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.