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.
_THE POOL OF THE IRON SHIRT._
Colin, Chief of Diarmid's kin,
Strode alone to Ederlinn.
Night, and heath, and deep morass
Hear the chain-mailed warrior pass.
Ambushed lay the treacherous foe,
Ear to earth, and dart on bow.
Vain their arrows' ringing hail
Fell on pointed helm and mail.
As he backward leaped, there flew
Moonlight down the sword he drew.
In his front the lonely man
Saw approach the hostile van:
Near him on the moor a tarn;
On a knoll a wattled barn.
Refuge bad, yet near its door
Sank the hot pursuit's uproar.
For, unsheathed his battle brand,
There they saw great Colin stand.
Dauntless cried he: "Here within
Rest I, then to Ederlinn!"
Yelled the circling hounds in ire,
Set the woven wall on fire.
Sword in hand he stood, the light
Gleaming on his limbs of might,
Like a cloud-built column high,
Red, in sunset's flaming sky.
All too hot for mortal frame
Glowed his armour, wrapped in flame.
Hidden by the wreaths of smoke,
Hewing through the wall, he broke,
Felling seven, onward sped
Plunging through the lake's reed-bed.
Hiss the waters where he springs,
Hatred's yell again forth rings.
But he throws his mail away,
Dives, and darkness hides his way.
Smiling hears their lessening din;
Onward strides to Ederlinn.
Ages since have passed, yet still
Tales recount his dauntless will.
"Pool of the Iron shirt," thy name
Keeps, in Erse, the hero's fame.
Look you, race of ancient Gael,
Never let such memories fail!
Set them far o'er gems and gold,
For your sons to have and hold.
Steadfast Will its goal shall win.
Fairer e'en than Ederlinn!
_INVERAWE._
Does death cleanse the stains of the spirit
When sundered at last from the clay,
Or keep we thereafter till judgment,
Desires that on earth had their way?
Bereft of the strength which was given
To use for our good or our bane,
Shall yearnings vain, impotent, endless,
Be ours with their burden of pain?
Though flesh does not clothe them, what anguish
Must be known in the world of the dead,
If the future lies open before them,
And fate has no secret unread.
And yet, oh how rarely our vision
May know the lost presence is nigh;
How seldom its purpose be gathered,
Be it comfort, or warning to die!
With mute or half breathed supplication
Permitted to utter their prayer,
Demanding earth's justice, but ever
Poor phantoms of mist and of air;
If in aught our belief may be certain
Where founded on witness of man,
They come; and no tomb e'er imprisoned
The shade when corruption began.
They come: and oh swiftly they follow
The track of the murderer vile;
He is haunted for ever; his refuge
A hell on far ocean or isle!
Though he fly as once fled from Barcaldine
Young Donald's assassin, to claim
Guest-right, where all mercy a treason
To kinship and justice became.
"Inverawe, Inverawe, give me shelter,
I have shed a man's blood in a fray;
Oh swear that you will not betray me,
By your dirk, by the dear light of day!"
And the prayer in his kindness he answered,
But aghast heard the voices that cried;
"Your cousin lies slain! Can a stranger
Have passed by the steep river side?"
Then bound by his oath he deceived them;
But night brought a dream full of fear,
His cousin's pale image stood o'er him,
Came a voice he had loved to his ear:
"Inverawe, Inverawe, give no shelter
To the man by whom blood has been shed:"
And he went to his guest, saying, "Leave me,
I obey the dear voice of the dead."
"By your oath, by the light of God's heaven
Your word has been passed for your guest"
"Then sleep in the cave in the mountain,
If Donald allow you to rest!"
Again shone the vision more awful,
Ere the hours of the darkness had fled;
"Inverawe, Inverawe, give no shelter
To the man by whom blood has been shed."
But empty the cave was at morning,
When searched for the murderer's trace,
And the ghost came again in the darkness,
The gore on its breast and its face.
"Inverawe, Inverawe," again whispered
The shade of the echoless feet,
"My blood has been shed, I await thee,
At Ticonderoga we meet."
And often in wonder repeated
That warning to many was known,
The strangely named place for the trysting
Men said was in dreamland alone;
"Why cherish a dismal illusion?
War summons gay hearts to the strife:
All share in the prizes of glory,
The chances of death or of life."
In camp, on the march, in the battle,
His thought would repeat evermore,
"At the place fore-ordained in the vision
I shall pass to the Dark River's shore."
And often awaiting the summons,
He asked for the wild Indian name,
When curled o'er American hamlets
The smoke from the guns' sudden flame.
The forest one evening was silent
As though in the calm of a trance
Yet within it two armies were resting,
The soldiers of Britain and France.
Our Highlanders slumbered, march-wearied,
Their sentries at watch in the wood:
Behind their long lines of entrenchment
The French in their bivouacs stood.
"Inverawe, take your sleep ere the morning,
When our praise or our death shall be sung,"
A comrade cried; "soon for Carillon
A chime that is new shall be rung!"
But the air of that night of midsummer
Seemed chilly, and sleep fled away;
And he wandered to where, near Carillon,
The charge would be sounded at day.
To the North a pale ray of Aurora
Shot white o'er the black forest spars,
A lake through the pines softly gleaming
Lay calm in the radiance of stars.
It seemed a sweet heaven, whose brightness
Life's dark prison-bars could not hide:
As he gazed, lo, he thought that a figure
Advanced from that silvery tide.
Distinct as a luminous shadow,
It moved in the starlight alone,
Till it came to him close, and he shuddered,
For the face that he saw was his own!
The cloak of the dread apparition
His own, but bedabbled in blood!
Inverawe stretched his hand, but the spectre
Had vanished like mist in the wood.
To the fires of his comrades returning,
"Ah! friends, you deceived me," he said;
"Why conceal from my ears that Carillon
Has the name that was named by the dead?
'Tis Ticonderoga, the fortress
We march on the morrow to storm,
Where Death and the Phantom stand watching
The hour when our column shall form."
The morn brought the hell of the onset,
When bayonet and Highlanders' blade
Sank crushed where the trenches were flashing
In the roll of the long fusillade.
Repulsed! O how sadly at night-fall
The remnant was gathered and told!
In silence they thought of the wounded,
And mourned the brave hearts that were cold.
Ere thundered again the dim battle
Saluting the deathless in God,
A truce found that Leader all gory,
Yet gasping his breath on the sod.
They bore him to camp, where around him
They pressed as he beckoned in pain:
His voice seemed a breath in the forest,
"I die--I have seen him again."
_AN ISLESMAN'S FAREWELL._
Ah! must we part, my darling?
O let the days be few,
Until your dear returning
To one who loves but you!
Where'er your ship be sailing,
Think on your own love true;
The back of the wave to you, darling,
The back of the wave to you!
The witch, who oft at midnight
Above Ben Caillach flew,
Told me she dreamed no danger
Athwart your vessel drew;
For you she said the breezes
Aye strong and fairly blew;
The back of the wave to you, darling,
The back of the wave to you!
Ah! waiting here, and trembling
When dark the water's hue,
I'll long for the dear pleasure
That in your glance I knew;
And pray to Him who never
Can lose you from His view.
The back of the wave to you, darling,
The back of the wave to you.
_PREFACE TO DIARMID'S STORY_
Best beloved of ancient stories
Are our Diarmid's woes to me.
Like a mist, by breezes broken,
So this tale of olden glories
Floats in fragments, as a token
Of the song of Ireland's sea.
Through long centuries repeated
Lived the legend told in Erse,
But a change comes swift or slowly
Fades the language, and defeated
Flies the faith, once counted holy,
Old-world ways, and oral verse.
Not from men of note or learning
May we gather now these tales,
Heard beneath the cotter's rafter,
Or where smithy sparks are burning,
Or at sea, when hushed the laughter
Of the breeze on hull and sails.
Then with Ossian's rhythmic Measure
Comes upon the fancy's sight,
One with golden locks; resplendent,
Great and strong with eyes of azure,
And, again in the ascendant,
Magic reasserts her might.
Nought can wound him, sword or arrow,
Only powerless are the spells
Where on the footsole implanted
There is hid a birth-mark narrow,
But this hero's brow enchanted
Every woman's love compels.
Woe to him, that she whose glances
Won the king on Denmark's shore,
Evil, beautiful, imperious,
Born where wheel the grisly dances
Through the glen of ghosts mysterious,
Love's first passion for him bore.
For she saw his forehead bending
O'er the snarling dogs at strife
At the wedding-feast of greeting;
And at dusk unto him wending,
"Come," she said, "let this our meeting
Pledge my soul to thee for life."
"If, O queen, we go together,
Not with friends, nor yet alone
Must thou be, nor sheltered ever,
Housed, nor braving wind and weather;
If on horse or foot, then never
Can thy love to me be known!"
Flight were shield and fence far surer
Gainst a wily woman's ways
Than the wit of man; for seated
Ere the dawn, his fair allurer
At his open door repeated
All his words, with longing gaze.
"Go with me, O Diarmid; see me
Not on horse, or foot; with friends,
Nor alone; not night or morning
Reigns: O come; thou wilt not flee me?
Never lived a warrior scorning
Every joy that loving lends!"
Then at last by her caresses
Into flight and guilt beguiled,
Diarmid loathed his life, abiding
In the caves' or woods' recesses,
Like a thief or coward hiding,
To his fate unreconciled.
Thus the mightiest magician
Warped the true and loyal heart,
And he fled with her, forsaking.
Friends and kinsfolk, while contrition
Gnawed into his life's days, making
Sad his journey, hard his part.
He, a fugitive, whose valiance
Made the Feinne fair Erin's boast!
Where the red cascade descended,
Lovely Grinie's evil dalliance
Held him thrall as though were ended
Noble warring with the host.
He a slave! whose oaths had ever
Bade him "champion the oppressed,"
Pledged him to "confound the clever,
Aid the losing man's endeavour,
Be the first in fight, and never
Heedless of the king's behest"
Once upon a rock, tree-shrouded,
Hungry they had climbed to eat
Where the scarlet berries clustered:
Suddenly below them crowded
Dogs and huntsmen, 'til were mustered
All the Feinne beneath their feet.
Fionn, then, their grim commander,
Dreaming not his wife was near,
Had a giant chess-board graven
On the sod, and played; and under
The green leaves which gave him haven
Diarmid watched the game in fear.
Oscar lost, with Fionn playing,
Until Diarmid, from on high
Dropped the scarlet seeds to guide him,
Thus his presence there betraying:
And the friends of Fionn eyed him,
Shouting, "Thou shalt surely die!"
But all Diarmid's comrades for him
Fought, each venturing his life:
And amid the dread commotion
Fled the twain, until before him
To the peaceful sands of ocean
Ran a woodland stream of strife.
Dwelling on its banks he made him
There the wooden bowls that none
Fashioned with the dirk so deftly.
But the chattering stream betrayed him:
From the secret forest swiftly
Flashed white shavings in the sun.
Then the king cried, "Grinie's lover
Near us hath his lurking place!
Sound the hunting horns around him!
See if from the thickets' cover
By the ancient vows that bound him
He shall come to join the chase!"
* * * * *
How the queen bore his upbraiding;
How his death in hunting came,
Tell the verses here translated:
Lights are they, in transit fading,
Scattered sparks, oblivion fated,
Memories from a mighty flame!
_GRINIE'S FLIGHT WITH DIARMID._
(FROM THE GAELIC)
The Hern at early morning cries,
Where at Sleve-gail the meadow lies.
Say, Dúin's son, whom I love well,
Canst thou thereof the reason tell?
O! Gormla's daughter, thou whose sire
Was named from tireless steeds of fire;
Thou evil-working one! thy feet
Tread treacherous ways of ice and sleet.
Grinie! of lovelier hue than Spring
To flower, or bloom on bough can bring,
More fleeting far your love that flies
Like the cold clouds of dawning skies.
Because of thine ill-chosen part
My fortune's firm set rivets start.
Yes, thine the deed, brought low to pain,
My grievous woe thine only gain.
From palaces of kings beguiled,
For ever outcast and exiled:
Like night-owl mourning, as she strays,
Her joy through dark and distant ways.
Like timid hind or hunted deer,
Through secret glens I tread in fear.
Shunning the loving friends who hold
The house of hosts so loved of old.
Their forms shone glorious as the lights
On the deep snows of frosted heights.
All these I left--mine own--whose love
Was generous as the Sun above.
But they are now hate-filled as though
Hate's sea would never ebb ward flow.
Yes, since beguiled by you I fled,
Misfortune follows where I tread.
Lost now my white sailed fleet's array,
Through you my band is lost for aye.
Gone all my wealth, my gems, my gold,
All for the tale of love you told!
To me my friends are lost, to me
No more my country mine shall be.
Lost are my men whom none e'er found
Weak behind shield on battle ground.
Lost is their kindness evermore
The love for me the Feinne once bore.
Lost to mine honour mine own right,
Lost music's joy and lost delight;
Erin and all I there have known,
For your ill-omened love alone.
Return I dare not,--may not,--never
Know their great friendship, gone for ever.
More than the beast of sharpest beard
My deed in hate by Fionn is feared.
Yes, fairest Grinie, thou hast done
Ill to thyself in love thus won.
Thou, winning hatred, wentst with me,
And kingly joys were spurned by thee.
GRINIE.
O Diarmid! O Diarmid! of face far more fair
Than the new-fallen snow, or the hill flowret rare,
The sound of thy voice was more dear to my breast
Than all the bright satin the Fianti possessed.
More beloved to me is the hue of thine eyes,
Those eyes like the morning's bright dew of the skies,
Ay, dearer to me than all strength or all gold
The great hall of the king of the Feinne shall e'er hold.
Love's mark is more sweet on thy beautiful brow
Than honey that drops where the green grasses bow;
Ah, when I beheld it above me, how pale
Seemed the glory and power of the Monarch of Fail.
My heart seemed to fall as I looked at thy face,
Adoring thy might ever blended with grace,
And wert thou not mine, to be gained to my side,
Not one day in this world would my spirit abide.
Oh! white-handed hero, so handsome, so strong,
Although it is I who have wrought all thy wrong,
Yet stay, stay again with me, wife would I be,
Vowing never on earth to be faithless to thee.
DIARMID.
Why love a woman mild in speech,
And yet a traitoress to each?
GRINIE.
'Twas misery sundered my life from the king's,
I left thee awhile, for love, torturing, stings;
Never more will I leave thee-my tender love round
thee
Like fresh boughs for thy life, would have sheltered
and crowned thee.
DIARMID.
Fulfil then thy word, though so faithless, how fair!
Thy love, oh my Grinie, no giant shall share.
_Note._--From Gaelic verse, printed by J. F. Campbell, Esq.,
in "Leabhar na Feinne."
_THE DEATH OF THE BOAR_
[Taken from "Leabhar na Feinne," and a prose version written
down from oral recitation by J. Dewar.]
OSSIAN.
This vale of Peace, this glen close by,
Where deer and elk would often cry,
Of old saw the fleet-footed Fianti bound
In the strath of the west as they followed the hound.
List if you wish to hear a lay
Of gentle folks long passed away,
Of him who was Prince; of Gulban's blue hill,
And sorrow-cursed Diarmid's sad legend of ill.
AUDIENCE.
Loved Ossian, sweetest voiced, what day
But sees us listeners to thy lay?
Such strains from no birds of the shoreland can float,
Though dawn give each leaf in the woodland a note.
OSSIAN.
My own good king was hunting gone,
They whom no deerlike terror won,
His Feinne, through the secret glens followed, and we
Descended the slopes that lead down to the sea.
Then saw our own great king, whose word
The Feinne, the brave, obeying heard,
A nine folded shaving of wood brightly curled,
Shining white, as to seaward the swift waters swirled.