| SIR ROBERT THE POET
ELACAMPANE On an island in Waterville’s exquisite lake, Which mountains encompass with heather and brake, St Finan resolved he would watch and would pray In the bleak winter night and the bright summer day. He built him a cell from the rude stones around, He erected a shrine which is still to be found; He knelt and he chanted both early and late, And daily his orisons reached heaven’s gate. He planted a garden in which he could grow The food which sufficed for his life here below; His fastings were oft, and his diet was spare, So his labour produced all he needed as fare. As a part of the penance his goodness to test Dire bodily ailment most bitterly pressed; So he planted a simple which banished the pain – That simple was only the Elecampane. He blesséd that herb which his good life preserved, And then waxéd great with renown well-deserved. Monks flocked to Lough Currane from France and from Spain, And settled where flourished the Elecampane. That shrine on the island, with sanctity blessed, For hundreds of years was the home of the best; The abbey increased, and come sun or come rain, In the garden still flourished the Elecampane. That church had its day, and at last change began; The monks went elsewhere as the course of time ran; The abbey was silent, then ruins became, But verdant as ever grew Elecampane. Again many hundreds of years have gone by, And most of the abbey does now prostrate lie; Inscriptions and carvings still point out its fane, And bright ’mid the ruins blows Elecampane. Though the tomb of the saint is a thousand years old, His spirit we know is in raptures untold, And his mouldering shrine – may it ever sustain The life of the beautiful Elecampane. Robert S Ball |
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