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.