Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Arthur ClevelandCoxe306 Iona
W
We sailed by Jura’s shore,
Where sang of old the mermaid-girl,
Whose shell is heard no more;
We came to Fingal’s pillared cave,
That minster in the sea,
And sang—while clapped its hands the wave
And worshipped even as we.
We leaped upon its soil,
I felt indeed ’twas holy ground,—
Too holy for such spoil;
For spoilers came in evil day,
Where once to Christ they prayed:
Alas! His Body—ta’en away,
We know not where ’t was laid.
We worshipped by that Cross,
And where their snow-white manes the waves
Like troops of chargers toss,
We gazed upon the distant scene,
And thought how Columb came
To kindle here the Gospel’s sheen,
And preach the Saviour’s name:
Enforced him to an isle;
Came but to bless and not to ban,
To make the desert smile.
He made his island church a gem
That sparkled in the night,
Or like that Star of Bethlehem,
That bathes the world with light.
One glance may all behold
This was the shelter of his sheep,
This was Columba’s fold.
Bishops were gold in days of yore,
For golden was their good,
But in their pastoral hands they bore
A shepherd’s staff of wood.
’Neath one blest roof they dwelt,
And, ere the bird of dawning crew,
They rose to pray,—and knelt:
Here, watching through the darker hours,
Vigil and fast they kept,
Like those, once hailed by heavenly powers,
While Herod drowsed and slept.
To shed of Truth the flame,
A Patmos of the frozen North
Iona’s isle became.
The isles that waited for God’s Law
Mid all the highlands round,
That beacon as it blazed—they saw,
They sought the Light and found.
That crest thy coasts, Argyle;
To watchers, far as Mona’s shore,
It seemed a burning pile;
To peasant cots and fishers’ skiffs
It brightened lands and seas;
From Solway to Edina’s cliffs,
And southward to the Tees.
I sought Columba’s bay,
Came one, as from the wilderness,
A thousand leagues away;
A bishop of Columba’s kin,
As primitive as he,
Knelt pilgrim-like, those walls within,
The Saint of Tennessee.
I saw him worship there;
And Otey, like a little child,
Outpoured his soul in prayer.
For oh! to him came thoughts, I ween,
Of one who crossed the seas,
And brought from distant Aberdeen
Gifts of the old Culdees.
A little spark may light!
What here was kindled first—the same
Makes far Atlantis bright:
Not Scotia’s clans, nor Umbria’s son
Alone that beacon blest,
It shines to-day o’er Oregon,
And glorifies our West.
More than great Colon brought,
And long entwined those twins of names
Shall waken grateful thought;
And where the Cross is borne afar
To California’s shore,
Columba’s memory like a star
Shall brighten evermore.