Loch Uisk, Isle Of Mull.

Yon vale among the mountains,     So sheltered from the sea,     That lake which lies so lonely,     Shall tell their tale to thee.     Here stood a stately convent     Where now the waters sleep,     Here floated sweeter music     Than comes from yonder deep.     Above the holy building     The summer cloud would rest,     And listen where to heaven     Rose hymns to God addressed;     For the hills took up the chanting,     And from their emerald wall     The sounds they loved, would, lingering,     In fainter accents fall.     Hard by, beside a streamlet     Fast flowing from a well,     A nun, in long past ages,     Had built her sainted cell:     To her in dreams 'twas given     As sacred task and charge,     To keep unchanged for ever     The bright Spring's mossy marge.     "Peace shall with joys attendant     For ever here abide,     While reverently and faithfully     You guard its taintless tide."     And when she knew her spirit     Was summoned to its rest,     To all around her gathered     She gave that high behest;     And many followed after     To seek the life she chose,     Till, like a flower, in glory     The cloistered convent rose.     Through Scotland's times of bloodshed,     Of foray, feud, and raid,     Their home became the haven     Where storm and strife were stayed.     Men blessed each dark-robed Sister,     And thought an angel trod,     Where walked in love and meekness     A lowly maid of God!     Right happy were they, lighting     With love those days of doom;     For heart need ne'er be darkened     By any garment's gloom.     Yes, often life thereafter     Was here with gladness crowned,     For, sad as seemed their vesture     The peace of God was found     His holiness in beauty     Made every trial seem     A rock that lies all harmless     Deep hidden in a stream.     While life was pure there never     Was wish in thought to gain     The world, where far behind them     The black nuns left their pain;     And time but flew too quickly     O'er that friend-circle small,     Where each one loved her neighbour,     And God was loved of all.     Still from its beauteous chalice,     That well's unceasing store     Poured forth, through whispering channels,     The crystal load it bore.     Hope seemed to bring the fountain     To seek the light of day;     Faith made it bright; Obedience     Smoothed, hallowing, its way.     Full many a gorgeous Summer     Woke heather into bloom,     And oft cold stars in Winter     Looked on a Sister's tomb;     Before the joy had withered     That virtue once had nursed;     Before their Lord and Master     Grew love for things accursed.     Lo! then the stream neglected     Forsook its wonted way:     In stagnant pools, dark-tainted,     Its wandering waters lay.     There choked by moorland ridges,     Black with the growth of peat,     Beneath the quaking surface     The fetid floods would meet;     Till rising, spreading ever     Above the chalice green     Of that fair Well, they covered     The place where it had been.     Then, near the careless convent,     Within the hill's deep shade,     The Fate which works in silence     A lake had slowly made.     As evil knows not halting     When passions strongly flow,     So daily deeper, deeper     Would those dark waters grow;     Till on an awful midnight,     When red the windows flamed     And song and jest and revel     The Vesper hour had shamed,     And wanton sin dishonoured     The time Christ's birth had crowned,     They burst their banks in darkness,     And with their raging sound     The rocks of all the valley     Rung for a few hours' space;     Then the wide Loch at morning     Reflected heaven's face.     Few voices now are heard there,     Around the wild deer feed;     And winds sigh loud in Autumn     Through copse, and rush, and reed.     Men say that when in darkness     They pass the water's verge,     Each hears, mid sounds of revel     The "Miserere's" dirge;     That faintly, strangely, ever     Upon the Loch's dark breast,     Beneath, above, around it     Shine lights that never rest.     Of all such ghastly phantoms,     Bred of the night and fear,     By hope of our salvation     None meets the noontide clear!     The blue sky's tender beauties     Upon the strong floods shine,     As God's eternal mercy     Dwells with His might divine!     Pure as their mystic fountain     They sleep and flow unstained,     Although the hue of sorrow     Hath in their depths remained.     The swallow, swiftly passing     Flies low to kiss the wave     When rippling gently over     Some pure saint's holy grave:     The hunter's eyes discover     Beneath those waters still     The walls of that proud convent,     Where God hath worked His will.