Legends of the isles and Highland Gatherings :: :: University of Virginia Library

109

THE BRIDGE OF GLEN ARAY.

I

We pass'd the bridge with tramping steeds,
The waters rush'd below,
Down from the gorges of the hills
We heard the torrents flow.
But louder than the roar of streams—
We rode as hurried men,—
The foot-falls of our cavalcade
Re-echoed through the glen.

II

We sang and shouted as we went,
Our hearts were light that day,
When near the middle of the bridge
A shrill voice bade us stay.
We saw a woman gaunt and old
Come gliding up the rocks,
With long bare arms, and shrivell'd face,
And gray dishevell'd locks.

III

She seized my bridle suddenly,
The horse stood still with fear—
Her hand was strong and bird-like long—
Her eye was piercing clear.

110

“Oh shame!” she said, “oh cruel shame!
To ride so fierce and wild,
The clatter of your horses' hoofs
Will wake my little child.

IV

“Oh hush! oh hush! I pray you, hush!
I ask no other boon—
No word be said—and softly tread—
The child will waken soon.
I die of noises all day long,
From Morn till Even-blush,
Not for my sake, but hers, I pray—
Hush! if you're Christians, hush!”

V

Much wonder'd we to hear her words,
But Hugh, our guide, look'd on;
“Poor soul!” he said, “we'll do our best
To earn her benison.
'Twill cost no trouble to be kind:
Good Chrystie, let us through,
We will not wake your sleeping child,
But pray for her and you.”

VI

She slowly let the bridle fall—
“Ride on your way,” she said—
“But oh, be silent! noise like yours
Disturbs both quick and dead.”

111

And then she slid among the rocks;—
We saw not where she went,
But turn'd to Hugh our anxious eyes,
Inquiring what she meant.

VII

“Poor thing!” he said, while forth we rode
As if we trod on snow,
“Her brain is turn'd by sore mischance
That happen'd long ago.
Her age was scarcely twenty then,
But what it now may be
Is somewhat difficult to fix,
Between fourscore and three.

VIII

“Though now she's ugly as a witch,
She was a beauty then,
And with her gentleness and grace
She won the hearts of men.
And Donald Bain won hers, and sought
The hand she freely gave;—
They married; but before a year
She wept upon his grave.

IX

“A little babe was left behind,—
A fairy thing, 'tis said,
With soft blue eyes and golden hair,
And cheeks of cherry red.

112

It grew in beauty every day,
The maid was two years old,
The darling of her mother's life
A pleasure to behold.

X

“One day she wander'd to the stream—
It was the time of floods—
Perchance she chased the butterfly,
Or pluck'd the yellow buds.
She lost her footing on the brink;—
The mother heard the cry,
And sprang to save,—but all too late!
The flood ran roaring by.

XI

“She saw the little face and hands,
Then leap'd into the foam,
To snatch it from impending death,
And bear her darling home.
In vain! in vain! oh, all in vain!
The neighbours gather'd round,
They saved the mother from the deep—
The little child was drown'd.

XII

“And since that day—past fifty years—
She's linger'd by the stream,
And thinks the babe has gone to sleep,
And dreams a happy dream.

113

She fancies it will soon awake,
With blue eyes twinkling, mild—
Unchanged by half a century,
And still a little child.

XIII

“Beside the waters where it sank
She sits the livelong day,
Her eyes upon the eddies fix'd,
That round the boulders play;
And spreads to dry upon the rocks
The clothes which it shall wear,
The little frock, the tiny shoes,
And ribbons for its hair.

XIV

“She loves deep silence;—bless'd with that,
She feeds on empty hope,
And daily nerves a broken heart
With misery to cope.
The pitying friends who bring her food
All speak in whispers low,
And never argue with the thought
That cheers her in her woe.

XV

“For she is harmless as a babe,
Though mad, as you may see;—
God save our senses, one and all!—”
“Amen! amen!” said we.

114

Such was the tale, and all that day
Such sympathy it woke,
I turn'd to chide each rising noise,
And whisper'd as I spoke.

Glen Aray, Inverness-shire, 1849.