Loch Uisk, Isle of Mull
Yon vale among the mountains,
So sheltered from the sea,
That lake which lies so lonely,
Shall tell their tale to thee.
Here stood a stately convent
Where now the waters sleep,
Here floated sweeter music
Than comes from yonder deep.
Above the holy building
The summer cloud would rest,
And listen where to heaven
Rose hymns to God addressed;
For the hills took up the chanting,
And from their emerald wall
The sounds they loved, would, lingering,
In fainter accents fall.
Hard by, beside a streamlet
Fast flowing from a well,
A nun, in long past ages,
Had built her sainted cell:
To her in dreams ’twas given
As sacred task and charge,
To keep unchanged for ever
The bright Spring’s mossy marge.
“Peace shall with joys attendant
For ever here abide,
While reverently and faithfully
You guard its taintless tide.”
And when she knew her spirit
Was summoned to its rest,
To all around her gathered
She gave that high behest;
And many followed after
To seek the life she chose,
Till, like a flower, in glory
The cloistered convent rose.
Through Scotland’s times of bloodshed,
Of foray, feud, and raid,
Their home became the haven
Where storm and strife were stayed.
Men blessed each dark-robed Sister,
And thought an angel trod,
Where walked in love and meekness
A lowly maid of God!
Right happy were they, lighting
With love those days of doom;
For heart need ne’er be darkened
By any garment’s gloom.
Yes, often life thereafter
Was here with gladness crowned,
For, sad as seemed their vesture
The peace of God was found
His holiness in beauty
Made every trial seem
A rock that lies all harmless
Deep hidden in a stream.
While life was pure there never
Was wish in thought to gain
The world, where far behind them
The black nuns left their pain;
And time but flew too quickly
O’er that friend-circle small,
Where each one loved her neighbour,
And God was loved of all.
Still from its beauteous chalice,
That well’s unceasing store
Poured forth, through whispering channels,
The crystal load it bore.
Hope seemed to bring the fountain
To seek the light of day;
Faith made it bright; Obedience
Smoothed, hallowing, its way.
Full many a gorgeous Summer
Woke heather into bloom,
And oft cold stars in Winter
Looked on a Sister’s tomb;
Before the joy had withered
That virtue once had nursed;
Before their Lord and Master
Grew love for things accursed.
Lo! then the stream neglected
Forsook its wonted way:
In stagnant pools, dark-tainted,
Its wandering waters lay.
There choked by moorland ridges,
Black with the growth of peat,
Beneath the quaking surface
The fetid floods would meet;
Till rising, spreading ever
Above the chalice green
Of that fair Well, they covered
The place where it had been.
Then, near the careless convent,
Within the hill’s deep shade,
The Fate which works in silence
A lake had slowly made.
As evil knows not halting
When passions strongly flow,
So daily deeper, deeper
Would those dark waters grow;
Till on an awful midnight,
When red the windows flamed
And song and jest and revel
The Vesper hour had shamed,
And wanton sin dishonoured
The time Christ’s birth had crowned,
They burst their banks in darkness,
And with their raging sound
The rocks of all the valley
Rung for a few hours’ space;
Then the wide Loch at morning
Reflected heaven’s face.
Few voices now are heard there,
Around the wild deer feed;
And winds sigh loud in Autumn
Through copse, and rush, and reed.
Men say that when in darkness
They pass the water’s verge,
Each hears, mid sounds of revel
The “Miserere’s” dirge;
That faintly, strangely, ever
Upon the Loch’s dark breast,
Beneath, above, around it
Shine lights that never rest.
Of all such ghastly phantoms,
Bred of the night and fear,
By hope of our salvation
None meets the noontide clear!
The blue sky’s tender beauties
Upon the strong floods shine,
As God’s eternal mercy
Dwells with His might divine!
Pure as their mystic fountain
They sleep and flow unstained,
Although the hue of sorrow
Hath in their depths remained.
The swallow, swiftly passing
Flies low to kiss the wave
When rippling gently over
Some pure saint’s holy grave:
The hunter’s eyes discover
Beneath those waters still
The walls of that proud convent,
Where God hath worked His will.
The Lady’s Rock
A brother’s eye had seen the grief
That Duart’s lady bore;
His boat with sail half-raised flies down
The sound by green Lismore.
Ahaladah, Ahaladah!
Why speeds your boat so fast?
No scene of joy shall light your track
Adown the spray-strewn blast.
The very trees upon the isle
Rock to and fro, and wail;
The very birds cry sad and shrill,
Storm driven, where you sail;
O when for yon dim mainland shore
You launched your keel to start
You knew not of the load ’twill bear,
The heavier load your heart.
See what is that, which yonder gleams,
Where skarts alone make home;
Is that but one oft-breaking sea,
Some frequent fount of foam?
The morn is dark and indistinct,
Is all through drift and cloud;
Around the rock white waters toss,
As flaps in wind a shroud.
It cannot be a leaping jet,
Nor form of rock or wave
There stands some being saved by God
In mercy from the grave!
“Down with the sail, out oars! the boat
Can reach the leeward side:
Mother of Heaven! look you, men,
Where breaks that roaring tide.”
“A living woman, do I dream
Or stands my sister there,
Where only at the middle ebb
The shelving ledge is bare?”
O white as surf that sweeps her knee,
She falls, but not to die;
Ahaladah is at her side,
He bears her up on high.
Away from Duart now he steers;
Why curses he its lord;
Why flee to Inveraray’s strength,
As though he feared his sword?
Proud triumph’s notes were often heard
Where Aray’s waters sing,
And mourners there have often wept
The slain for faith and king.
But never would that lady’s lips
There speak her grievous woe,
Though in her chamber in the night
Her frequent tears would flow.
She dreamt of wrong where love was sought,
Of crafty cruel eyes,
Of one steep stair, of grasping hands
That stifled piteous cries;
Of wind which tore the hissing waves,
And howled o’er mountains bare;
Where swollen burns in feathery clouds
Were dashed into the air.
Of one wet rock, of horror wild,
When she was left alone,
Till madness seemed to whelm her thought
And, with a shuddering moan,
Again she heard the surges rush,
And, where she shrinking turned,
The seaweed there, like woman’s hair,
The murderous billows spurned.
Again the night and wind were joined
To mock her hope of aid,
Till shrieking, she awoke, where once
She slept a happy maid.
But none would she accuse, and dumb
Rebuked the vengeance call,
Till one dark eve at supper-time
Within the old dim hall,
She heard some whisper, and she saw
Her brother leave his place,
Go forth, and entering, beckon out
A band, with stern set face.
Again he came, and o’er her bent,
And whispered “Sister dear,
Let fall your veil about your head,
Nor tremble when you hear
That Duart comes in mourner’s guise!
Lo, there he takes his seat.
Chief, tell us why your mien is sad,
When friends and kinsmen meet?”
“My woes are great, my wife lies dead,
But yester week these hands
Closed her sweet eyes, and now I bring
Her body to your lands.”
Then was the arras drawn aside
And girt with wake lights drear,
Beneath the archway’s carven vault,
Was borne a white-crossed bier.
And Duart rose; his shifting eye
Moved like a marsh-fire pale,
But circling back, still restless scanned
The lady of the veil.
Then through the silence broke a voice,
“Know you that lady, chief?
She too, a guest with us, like you,
Well knows the pangs of grief.
“You come from far, bring wine.” To each
The ruddy goblet passed.
The lady raised her hand, and back
The heavy veil she cast.
Strong Duart reeled as from a stroke;
He stared as at the dead:
How could her glance o’er that dark face
Such deathly palor spread?
“Your play is out, ah cursed fiend!”
Ahaladah cried loud;
“Your death shall be no phantom false,
No empty mask your shroud:
If hospitality’s high law
Here shields your life awhile,
By all the saints you yet shall feel
The vengeance of Argyll.”
In Edinburgh Duart’s Lord
Strides down the shadowed town;
The white moon glints on roofs o’erhead,
And on St Giles’s crown.
Another step is on the street,
The watchmen hear no cry;
But drenched in blood lies Duart, where
Ahaladah passed by.