Armagh was looked up to by the male clerics. Tradition tells that when Brighid died, a great grief came over the island of Ireland and the entire nation mourned for the great one who was gone. It further tells that Brighid was laid to rest in a jewelied casket at her beloved Kildare, but in 835, her remains were moved to protect them from the Norse invaders and she was reputedly interred in the same grave that holds the remains of St. Patrick and St Columcille at Downpatrick.
Saint Brigid
(by Lady Gilbert Rosa Mulholland)
‘MlD dewy pastures girdled with blue air, Where ruddy kine the limpid waters drink, Through violet-purpled woods of green Kildare, ‘Neath rainbow skies, by tinkling rivulet’s brink, O Brigid, young, thy tender, snow-white feet
In days of old on breezy morns and eves Wandered through labyrinths of sun and shade, Thy face so innocent-sweet
Shining with love that neither joys nor grieves Save as the angels, meek and holy maid!
With white ire in thy hand that burned no man,
But cleansed and warmed where’er its ray might call, Nor ever wasted low, or needed fan,
Thou walk’dst at eve among the oak-trees tall.
There thou didst chant thy vespers, while each star Grew brighter listening through the leafy screen. Then ceased the song-bird all his love-notes soft,
His music near or far,
Hushing his passion ‘mid the sombre green
To let thy peaceful whispers loat aloft.