"Here where thy saints have trod"

"Here where thy saints have trod"

Lough Derg--Pilgrimage--Magazine--Narrative

An account of Lough Derg from a late-nineteenth-century pilgrim.

Matthew Russell, 1834-1912

'Lough Derg: By a Recent Pilgrim', The Irish Monthly: A Magazine of General Literature Sixth Yearly Volume, p.31

M.H. Gill & Son, Dublin

1878

Sponsored and digitised by Google, Princeton University Library

Public domain

Article

English

Magazine Article

DD_0446

54.6083, -7.8714

https://archive.org/details/irishmonthlyvol01unkngoog/page/n5

"One thing is certain : this pilgrimage has done much during the most disastrous centuries of our history to keep alive in the hearts of the people the spirit of our holy faith and its characteristic practices. Our enemies themselves attest ‘how much the superstitions of popery are greatly upheld by the pretended sanctity of that place called St. Patrick's Purgatory, in the county Donegal.’ In the midst of a district peopled by the bigoted, transplanted Puritans, the plundered and persecuted pilgrims found a shrine where the poor friars taught them the lesson of. patient endurance at the foot of the cross, and poured into their breaking hearts the cordial of spiritual strength and vitality. And every priest in the neighbouring counties knows well from experience what lasting fruits of penance are to this day produced by a pilgrimage to the holy island. It is, in truth, a sacred spot, that barren rock, rising from dark waters, and surrounded by bleak and frowning hills. The rough stone is worn smooth by the bare knees of the generations of penitents who prayed and fasted there. Many a mile they travelled, poor, toil-worn, and foot-sore, to reach that lonely island. Many a bitter tear of penance was mingled with the waters of the lake. Many a weary vigil they passed in that ‘prison’ chapel or on those 'beds' of stone. Aye, and many a darkened soul got that, many a sinful, sorrow-laden heart found there abiding consolation. These thoughts thronged my mind as I left the shore sacred to solitude and penance ; and the poet's prayer rose unbidden to my lips : —

‘God of this Irish isle,
Blessed and old,
Bright in the morning smile

Is the lake's fold;
Here where thy saints have trod,

Here where they prayed,
Hear me ! O saying God !
May I be saved.'"

Article