Legends of the isles and Highland Gatherings By Charles Mackay. Second Edition |
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ST. COLUMBA; OR THE COUNTING OF THE ISLES. |
 | Legends of the isles and Highland Gatherings |  |
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ST. COLUMBA; OR THE COUNTING OF THE ISLES.
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[The following legend, with some slight variation, is current in the Hebrides. One version states, that the Saint takes his stand upon the walls of the ruined cathedral of Iona, and counts the isles; but makes no mention of the ghostly company introduced into the ballad.]
I
Hush'd were the winds, and not a breathDisturb'd the peaceful sea,
And even to Staffa's echoing caves
The large, uneasy, western waves
Came beating quietly;
Starless and moonless was the night,
And on the waters lay,
Like silence palpable to sight,
Thick wreaths of vapour gray.
II
Far in the west, 'mid rain and mist,Upon the deep afloat,
Without an oar, without a sail,
Came down a little boat:
Amid the mazes of the isles
By hands unseen propell'd,
By frowning scaur, through whirlpool roar,
Its noiseless way it held;
Like a shadow gliding, dark and slow,
Unwitting how the winds might blow.
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III
And at the stern, with downcast eyes,And hands upon his breast,
There sat the figure of a man,
Serene, like one possess'd
With peaceful thoughts, that quite absorb'd
All faculties combined,
So that his sight, to left nor right,
Ne'er wander'd from his mind,
Nor his ear heard the murmur low
Of waters cleaving at the prow.
IV
Down through the seas, where Lewis afarThe dim horizon streaks;
By Skye, where lordly Cuillens rear
Their high fantastic peaks;
By Ronan and her sister isle;
By Coll and green Tiree;
And by the giant crags of Mull
That frown upon the sea;
By Ulva's isle and Fingal's cave,
Palace and wonder of the wave;—
V
Still on—still on—till morning dawnThe boat pursued its way:
Still on—still on—till night, slow-drawn,
Through sleet and vapour gray,
It held its course amid the Isles,
Nor stopp'd by night or day;
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Sat silent, gather'd in his thought.
VI
Behind the boat, the waters shoneWith phosphorescent light—
Slow from the keel, like glancing steel,
The waves fell off, all night.
At length, far looming through the mist
That now from heaven upclear'd,
Iona, sepulchre of kings,
The holy isle, appear'd—
The Culdee's bower, the place of graves,
The fair green “island of the waves.”
VII
The moon, new risen, look'd forth from heaven,And purpled every height,
And waves upheaved their silvery sides,
Rejoicing in the light—
And mountain tops, with radiance touch'd,
Look'd placidly below,
As onwards to Iona's isle
The boat went gliding slow;
And the lone traveller stepp'd on shore,
Leaning upon the staff he bore.
VIII
A long loose mantle wrapp'd his limbs,A cowl conceal'd his head;
And meek yet lordly was his look,
And solemn was his tread.
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A pale and shadowy band,
Barefoot, bareheaded, holding each
A taper in his hand,
Came in long line from Oran's shrine,
And gather'd on the strand.
IX
No word was said, no sign was made,—Spectres all pale and wan,
With earthward looks—'mid silence deep—
Their noiseless march began.
And slow they follow'd where he led;
And, moved as by a blast,
The doors of St. Columba's kirk
Flew open as they pass'd,
And show'd the lights on roof and wall
Lit up for solemn festival.
X
And choral voices sweet and clear,Drawn out in cadence long,
Re-echoed through the vaulted aisles
Attuned to holy song;
And music like a flowing tide
From organ-pipes unseen,
Pour'd forth a full majestic strain
Each solemn pause between;
And myrrh and incense fill'd the air,
And shadowy lips were moved in prayer.
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XI
Each damp and moss-grown sepulchre,Each vault and charnel cold,
Each grassy mound let forth its dead,
And from th' enfettering mould
Dim shadows of departed kings,
Sceptred and robed and crown'd,
And mitred bishops, meek and pale,
And abbots cowl'd and gown'd,
Came thronging in the moonlight gray
In long impalpable array.
XII
And fierce Vikinger, swathed in mail,Pallid and gaunt, stood forth,—
Old pirates, that to spoil the land
Had issued from the North.
Lords of the Isles, and Thanes, and Jarls,
Barons and Marmors grim,
With helm on head and glaive in hand,
In rusty armour dim,
Responsive to some powerful call
Gather'd obedient, one and all.
XIII
And now the choral voices hush'd,And ceased the organ tone;
As to the altar-steps, high raised,
Sad, silent, and alone,
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Turn'd reverent as he trod,
And whispering voices, each to each,
Proclaim'd the man of God—
Columba, in his ancient place,
Radiant with glory and with grace.
XIV
Back fell his cowl—his mantle dropp'd,And in a stream of light,
A halo round his aged head,
And robed in dazzling white—
The saint with smiles of heavenly love
Stretch'd forth his hands to pray,
And kings and thanes, and monks and jarls,
Knelt down in their array,
Silent, with pallid lips compress'd,
And hands cross'd humbly on their breast.
XV
He craved a blessing on the Isles,And named them, one by one—
Fair western isles that love the glow
Of the departing sun.—
From Arran looming in the south,
To northern Orcades,
Then to Iona back again,
Through all those perilous seas,
Three nights and days the saint had sail'd,
To count the Hebrides.
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XVI
He loved them for Iona's sake,The isle of prayer and praise,
Where Truth and Knowledge found a home
When fallen on evil days.
And now he bless'd them, each and all,
And pray'd that evermore,
Plenty and peace, and Christian love,
Might smile on every shore,
And that their mountain-glens might be
The abiding-places of the free.
XVII
Then, as he ceased, Kings, Abbots, Earls,And all the shadowy train,
Rose from their knees, and choral songs
Re-echoed loud again—
And then were hush'd—the lights burn'd dim,
And ere the dawn of day,
The saint and all the ghostly choir
Dissolved in mist away:
Aërial voices sounding still
Sweet harmonies from Duni's hill.
XVIII
And every year Columba makes,While yet the summer smiles,
Alone, within his spectral boat,
The circuit of the isles;—
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From vault and charnel start,
Disburied, in the rite to bear
Their dim, allotted part,
And crave, upon their bended knees,
A blessing on the Hebrides.
| Legends of the isles and Highland Gatherings | |