The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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MACLEAN OF DUART. |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
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MACLEAN OF DUART.
Upon the leaded roof of a square keep
There stood a lady looking on the sea.
'Twas rippling in the summer afternoon
Beneath the sun, and down the precipice
Below the castle walls the dark grey cliff
Was heated till its crevices were dry;
While here and there a patch of hardy plants
Glittered on the projections of the rock.
Behind the lady rose the gloomy peaks
Of dreary Mull. Across the broad, blue sound,
The hills of Morven fettered the rough arm
Which old Atlantic thrust there in his youth,
When rudely he caressed that lovely land.
Some rocky islands, scattered far away,
Heaped up their darker masses from the sea
Against the clear air-azure of the hills.
Some of the very loftiest of the clouds
Hung in the purest heights of atmosphere,
Twisted by currents into shapes grotesque.
There stood a lady looking on the sea.
'Twas rippling in the summer afternoon
Beneath the sun, and down the precipice
Below the castle walls the dark grey cliff
Was heated till its crevices were dry;
While here and there a patch of hardy plants
Glittered on the projections of the rock.
Behind the lady rose the gloomy peaks
Of dreary Mull. Across the broad, blue sound,
The hills of Morven fettered the rough arm
Which old Atlantic thrust there in his youth,
When rudely he caressed that lovely land.
Some rocky islands, scattered far away,
Heaped up their darker masses from the sea
Against the clear air-azure of the hills.
Some of the very loftiest of the clouds
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Twisted by currents into shapes grotesque.
The lady was dejected by some grief,—
For, looking on the distant peaks of Lorn,
She wept; and weeping thus upon the keep,
Dropping swift tears from the high battlement,
Her husband found her. Strange, that cruel lord,
Who turned her naked from his loveless bed,
And struck her till she reeled down the cold stair,
Strange that he came with such a friendly smile!
For, looking on the distant peaks of Lorn,
She wept; and weeping thus upon the keep,
Dropping swift tears from the high battlement,
Her husband found her. Strange, that cruel lord,
Who turned her naked from his loveless bed,
And struck her till she reeled down the cold stair,
Strange that he came with such a friendly smile!
“'Tis a fair scene, my dearest: I have thought
That you might like to see those hills again;
And as the day is bright they have prepared
The boat, and all is ready.” Then he looked
Into her bloodshot eyes that swam with tears;
And on her lips a faint incredulous smile
Played when he kissed them.
That you might like to see those hills again;
And as the day is bright they have prepared
The boat, and all is ready.” Then he looked
Into her bloodshot eyes that swam with tears;
And on her lips a faint incredulous smile
Played when he kissed them.
Downward to the shore
He led her; and, gallant beyond his wont,
Took her in his strong arms, and boldly stepped
Into the water, wetting his rough legs,
Till the waves soaked the tartan of his kilt.
She found a couch of deerskins in the stern,
And there reclined, her head upon her hand,
With downcast eyes both dropping salty tears
Into the salty waves. They spread the sail;
The water deepened quickly, and she saw
Forests of weed below, wherein the fish
Like birds in happy groves upon the land
Swam in and out, beneath gigantic leaves
That floated in midwater. Slender stalks,
Leafless and smooth, rose floating to the surface,
Moving with all the water-winds below;
And on the summit of a sandy knoll
A conger-eel was sleeping 'mid the shells,
Half hid by seaweed. Then the bank grew steep
Until the bottom was no longer seen,
Though still a white shell glimmered in the brown.
When that was gone, the lady lifted up
Her dreamy eyes, and from the rugged shore
Of that detested island she had left
Found that their flight was swifter than she thought.
The water was so calm, she only guessed
The unfelt motion, save when gliding past
The rocky peaks of mountains submarine—
The black and barren tops of sunken reefs,
Which gulls of whitest plumage hid with snow,
And stately herons trod with solemn pace.
He led her; and, gallant beyond his wont,
Took her in his strong arms, and boldly stepped
Into the water, wetting his rough legs,
Till the waves soaked the tartan of his kilt.
She found a couch of deerskins in the stern,
And there reclined, her head upon her hand,
With downcast eyes both dropping salty tears
Into the salty waves. They spread the sail;
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Forests of weed below, wherein the fish
Like birds in happy groves upon the land
Swam in and out, beneath gigantic leaves
That floated in midwater. Slender stalks,
Leafless and smooth, rose floating to the surface,
Moving with all the water-winds below;
And on the summit of a sandy knoll
A conger-eel was sleeping 'mid the shells,
Half hid by seaweed. Then the bank grew steep
Until the bottom was no longer seen,
Though still a white shell glimmered in the brown.
When that was gone, the lady lifted up
Her dreamy eyes, and from the rugged shore
Of that detested island she had left
Found that their flight was swifter than she thought.
The water was so calm, she only guessed
The unfelt motion, save when gliding past
The rocky peaks of mountains submarine—
The black and barren tops of sunken reefs,
Which gulls of whitest plumage hid with snow,
And stately herons trod with solemn pace.
When in the middle of that breadth of sea,
Dividing Mull from Morven, the wind fell;
The sail flapped to the mast; and though it filled
At times again with little gusts of air,
'Twas useless, and the clansmen took the oars,
The chieftain at the helm. Their song was harsh,
In nasal Gaelic; and the oars kept time,
Dipping into the waves, and rattling loose
In the wide rullocks as they swung them back,
Unlike a skilful rower's feathering blade.
The boatmen pulled with those unbalanced oars,
Till veins and muscles with exertion swelled
On their stout arms. About the sluggish boat
A porpoise, with sleek skin and rounded back,
Crested along its ridge with a broad fin,
Rolled in the water. When the bark approached
A desolate rock, so level that the tide
Replenished all its hollows every day,
They saw a hoary seal not quite submerged,
Swimming with his grey head above the wave,
Gazing on them with melancholy eyes.
Dividing Mull from Morven, the wind fell;
The sail flapped to the mast; and though it filled
At times again with little gusts of air,
'Twas useless, and the clansmen took the oars,
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In nasal Gaelic; and the oars kept time,
Dipping into the waves, and rattling loose
In the wide rullocks as they swung them back,
Unlike a skilful rower's feathering blade.
The boatmen pulled with those unbalanced oars,
Till veins and muscles with exertion swelled
On their stout arms. About the sluggish boat
A porpoise, with sleek skin and rounded back,
Crested along its ridge with a broad fin,
Rolled in the water. When the bark approached
A desolate rock, so level that the tide
Replenished all its hollows every day,
They saw a hoary seal not quite submerged,
Swimming with his grey head above the wave,
Gazing on them with melancholy eyes.
Then said Maclean: “My love, the men are tired,
And want to rest; so let us disembark,
And walk about upon this lonely rock,
Perhaps to gather, since the tide is out,
Beautiful sea-shells.” So they left the boat;
And when the lady said, “The wind is cold,”
Maclean returned to fetch his tartan plaid,—
At least he left her there on that pretence.
The prow reversed, now faced the land of Mull:
That cruel wind, which had been contrary,
Filled the spread sail, and the inclining mast
Dipped the boom end in that white, crisping foam,
Which, as she bounded through the freshening waves,
The little vessel scattered from her bows.
The lady gazed in mute and dim despair,
Seeing but unbelieving—till she heard
A fiendish laugh across the rippling deep;
And all the hate and cruelty of years
Finished with bitter mockery—“Good night!”
And want to rest; so let us disembark,
And walk about upon this lonely rock,
Perhaps to gather, since the tide is out,
Beautiful sea-shells.” So they left the boat;
And when the lady said, “The wind is cold,”
Maclean returned to fetch his tartan plaid,—
At least he left her there on that pretence.
The prow reversed, now faced the land of Mull:
That cruel wind, which had been contrary,
Filled the spread sail, and the inclining mast
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Which, as she bounded through the freshening waves,
The little vessel scattered from her bows.
The lady gazed in mute and dim despair,
Seeing but unbelieving—till she heard
A fiendish laugh across the rippling deep;
And all the hate and cruelty of years
Finished with bitter mockery—“Good night!”
The wretched grow familiar with Death
By constant contemplation, and at last
They welcome him, the Prince of rest and peace.
Thus as the lady paced the narrow bound
Of her bleak rock, she did not weep to think
That she must meet him there; but summoning up
The resolution born of years of woe,
Smiled on the waves, when lessening in the west
She saw the white sail of her faithless lord
On the dark cliffs of Duart, and the sun
Sank in a cloud behind the purple hills.
By constant contemplation, and at last
They welcome him, the Prince of rest and peace.
Thus as the lady paced the narrow bound
Of her bleak rock, she did not weep to think
That she must meet him there; but summoning up
The resolution born of years of woe,
Smiled on the waves, when lessening in the west
She saw the white sail of her faithless lord
On the dark cliffs of Duart, and the sun
Sank in a cloud behind the purple hills.
The tide was rising eagerly to clasp
Her lovely form—even now it kissed her feet;
And sighing with impatience of delay,
Kept wildly leaping up the sloping rock.
The night was closing when the cold waves reached
Her trembling knees, and groaning all around,
She saw the gloomy water edged and furred
With a most death-like, phosphorescent light
On its foamed lip, when biting at the stones
Mad with sheer hunger it did rage for her.
Then like a martyr calmly she prepared
Her soul for death, and through the starry heaven
Sang to the Virgin her last vesper hymn.
Her lovely form—even now it kissed her feet;
And sighing with impatience of delay,
Kept wildly leaping up the sloping rock.
The night was closing when the cold waves reached
Her trembling knees, and groaning all around,
She saw the gloomy water edged and furred
100
On its foamed lip, when biting at the stones
Mad with sheer hunger it did rage for her.
Then like a martyr calmly she prepared
Her soul for death, and through the starry heaven
Sang to the Virgin her last vesper hymn.
The stars are shining in the fathomless voids
To which the soul ascends through every rent
In the white, driving clouds. The mountains rise,
Dim as the scenery of a spirit land,
Blank as the hills of Hades, mingling bounds
With vapour banks that rear their Alpine heads,
Till half-way up the zenith their sharp lines
Are clear against the luminous, wind-swept north,
Whose pale green light extinguishes its stars.
The milky way, and all the nebulous groups,
Are clear above the coldest, loftiest clouds;
Receding such a distance into space,
That though they be a crowd of blazing suns
Each with a complex system, they appear
Films of faint light against the midnight sky.
The water is a blank, mysterious grey,
Without a shore. The hills are dark and huge,
But baseless, and a single ghostly sail
Glimmers against a melancholy isle,
Coasting it slowly with a weary wind.
The upper air is streaked with falling stars;
And from the rudder in the water cold
Streams out a bubbling, brushlike train of sparks.
The blades are silvery white; and every stroke
Eddies the sea with little whirling lights,
That sink in their own centres. On the bow
There clings a changeless flake of luminous foam.
To which the soul ascends through every rent
In the white, driving clouds. The mountains rise,
Dim as the scenery of a spirit land,
Blank as the hills of Hades, mingling bounds
With vapour banks that rear their Alpine heads,
Till half-way up the zenith their sharp lines
Are clear against the luminous, wind-swept north,
Whose pale green light extinguishes its stars.
The milky way, and all the nebulous groups,
Are clear above the coldest, loftiest clouds;
Receding such a distance into space,
That though they be a crowd of blazing suns
Each with a complex system, they appear
Films of faint light against the midnight sky.
The water is a blank, mysterious grey,
Without a shore. The hills are dark and huge,
But baseless, and a single ghostly sail
Glimmers against a melancholy isle,
Coasting it slowly with a weary wind.
The upper air is streaked with falling stars;
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Streams out a bubbling, brushlike train of sparks.
The blades are silvery white; and every stroke
Eddies the sea with little whirling lights,
That sink in their own centres. On the bow
There clings a changeless flake of luminous foam.
It bears a death-like burden. Her wet robe
Is modelled to her limbs, and her brown hair
Wanders amongst a tarry coil of rope
Drenching a folded sail. There is a hand
Beneath her head, another on her heart,
Waiting the stroke of the suspended pulse.
Her brother's ear is close upon her breast;
He hears a faint, low knock—as if the soul,
Delayed admission at the door of Heaven,
Returned despairing to its former home:
And now between the blanched and parted lips
There slowly comes a painful, gurgling sigh.
Is modelled to her limbs, and her brown hair
Wanders amongst a tarry coil of rope
Drenching a folded sail. There is a hand
Beneath her head, another on her heart,
Waiting the stroke of the suspended pulse.
Her brother's ear is close upon her breast;
He hears a faint, low knock—as if the soul,
Delayed admission at the door of Heaven,
Returned despairing to its former home:
And now between the blanched and parted lips
There slowly comes a painful, gurgling sigh.
Again restored unto her father's house,
She lived and died. A chieftain grey with years
Was stabbed and murdered in the open street.
The avenger was that brother, who had snatched
A sister from the closing arms of Death,
A sacrifice from the altar of the sea!—
The victim was Maclean.
She lived and died. A chieftain grey with years
Was stabbed and murdered in the open street.
The avenger was that brother, who had snatched
A sister from the closing arms of Death,
A sacrifice from the altar of the sea!—
The victim was Maclean.
The very rock
Where he exposed his wife may still be seen,
For it emerges when the tide goes down,
And leads for ever an amphibious life.
I passed it once at midnight in a boat.
We had been sailing, but the wind veered round;
Then at the oars we toiled like galley slaves,
For thirty miles, all down the Sound of Mull;
And as we moved beneath the midnight stars,
Weary and silent, in my dreamy brain
This poem rose and formed itself at once.
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For it emerges when the tide goes down,
And leads for ever an amphibious life.
I passed it once at midnight in a boat.
We had been sailing, but the wind veered round;
Then at the oars we toiled like galley slaves,
For thirty miles, all down the Sound of Mull;
And as we moved beneath the midnight stars,
Weary and silent, in my dreamy brain
This poem rose and formed itself at once.
103
NOTE.
“Among the many ruins studding the cliffs and promontories
which fringe the shores of Mull and classic Morven,
one was pointed out with which a startling legend is connected,
that Joanna Baillie has dramatised with some
success—I mean the lonely walls of Duart Castle, overlooking
the entrance to the Sound of Mull. It was a stronghold
of the Macleans; and, from the massive ruins of its
huge keep, is supposed to have been originally constructed
by Northern rovers. Whoever might have been the builder,
his successor appears to have had very loose notions of
civil law; and in his proceedings to obtain divorce, his
method to effect a connubial separation was not exactly
that practised in the Consistorial Court at present. He
had married a sister of the Argyle of that day; and, to
settle domestic differences which arose, had recourse to a
simple remedy. At low water the lady was placed on an
isolated rock which at high water was overflowed, and
there left to perish. Fortunately, a passing boat rescued
the devoted victim: she was secretly restored to her
family; while, in full assurance of her death, this Highland
Bluebeard honoured her with a fictitious funeral. In false
security, and a belief that the murder was both committed
and unsuspected, the savage chief boldly repaired to the
capital. That visit terminated a ruthless career; for in
the street he was stabbed to the heart by Campbell of
Calder, a brother of the ill-used lady.”
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—Maxwell's Highlands and Islands of Scotland.
We left Auchincraig soon after seven, and as the wind was directly against us the men took the oars and myself the helm. Innumerable gulls whitened the rocks which rose above the surface, but deserted them on our approach. Several fine herons flew heavily by. After a four-miles' pull we came under Duart Castle, where I landed. The keep has one wall fourteen feet thick, and the other three twelve feet. The view across the Sound was magnificent. The mountains of the mainland crowded along the shore, stretching their lines from north to south like an army of giants repelling the encroachments of the sea. —Extract from my own Journal.
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