The Coming of the Friars to Ard Mhuire

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ARD MUIRE. Franciscan Monastery, Ards, Co. Donegal. "The Lord God hath said to the holy dead, Come! Spirit from the four winds and blow. Blow upon the slain. Let them live again, And I—to you—your own land bestow. I who am the Lord—shall stretch my hand, And make you rest upon your own land." (Extract from Capuchin Annual, 1931). ————— One bright autumn day—we wandered away From the city's eternal noise, In an eager quest of peace and of rest, And of sylvan pleasures and joys, Perfect peace we found. "Twas in hallowed ground, Enclosing an old feudal hall, Embowered in trees, beside sunny seas, Mong the headlands of Donegal. Through a stone archway, near Sheephaven Bay, 'Neath ancient oak, cedar, and beech, Through a mossy glade, o'er a pathway made To the verge of the shingly beach. There burst on our view, by the waters blue A mansion of gray granite stone, On its windows bright, the sun's dazzling light With a glorious radiance shone. On the Cross that o'er the wide open door Hung (the emblem of "Greater Love.") On the monks who strayed thro' the leafy glade With thoughts fixed on Heaven above. On a kneeling crowd with thier bare heads bow'd On the Abbot who seem to me, (With hands spread to bless them in mute carees). Like Christ beside Lake Galliee. Then he turned his face, lit with heavenly grace. And he moved with a regal air, Towards where we stood, by a shady wood. And he inclined us a welcome there. What he heard our footsteps he led 'Neath the Cross to the chapel fair. What a peace we felt! At the Altar we knelt, To breathe "a wish" in our prayer. In the days of yore, on that verdant shore There was heard no Angelus 'bell No hymn nor prayer; naught resounded there But the troopers' vile curse and yell. In that stone paved hall, no sandalled footfall Was heard, no vesper call to pray'r, But the peasants' groans, and the orphans' moans Were the sounds that re-echoed there. God's mills grind slowly, the great and lowly, But they grind them exceeding small, After woe and pain—the monks build again The temples of old Donegal. Those Stewarts of old, could they now behold Monks at pray'r in their ancient home. Their spirits would creep from their long last sleep Through the glades, in the dusk to roam. We lingered to pray, we lengthened our stay, Till fell the long shadows of eve, Those dear friends of mine, 'neath the stately pine Were loath that fair Eden to leave. But the day has brought a comforting thought— That here in this haven of rest, We again may meet, at the Saviour's fete In the fane of Ard Muire blest. —Lizzie MacDerby. Rossnakill, Sunday, August 5th, 1933.