The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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| II. | II. FRAOCH ELAN. |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
13
II. FRAOCH ELAN.
“You cannot see the castle on the isle,
'Tis hidden in the trees,” the boatman said,
As I was pulling carelessly, my neck
Twisted, like any bird's, in eagerness
To catch my first glimpse of the ruined tower
That gives the isle such interest. At last
The trees grew more distinct as we approached,
And soon we landed in a little creek;
And I left Dugald with the shortest pipe
That man could smoke—three quarters of an inch—
Unravelling some pigtail, which he stuffed
Into the bowl, and sat contentedly—
The hot smoke in his mouth, and the red weed
Under his nose. But I was all excitement;
And, in a minute, through the wilderness
Of stinging nettles, that the poisonous corpse
Of the great guardian snake that Fraoch slew
First propagated here, I made my way,
And found at last a breach in the rough walls,
And entered. There were silly window-holes,
Made useless since the roofing had become
One great blue skylight—plaster on the walls;
Laid on, perhaps, when that true Jacobite,
Mac Naughten, secretly prepared himself
To do the honours to the wretched heir
Of empty rights, the young pretender Charles.
For this, a royal gift, was formerly
Held by this tenure,—that the king himself
Should find a welcome here when passing by—
An honourable tenure. Times are changed;
And Nature takes again those chiselled stones
Into her keeping—types of man's decay.
From the hall floor, where kings have revelled, grows
A wild ash, springing freely to the light;
No floors to stunt its stature, and no roof
To slope the rain away on dripping eaves.
The wall still rears a gable, where for years
A water-eagle builded undisturbed,
By her at last deserted.
'Tis hidden in the trees,” the boatman said,
As I was pulling carelessly, my neck
Twisted, like any bird's, in eagerness
To catch my first glimpse of the ruined tower
That gives the isle such interest. At last
The trees grew more distinct as we approached,
And soon we landed in a little creek;
And I left Dugald with the shortest pipe
That man could smoke—three quarters of an inch—
Unravelling some pigtail, which he stuffed
Into the bowl, and sat contentedly—
The hot smoke in his mouth, and the red weed
Under his nose. But I was all excitement;
And, in a minute, through the wilderness
Of stinging nettles, that the poisonous corpse
Of the great guardian snake that Fraoch slew
14
And found at last a breach in the rough walls,
And entered. There were silly window-holes,
Made useless since the roofing had become
One great blue skylight—plaster on the walls;
Laid on, perhaps, when that true Jacobite,
Mac Naughten, secretly prepared himself
To do the honours to the wretched heir
Of empty rights, the young pretender Charles.
The island of Fraoch Elan was given by Alexander III. in 1296, to Gilbert Mac Naughten, the chief of his clan, on condition that he should entertain the King of Scotland whenever he passed that way. The proprietor, in 1745, made secret preparations for entertaining the Prince in the castle, had he passed in that direction after landing in Glenfinnin.
For this, a royal gift, was formerly
Held by this tenure,—that the king himself
Should find a welcome here when passing by—
An honourable tenure. Times are changed;
And Nature takes again those chiselled stones
Into her keeping—types of man's decay.
From the hall floor, where kings have revelled, grows
A wild ash, springing freely to the light;
No floors to stunt its stature, and no roof
To slope the rain away on dripping eaves.
The wall still rears a gable, where for years
A water-eagle builded undisturbed,
By her at last deserted.
It is said
That one Mac Naughten, who had fought with Bruce,
Praised his opponent's valour with such warmth
To Lorn the little-hearted, that he earned
A cold rebuke from him, and endless fame
For that rare generosity of heart
Which could admire a foeman's qualities.
Rude chieftain, let thy great example be
Unto our modern baseness a reproach!
And though—as then—in this transition time
Men are divided into hostile ranks,
Let us retain a liberal estimate
Of those whose watchword differs from our own.
That one Mac Naughten, who had fought with Bruce,
Praised his opponent's valour with such warmth
To Lorn the little-hearted, that he earned
A cold rebuke from him, and endless fame
For that rare generosity of heart
15
Rude chieftain, let thy great example be
Unto our modern baseness a reproach!
And though—as then—in this transition time
Men are divided into hostile ranks,
Let us retain a liberal estimate
Of those whose watchword differs from our own.
There is a myth, too, which provided me
A subject for some legendary verse.
My head was full of Spenser and his knights
When I first wrote it, and accordingly
'Tis coloured from the first line to the last
With hues reflected from the Faërie Queene.
The simple Fraoch of the Celtic myth
Became a southern knight, armed cap-à-pié,
A most substantial knight. Yet none the less
The moral of the story is preserved;
An essence giving lasting permanence
To what contains it, as Egyptian spices
Enclosed in mummy-heads instead of brains,
Defend them from the carrion tooth of Time.
A subject for some legendary verse.
My head was full of Spenser and his knights
When I first wrote it, and accordingly
'Tis coloured from the first line to the last
With hues reflected from the Faërie Queene.
The simple Fraoch of the Celtic myth
Became a southern knight, armed cap-à-pié,
A most substantial knight. Yet none the less
The moral of the story is preserved;
An essence giving lasting permanence
To what contains it, as Egyptian spices
Enclosed in mummy-heads instead of brains,
Defend them from the carrion tooth of Time.
Sir Fraoch loved a lady of Loch Awe,
And she returned his love; but one bright day,
When with his dogs around him he received
A cup of wine from her, and kissed the hand
That gave it, swearing to return the gift
A hundred-fold in mountain venison,
She, laughing, said,—“The meat is very coarse
You knightly huntsmen butcher on the hills;
But if you wish to recompense me well
For that delicious draught of foreign wine,
Go—if you dare—to that enchanted isle,
Whose clime is like the autumn of the south,
Fruitful in golden apples; if you dare,
Go, slay the serpent, and return this night
Laden with mellow spoils.” He said, “I go,”
In earnest—she proposed it but in jest.
And when the lady saw his haughty brow
Full of grave purpose, she repented it;
And, growing anxious, urged him not to go,
Saying, “she never should forgive herself
If he were bitten by that monstrous beast
Which she had seen afar off more than once,
Stretching his mighty coils along the shore
Of that enchanted isle.” But his reply
Was stern and brief. “You told me, if I dared,
To go and gather what the serpent guards;
And those who heard your challenge, let them hear
My answer. If I am not here to-night,
Let none attempt to bear my corse away,
Lest they should share my fate.” He turned to go.
The lady, seeing all that she had done
With her unhappy playfulness, controlled
A woman's feelings when she answered him,—
“Go then, and soon return; bring back thyself
Though empty handed—leave the fruit to rot—
Thy love is not a child to pine for apples.
This thought may make you careful of your life,
That I confess its value to myself;
Confession forced by rashness, which long years
Of faithful service only should have earned!”
And she returned his love; but one bright day,
When with his dogs around him he received
A cup of wine from her, and kissed the hand
That gave it, swearing to return the gift
16
She, laughing, said,—“The meat is very coarse
You knightly huntsmen butcher on the hills;
But if you wish to recompense me well
For that delicious draught of foreign wine,
Go—if you dare—to that enchanted isle,
Whose clime is like the autumn of the south,
Fruitful in golden apples; if you dare,
Go, slay the serpent, and return this night
Laden with mellow spoils.” He said, “I go,”
In earnest—she proposed it but in jest.
And when the lady saw his haughty brow
Full of grave purpose, she repented it;
And, growing anxious, urged him not to go,
Saying, “she never should forgive herself
If he were bitten by that monstrous beast
Which she had seen afar off more than once,
Stretching his mighty coils along the shore
Of that enchanted isle.” But his reply
Was stern and brief. “You told me, if I dared,
To go and gather what the serpent guards;
And those who heard your challenge, let them hear
My answer. If I am not here to-night,
Let none attempt to bear my corse away,
Lest they should share my fate.” He turned to go.
The lady, seeing all that she had done
With her unhappy playfulness, controlled
A woman's feelings when she answered him,—
17
Though empty handed—leave the fruit to rot—
Thy love is not a child to pine for apples.
This thought may make you careful of your life,
That I confess its value to myself;
Confession forced by rashness, which long years
Of faithful service only should have earned!”
Sir Fraoch soon put off his hunting dress—
Leggings of deer-skin thongs and tartan plaid—
And clothed himself, as if for common strife,
In shirt of mail with casque of polished steel.
Across his shoulder in its scabbard hung
A great two-handed sword, and by his side
A stout short claymore and a little dirk.
Leggings of deer-skin thongs and tartan plaid—
And clothed himself, as if for common strife,
In shirt of mail with casque of polished steel.
Across his shoulder in its scabbard hung
A great two-handed sword, and by his side
A stout short claymore and a little dirk.
Thus armed he hastened downwards to the shore,
Where, high and dry upon the pebbly beach,
He found his long canoe of hollow oak,
And pushed it till it floated and the waves
Wetted his knees: the wind was strong that day.
His sword, unbuckled, soon was stowed aside;
And, grasping both the rude unbalanced oars,
He turned the prow against the waves it shunned,
And, with strong efforts, slowly left the shore;
And when he reached the middle of the loch,
The waves were cut and shattered into spray
By his keen prow. The morning had been bright,
But the horizon was no longer clear;
For wild and ragged clouds began to rise
As from the western sea; and when the wind
Veered from the north to westward those dark clouds
Came quickly, and a torn shred veiled the sun.
The waves now crossed the course of the canoe,
Striking its broadside, but the mighty oar
Pierced their strong, beating hearts. A gentle swell
Was all the motion, as Sir Fraoch pulled
Along the sheltering shore of Inishail;
But when the isle was passed, a roaring squall
Came down the corries of Ben Cruachan,
Smiting the lake, that wrinkled and shrunk down
Beneath the blow. If, reader, you despise
“Pond poets,” row alone, as I have done,
To Fraoch Elan in a gale of wind;
And when a squall comes down the Pass of Awe,
Crushing your boat with weight, or blowing it
Out of the water, scorn it if you can.
Sir Fraoch was no coward; yet he watched
The waves as they approached, and turned the prow
Out of its course to meet the fiercest ones.
They did not heave like those of troubled seas,
But pitched and tossed the boat. At last the sun
Shone through an opening in the leaden cloud,
And on the rough green base of Cruachan
His slanting rays cast shadows long and dark,
But fell direct on that enchanted isle,
Whose brilliant green shone out against the blue
Of the dark distance. Then Sir Fraoch saw
That all the boughs were weighed with golden fruit;
But when he sought the serpent guardian,
He only saw a line of leaping spray
Around the rocky beach; and as he came
Nearer, he laughed aloud unto himself,
And said,—“I thought so! 'tis an old wife's tale
To frighten children from the fruitful isle,
And fear confirms itself by evidence
Of sense, for terror sees what it believes:
But I, who fear no serpent, none behold.”
Thus did he give himself encouragement—
As men are apt to do when they desire
To pluck forbidden fruit. The serpent comes
To punish, but conceals himself at first:
The hidden spider does not show himself
Until the fly is caught—as men sometimes
Know to their cost. Sir Fraoch found a creek,
Wherein he landed. Taking his great sword
Naked, he left the scabbard in the boat.
Where, high and dry upon the pebbly beach,
He found his long canoe of hollow oak,
And pushed it till it floated and the waves
Wetted his knees: the wind was strong that day.
His sword, unbuckled, soon was stowed aside;
And, grasping both the rude unbalanced oars,
He turned the prow against the waves it shunned,
And, with strong efforts, slowly left the shore;
And when he reached the middle of the loch,
The waves were cut and shattered into spray
By his keen prow. The morning had been bright,
18
For wild and ragged clouds began to rise
As from the western sea; and when the wind
Veered from the north to westward those dark clouds
Came quickly, and a torn shred veiled the sun.
The waves now crossed the course of the canoe,
Striking its broadside, but the mighty oar
Pierced their strong, beating hearts. A gentle swell
Was all the motion, as Sir Fraoch pulled
Along the sheltering shore of Inishail;
But when the isle was passed, a roaring squall
Came down the corries of Ben Cruachan,
Smiting the lake, that wrinkled and shrunk down
Beneath the blow. If, reader, you despise
“Pond poets,” row alone, as I have done,
To Fraoch Elan in a gale of wind;
And when a squall comes down the Pass of Awe,
Crushing your boat with weight, or blowing it
Out of the water, scorn it if you can.
Sir Fraoch was no coward; yet he watched
The waves as they approached, and turned the prow
Out of its course to meet the fiercest ones.
They did not heave like those of troubled seas,
But pitched and tossed the boat. At last the sun
Shone through an opening in the leaden cloud,
And on the rough green base of Cruachan
His slanting rays cast shadows long and dark,
But fell direct on that enchanted isle,
19
Of the dark distance. Then Sir Fraoch saw
That all the boughs were weighed with golden fruit;
But when he sought the serpent guardian,
He only saw a line of leaping spray
Around the rocky beach; and as he came
Nearer, he laughed aloud unto himself,
And said,—“I thought so! 'tis an old wife's tale
To frighten children from the fruitful isle,
And fear confirms itself by evidence
Of sense, for terror sees what it believes:
But I, who fear no serpent, none behold.”
Thus did he give himself encouragement—
As men are apt to do when they desire
To pluck forbidden fruit. The serpent comes
To punish, but conceals himself at first:
The hidden spider does not show himself
Until the fly is caught—as men sometimes
Know to their cost. Sir Fraoch found a creek,
Wherein he landed. Taking his great sword
Naked, he left the scabbard in the boat.
Once on the shore he felt his spirit change
Within him, and delicious indolence
Creep through his veins. He roused himself at last;
And, choosing from the thickly-planted trees
One on whose boughs autumnal apples hung—
Such as his mistress craved—he strode along,
Through beds of flowery heath and hyacinth,
Towards it. Then his nostrils and his ears
Were soothed with sound and perfume, and the harps
Of bards were hymning in the sylvan shade
The deeds of heroes; but the noisy wind
Grew faint around the island, and the waves
Broke with a dying cadence on the rocks.
The climate was exotic, like the fruit,
Inviting to repose. Sir Fraoch plucked,
Filling the folds and corners of his plaid;
But when he turned to go, the serpent lay
In deathlike stillness, coiled in the deep grass,
Between him and the boat: so all escape
Was hopeless, save through fight and victory.
He found himself—where many find themselves—
Placed, by his own sheer folly, face to face
With death or deadly struggle. There are those
To whom the life they lead is certain death,
And yet to whom the conflict with the sin
May also end in agony at last.
Still, if to such a hard alternative
You, by your errors, have reduced yourself,
Prepare for battle as Sir Fraoch did.
Better to perish fighting to retrieve
Lost freedom, than to die in slavery;
And, if you are to suffer for you fault,
First slay the sin, that you may die reformed.
The serpent lay as if inanimate;
But Fraoch grew impatient, and marched on,
Rearing his sword on high with both his hands,
And looking unto God for victory.
Then on the dull green body of the snake,
The dappled, scaly hide began to swell
To twice its former thickness; and a head
Nestled, encircled by a hundred coils,
With two small piercing eyes, as black as jet,
Which gazed upon him steadfastly. The hide
Swelled and contracted as the snake drew breath,
And all that length of former lethargy
Grew vital with fierce anger. Then the head
Reared up—thrown back—and poised upon the trunk—
Threatened Sir Fraoch, who stood motionless,
Eyeing the monster with a doubtful air;
For serpents are not common enemies,
And skilful soldiers watch with greater caution
The movements of new foes. Sir Fraoch stood,
Bearing his sword on high, prepared to sweep
A cutting circle to protect his front.
Then from the serpent's jaws a barbèd tongue
Leaped forth three times, and was withdrawn again—
Swift as forked lightning from a thunder cloud—
A dull black tongue, like a long javelin
Whose point is poisoned. Then a fearful sound
Of inward rage, concentrated and harsh,
That serpent made in breathing; and the throat
Grew livid, and the little glittering eyes
Sparkled, and the quick tongue flew forth again,
And the choked sound grew louder than before;
And, spitting fiercely like a mountain cat,
The head was drawn more backward. Nothing more
Sir Fraoch saw; but some hard obstacle
Blunted his sweeping blade, and on his breast
He felt a painful blow. Another lounge
The serpent made, but shorter, and the sweep
Of Fraoch's blade was swifter than before;
And when the snake drew back its scaly head,
Its tongue shot out three times as if in scorn,
But it was shortened, and its barb was gone.
So Fraoch gained new confidence, and brought
His sword's point low before him, and rushed on
To charge the snake which crouched below the blade,
And quickly coiled about Sir Fraoch's feet
And threw him. Then his good sword, by the force
Flung from him, lay beyond his utmost reach;
And tighter grew the coils, and round his chest
The serpent crushed the rings of his chain shirt
Into his flesh.
Within him, and delicious indolence
Creep through his veins. He roused himself at last;
And, choosing from the thickly-planted trees
One on whose boughs autumnal apples hung—
Such as his mistress craved—he strode along,
20
Towards it. Then his nostrils and his ears
Were soothed with sound and perfume, and the harps
Of bards were hymning in the sylvan shade
The deeds of heroes; but the noisy wind
Grew faint around the island, and the waves
Broke with a dying cadence on the rocks.
The climate was exotic, like the fruit,
Inviting to repose. Sir Fraoch plucked,
Filling the folds and corners of his plaid;
But when he turned to go, the serpent lay
In deathlike stillness, coiled in the deep grass,
Between him and the boat: so all escape
Was hopeless, save through fight and victory.
He found himself—where many find themselves—
Placed, by his own sheer folly, face to face
With death or deadly struggle. There are those
To whom the life they lead is certain death,
And yet to whom the conflict with the sin
May also end in agony at last.
Still, if to such a hard alternative
You, by your errors, have reduced yourself,
Prepare for battle as Sir Fraoch did.
Better to perish fighting to retrieve
Lost freedom, than to die in slavery;
And, if you are to suffer for you fault,
First slay the sin, that you may die reformed.
21
But Fraoch grew impatient, and marched on,
Rearing his sword on high with both his hands,
And looking unto God for victory.
Then on the dull green body of the snake,
The dappled, scaly hide began to swell
To twice its former thickness; and a head
Nestled, encircled by a hundred coils,
With two small piercing eyes, as black as jet,
Which gazed upon him steadfastly. The hide
Swelled and contracted as the snake drew breath,
And all that length of former lethargy
Grew vital with fierce anger. Then the head
Reared up—thrown back—and poised upon the trunk—
Threatened Sir Fraoch, who stood motionless,
Eyeing the monster with a doubtful air;
For serpents are not common enemies,
And skilful soldiers watch with greater caution
The movements of new foes. Sir Fraoch stood,
Bearing his sword on high, prepared to sweep
A cutting circle to protect his front.
Then from the serpent's jaws a barbèd tongue
Leaped forth three times, and was withdrawn again—
Swift as forked lightning from a thunder cloud—
A dull black tongue, like a long javelin
Whose point is poisoned. Then a fearful sound
Of inward rage, concentrated and harsh,
That serpent made in breathing; and the throat
22
Sparkled, and the quick tongue flew forth again,
And the choked sound grew louder than before;
And, spitting fiercely like a mountain cat,
The head was drawn more backward. Nothing more
Sir Fraoch saw; but some hard obstacle
Blunted his sweeping blade, and on his breast
He felt a painful blow. Another lounge
The serpent made, but shorter, and the sweep
Of Fraoch's blade was swifter than before;
And when the snake drew back its scaly head,
Its tongue shot out three times as if in scorn,
But it was shortened, and its barb was gone.
So Fraoch gained new confidence, and brought
His sword's point low before him, and rushed on
To charge the snake which crouched below the blade,
And quickly coiled about Sir Fraoch's feet
And threw him. Then his good sword, by the force
Flung from him, lay beyond his utmost reach;
And tighter grew the coils, and round his chest
The serpent crushed the rings of his chain shirt
Into his flesh.
He struggled silently,
And drew deep gasps into his labouring chest,
As one who needs support in mortal strife.
Meanwhile the coils grew tighter, and the snake,
Sure of its prey, began to take its ease;
And, though it almost crushed him, laid its head
In watchful rest upon the purple heath,
Waiting his death—nor would have waited long—
But when Sir Fraoch's strength was almost spent,
The snake, relaxing, left his right hand free
To draw his dirk, and instantly he ripped
The snake's defenceless belly, and in twain
Severed the living rope that bound his limbs;
Then leaping forth recovered his great sword,
And, waving it before him in the light
Of the low sun, made good his own retreat.
And drew deep gasps into his labouring chest,
As one who needs support in mortal strife.
Meanwhile the coils grew tighter, and the snake,
Sure of its prey, began to take its ease;
And, though it almost crushed him, laid its head
23
Waiting his death—nor would have waited long—
But when Sir Fraoch's strength was almost spent,
The snake, relaxing, left his right hand free
To draw his dirk, and instantly he ripped
The snake's defenceless belly, and in twain
Severed the living rope that bound his limbs;
Then leaping forth recovered his great sword,
And, waving it before him in the light
Of the low sun, made good his own retreat.
Then snatching up his plaid, in which the fruit
Was wrapped, Sir Fraoch leaped into his boat,
And half the serpent to the water's edge
Crawled after, and the other half in pain
Writhed in the heather: he had slain the snake.
Was wrapped, Sir Fraoch leaped into his boat,
And half the serpent to the water's edge
Crawled after, and the other half in pain
Writhed in the heather: he had slain the snake.
The wind had lulled, and o'er the Pass of Awe
Two golden-coloured clouds in the clear sky
Faded together as the sun went down.
About Sir Fraoch's boat two sea-gulls flew
With anxious, sorrowful voices, and their talk
Was full of sad foreboding. As he passed
The strait of the Black Islands,
on his oars
Resting, the current bore him swiftly through
Between the mournful shores of those two isles,
Which, being wedded for eternity,
Sleep there together on the water's breast,
Divided only by a narrow channel.
Their shores are dark, but they are rich in wood;
White, clean-limbed, muscular beech, and lofty firs,
Whose red boughs glow through tufts of sombre green
In the declining sun. Sir Fraoch's boat
Floated away till both those wedded isles
Lay dim and broad behind it, and the lake
Began to ripple to the brightening moon,
And in the clear pale sky the evening star
Became a visible point.
Two golden-coloured clouds in the clear sky
Faded together as the sun went down.
About Sir Fraoch's boat two sea-gulls flew
With anxious, sorrowful voices, and their talk
Was full of sad foreboding. As he passed
The strait of the Black Islands,
The Black Islands are close to Inishail, at its southern extremity. In natural beauty, both of shape and vegetation, they are the finest on the lake. To glide through the narrow strait on a summer's night and see the moon moving through the trees, and then, when the isles were passed, glittering on the waters, was a favourite amusement of mine.
Resting, the current bore him swiftly through
Between the mournful shores of those two isles,
Which, being wedded for eternity,
Sleep there together on the water's breast,
24
Their shores are dark, but they are rich in wood;
White, clean-limbed, muscular beech, and lofty firs,
Whose red boughs glow through tufts of sombre green
In the declining sun. Sir Fraoch's boat
Floated away till both those wedded isles
Lay dim and broad behind it, and the lake
Began to ripple to the brightening moon,
And in the clear pale sky the evening star
Became a visible point.
There was no wind,
And it was well; for Fraoch's weary arms
Were not the same that cut the waves at noon;
And all his frame was growing weak and stiff,
And very faint. A cold and creeping chill
Passed o'er his limbs like some uncertain wind;
His throat was parched, his eyelids often dropped
Over his weary eyes, and in his ears
Strange murmurs mingled with the dip of oars.
Still round his breast the serpent seemed to wrap
Tighter and tighter.
And it was well; for Fraoch's weary arms
Were not the same that cut the waves at noon;
And all his frame was growing weak and stiff,
And very faint. A cold and creeping chill
Passed o'er his limbs like some uncertain wind;
His throat was parched, his eyelids often dropped
Over his weary eyes, and in his ears
Strange murmurs mingled with the dip of oars.
Still round his breast the serpent seemed to wrap
Tighter and tighter.
Wearily at last
He reached the little pier, and left his boat,
Taking the dear-bought fruit.
He reached the little pier, and left his boat,
Taking the dear-bought fruit.
The lady stood
Beneath an oak awaiting his return;
But, when she saw him, would not seem to meet
Her lover, but returned into the house,
And there received him in the hall alone—
For all the men were out upon the hills.
Some deerskin mats were scattered on the floor,
And down Sir Fraoch sank on one of these,
Close by the blazing hearth. Then from his plaid
The shining apples rolled about the floor
Unheeded, for the lady saw no bloom
Upon the fruit, since all the bloom was gone
From Fraoch's cheek. He lay there till the heat
Quickened the feeble blood, and then his eyes
Fixed on the lady mournfully, and hers
Bent anxiously to his, and thus he spake:—
Beneath an oak awaiting his return;
But, when she saw him, would not seem to meet
Her lover, but returned into the house,
25
For all the men were out upon the hills.
Some deerskin mats were scattered on the floor,
And down Sir Fraoch sank on one of these,
Close by the blazing hearth. Then from his plaid
The shining apples rolled about the floor
Unheeded, for the lady saw no bloom
Upon the fruit, since all the bloom was gone
From Fraoch's cheek. He lay there till the heat
Quickened the feeble blood, and then his eyes
Fixed on the lady mournfully, and hers
Bent anxiously to his, and thus he spake:—
“O, love, the snake has crushed me; but the fruit—
I tasted of the fruit—for in the boat
Hunger and weakness robbed me of my strength,
And so I ate—I do not fear to die—
That poisonous fruit! Oh! kiss me ere I die:
Chaste are such kisses when the blood runs cold
And the flesh yields to death. O, gentle love,
My punishment is just! I expiate
The fault I have committed with my death.
Soon will the shades of heroes—whose abode
I rashly entered with this mortal body—
Receive my spirit and forgive my sin.
The snake is dead. Henceforth that isle will be
Even as the other islands of the lake,
For I have disenchanted it. I feel,
I feel the cold of death creep slowly up,
And gather round my heart.”
I tasted of the fruit—for in the boat
Hunger and weakness robbed me of my strength,
And so I ate—I do not fear to die—
That poisonous fruit! Oh! kiss me ere I die:
Chaste are such kisses when the blood runs cold
And the flesh yields to death. O, gentle love,
My punishment is just! I expiate
The fault I have committed with my death.
Soon will the shades of heroes—whose abode
I rashly entered with this mortal body—
Receive my spirit and forgive my sin.
The snake is dead. Henceforth that isle will be
Even as the other islands of the lake,
For I have disenchanted it. I feel,
26
And gather round my heart.”
These broken words
Died out in unintelligible sounds;
And then the lady saw, with tearless eyes,
A change come o'er the features which she loved,
And, taking one of those fair poison fruits,
Ate—not as Eve, deceived by erring hopes,
But with a stern example, stretched in death,
Lying before her—and the fruit was sweet,
And death itself not bitter. So she ate,
Till she began to feel strange drowsiness,
And swift pains striking through her like sharp spears.
Then, with her lips upon her lover's cheek,
She grew like him insensibly at last;
And, when the dying peats upon the hearth
Were silvery ashes, through the window fell
White moonbeams on those lovers, lighting up
The folds of her attire, that lay as still
As sculptured draperies, and his shirt of mail.
But both their faces were in deepest shade,
Close to each other. Thus the pair were found.
Died out in unintelligible sounds;
And then the lady saw, with tearless eyes,
A change come o'er the features which she loved,
And, taking one of those fair poison fruits,
Ate—not as Eve, deceived by erring hopes,
But with a stern example, stretched in death,
Lying before her—and the fruit was sweet,
And death itself not bitter. So she ate,
Till she began to feel strange drowsiness,
And swift pains striking through her like sharp spears.
Then, with her lips upon her lover's cheek,
She grew like him insensibly at last;
And, when the dying peats upon the hearth
Were silvery ashes, through the window fell
White moonbeams on those lovers, lighting up
The folds of her attire, that lay as still
As sculptured draperies, and his shirt of mail.
But both their faces were in deepest shade,
Close to each other. Thus the pair were found.
The Celtic myth is like the classic one
Of Hercules and those rare golden pippins
Which, tended by the fair Hesperides,
And guarded by a hundred-headed dragon,
Bloomed in some garden far beyond the sea.
The ruined castle and the ancient myth
First drew me to the island. Afterwards
I used to row in the long evenings,
And rest an hour amongst the heath alone.
There is a little bay, and a proud cape
In miniature, that juts into the lake
Like a huge headland, which, eternally
Planting its foot deep in the furious waves,
Steps boldly out to meet the winter storms.
I landed in this bay, and moored my boat;
Then climbed the little cliff, and on the top,
Beneath the branches of its cresting firs,
Sat, deep in purple heather and wild flowers,
Absorbed in contemplation, gaining wealth
Of poesy, as bees, that come from far,
Enrich themselves upon sweet island flowers,
Gathering wild honey all the summer days
For men who cannot find it for themselves.
Of Hercules and those rare golden pippins
Which, tended by the fair Hesperides,
And guarded by a hundred-headed dragon,
Bloomed in some garden far beyond the sea.
27
First drew me to the island. Afterwards
I used to row in the long evenings,
And rest an hour amongst the heath alone.
There is a little bay, and a proud cape
In miniature, that juts into the lake
Like a huge headland, which, eternally
Planting its foot deep in the furious waves,
Steps boldly out to meet the winter storms.
I landed in this bay, and moored my boat;
Then climbed the little cliff, and on the top,
Beneath the branches of its cresting firs,
Sat, deep in purple heather and wild flowers,
Absorbed in contemplation, gaining wealth
Of poesy, as bees, that come from far,
Enrich themselves upon sweet island flowers,
Gathering wild honey all the summer days
For men who cannot find it for themselves.
| The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth | |