Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine,
      And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine,
      And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds than the east,
      And the crozier of the pontiff, and the vestments of the priest.

D.F.  MacCarthy.

This was the time when the High Crosses of Ireland were carved and set up.  They vie with the Round Towers in interest and in the display of skill.  What the towers have in perfection, masonry and construction, the crosses have in artistic carving and symbolic design.  No two crosses are alike; they are as varied as the clouds in an Irish sky or the pebbles on the beach or the flowers in a garden.  They were carved in reverence by those who knew and esteemed their art, and lavished all their skill and knowledge on what they most valued and treasured.  They were not set up as grave-marks merely—­theirs was a higher and loftier mission.  They were raised in places where some great event or period was to be commemorated—­they were erected where some early disciple of the Cross could stand beside one of them and from any panel could tell the foundation of the Faith, for there in stone was story after story, from the Old Testament and the New, that gave him his text, and so, as at the Cross of the Scriptures at Clonmacnois, a missioner could preach on every recurring holy day from Christmas to Christmas, with ever his text in stone before him.  Many a broken and mutilated cross has been set up in Ireland in recent years, proving that the heart of the Gael, no matter how rent and broken, is still inclined to bind up the broken wounds of her past glories.

With the religious orders there came to Ireland a widespread desire to add something to the older sanctuaries of the Gael, to widen their borders and strengthen their cords, and so the abbeys were founded.  Here and there we find them still—­by winding rivers, on rich meadows, in glens and glades, by the sea margin, or on the slopes of the rugged mountain.  Their crumbling walls and broken windows can still be traced, their towers are still to be seen over tree tops and in the centre of many a slumbering town.  By the shores of Donegal Bay the old Franciscan house, where the Four Masters compiled what is perhaps the most remarkable record possessed by any nation, is still clothed in ivy.  At Kilconnell, in Galway, their old place is almost as they left it, but roofless, with the tears of the friars upon the altar steps.  Clare Galway has a tower worth travelling half a continent to see.  By the Boniet River, at Drumahaire, on the banks of Lough Gill, are the mason marks of the cloister builders, and the figure of St. Francis talking to the birds is still there.  The abbey is roofless and empty, and so the birds of the air are his constant companions.