Once, when St. Moling was praying in his church, the Devil visited him in purple raiment and distinguished form.  On being challenged by the saint, he declared himself to be the Christ, but on Moling’s raising the Gospel to disprove his claim, the Evil One confessed that he was Satan.  “Wherefore hast thou come?” asked Moling.  “For a blessing,” the Devil replied.  “Thou shalt not have it,” said Moling, “for thou deservest it not.”  “Well, then,” said the Devil, “bestow the full of a curse on me.”  “What good were that to thee?” asked Moling.  “The venom and the hurt of the curse will be on the lips from which it will come.”  After further parley, the Devil paid this tribute to Moling: 

  He is pure gold, the sky around the sun,
    A silver chalice brimmed with blessed wine,
    An Angel shape, a book of lore divine,
  Whoso obeys in all the Eternal One.

  He is a foolish bird that fowlers lime,
    A leaking ship in utmost jeopardy,
    An empty vessel and a withered tree,
  Who disobeys the Sovereign Sublime.

  A fragrant branch with blossoms overrun,
    A bounteous bowl with honey overflowing,
    A precious stone, of virtue past all knowing
  Is he who doth the will of God’s dear Son.

  A nut that only emptiness doth fill,
    A sink of foulness, a crookt branch is he
    Upon a blossomless crab-apple tree,
  Who doeth not his Heavenly Master’s will.

  Whoso obeys the Son of God and Mary—­
    He is a sunflash lighting up the moor,
    He is a dais on the Heavenly Floor,
  A pure and very precious reliquary.

  A sun heaven-cheering he, in whose warm beam
    The King of Kings takes ever fresh delight,
    He is a temple, noble, blessed, bright,
  A saintly shrine with gems and gold a-gleam.

  The altar he, whence bread and wine are told,
    While countless melodies around are hymned,
    A chalice cleansed from God’s own grapes upbrimmed,
  Upon Christ’s garment’s hem the joyful gold.

THE HYMN OF ST. PHILIP

(From the Early Irish)

  Philip the Apostle holy
    At an Aonach[A] once was telling
  Of the immortal birds and shapely
    Afar in Inis Eidheand dwelling.

  East of Africa abiding
    They perform a labour pleasant;
  Unto earth there comes no colour
    That on their pinions is not present.

  Since the fourth Creation morning
    When their God from dust outdrew them,
  Not one plume has from them perished,
    And not one bird been added to them.

  Seven fair streams with all their channels
    Pierce the plains wherethrough they flutter,
  Round whose banks the birds go feeding,
    Then soar thanksgiving songs to utter.

  Midnight is their hour apportioned,
    When, on magic coursers mounted,
  Through the starry skies they circle,
    To chants of angel choirs uncounted.