Loch By

Part I.     Dark, with shrouds of mist surrounded.     Rise the mountains from the shore,     Where the galleys of the Islesmen     Stand updrawn, their voyage o'er.     Horns this morn are hoarsely sounding     From Loch By's ancient wall,     While for chase the guests and vassals     Gather in the court and hall.     Hounds, whose voices could give warning     From far moors of stags at bay,     Quiver in each iron muscle,     Howl, impatient of delay.     Henchmen, waiting for the signal,     At their chiefs imperious word     Start, to drive from hill and corrie     To the pass the watchful herd.     Closed were paths as with a netting,     Vain high courage, speed, or scent;     Every mesh, a man in ambush     Ready with a crossbow bent.     "Eachan, guard that glade and copsewood,     At your peril let none by!"     Cries the chief, while in the heather     Silently the huntsmen lie.     Shouting by the green morasses     Where the fairies dance at night,     Yelling 'mid the oak and birches     Come the beaters into sight.     And before them, rushing wildly     Speeds the driven herd of deer,     Whose wide antlers toss like branches     In the winter of the year.     Useless was the vassal's effort     To arrest the living flow;     And it passed by Eachan's passage     Spite of hound, and shout, and blow.     "Worse than woman! useless caitiff!     Why allowed you them to pass?     Back, no answer! Hark, men, hither!     Take his staff and bind him fast"     Hearing was with them obeying,     And the hunter's strong limbs lie     Bound with thongs from tawny oxen,     'Neath the chieftain's cruel eye.     "More than twoscore stags have passed him,     Mark the number on his flesh     With red stripes of this good ashwood,     Mend me thus this broken mesh!"     Ah, Loch By! faint and sullen     Beats the heart, once leal and free,     That had yielded life exulting     If it bled for thine and thee.     Deem'st thou that no honour liveth     Save in haughty breasts like thine?     Think'st thou men, like dogs in spirit,     At such blows but wince and whine?     Often in the dangerous tempest,     When the winds before the blast     Surging charged like crested horsemen     Over helm, and plank, and mast,     He, and all his kin before him,     Well have kept the clansman's faith,     Serving thee in every danger,     Shielding thee from harm and skaith.     'Mid the glens and hills, in combats     Where the blades of swordsmen meet,     Has he fought with thee the Campbells,     Mingling glory with defeat.     But as waters round Eorsa     Darken deep, then blanch in foam,     When the winds Ben More has harboured     Burst in thunder from their home,     So the brow fear never clouded     Blackens now 'neath anger's pall,     And the lips, to speak disdaining,     Whiten at revenge's call!     Part II.     Late, when many years had passed him,     And the Chiefs old age begun,     Seemed his youth again to blossom     With the birth of his fair son.     Late, when all his days had hardened     Into flint his nature wild,     Seemed it softer grown and kinder     For the sake of that one child.     And again a hunting morning     Saw Loch By and his men,     With his boy, his guests, and kinsmen,     Hidden o'er a coppiced glen.     Deep within its oaken thickets     Ran its waters to the sea:     On the hill the Chief lay careless,     While the child watched eagerly.     'Neath them, on the shining Ocean,     Island beyond island lay,     Where the peaks of Jura's bosom     Rose o'er holy Oronsay.     Where the greener fields of Islay     Pointed to the far Kintyre,     Fruitful lands of after-ages,     Wasted then with sword and fire.     For the spell that once had gathered     All the chiefs beneath the sway     Of the ancient Royal sceptre     Of the Isles had passed away.     Once from Rathlin to the southward,     Westward, to the low Tiree,     Northward, past the Alps of Coolin,     Somerled ruled land and sea.     Colonsay, Lismore, and Scarba,     Bute and Cumrae, Mull and Skye,     Arran, Jura, Lew's and Islay     Shouted then one battle-cry.     But those Isles that, still united,     Fought at Harlaw, Scotland's might,     Broken by their fierce contentions     Singly waged disastrous fight.     And the teaching of forgiveness,     Grey Iona's creed, became     Not a sign for men to reverence,     But a burning brand of shame.     Still among the names that Ruin     Had not numbered in her train,     Lived the great Clan, proud as ever     Of the race of strong Maclaine.     And his boy, like her he wedded,     Though of nature like the dove,     Showed the eagle-spirit flashing     Through her heritage of love.     Heir of all the vassals' homage     Rendered to the grisly sire,     He had grown his people's treasure,     Fostered as their heart's desire.     Surely Safety guards his footsteps;     Enmity he hath not sown:     Yet who stealthily glides near him,     Whose the arm around him thrown?     It is Eachan, who has wolf-like     Seized upon a helpless prey!     Fearlessly and fast he bears him     Where a cliff o'erhangs the bay.     There, while sea-birds scream around them,     Holding by his throat the boy,     Eachan turns, and to the father     Shouts in scorn and mocking joy:     "Take the punishment thou gavest,     Give before all there a pledge     For my freedom, or thy darling     Dying, falls from yonder ledge.     "Take the strokes in even number     As thou gavest, blow for blow,     Then dishonoured, on thine honour     Swear to let me freely go."     Silent in his powerless anger     Stood the Chief, with all his folk;     And before them all the ransom     Was exacted stroke for stroke.     Then again the voice of vengeance     Pealed from Eachan's lips in hate:     "Childless and dishonoured villain,     Expiation comes too late.     "My revenge is not completed!"     And they saw in dumb despair     How he hurled his victim downward     Headlong through the empty air.     Then they heard a yell of laughter     As they turned away the eye;     And they gazed again where nothing     Met their sight but cliff and sky;     For the murderer dared to follow     Where the youthful spirit fled,     To the Throne of the Avenger,     To the Judge of Quick and Dead.