Reullura

Star of the morn and eve,Reullura shone like thee,And well for her might Aodh grieve,The dark-attired Culdee.Peace to their shades! the pure CuldeesWere Albyn’s earliest priests of God,Ere yet an island of her seasBy foot of Saxon monk was trod,Long ere her churchmen by bigotryWere barred from holy wedlock’s tie.’Twas then that Aodh, famed afar,In Iona preached the word with power,And Reullura, beauty’s star,Was the partner of his bower.But, Aodh, the roof lies low,

And the thistle-down waves bleaching,And the bat flits to and froWhere the Gael once heard thy preaching,And fall’n is each columned aisleWhere the chiefs and the people knelt.’Twas near that temple’s goodly pileThat honoured of men they dwelt.For Aodh was wise in the sacred law,And bright Reullura’s eyes oft sawThe veil of fate uplifted.Alas, with what visions of aweHer soul in that hour was gifted—

When pale in the temple and faint,With Aodh she stood aloneBy the statue of an aged Saint!Fair sculptured was the stone,It bore a crucifix;Fame said it once had gracedA Christian temple, which the PictsIn the Britons’ land laid waste:The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught,Had hither the holy relic brought.Reullura eyed the statue’s face,And cried, “It is he shall come,Even he in this very place,To avenge my martyrdom.

“For, woe to the Gael people!Ulvfagre is on the main,And Iona shall look from tower and steepleOn the coming ships of the Dane;And, dames and daughters, shall all your locksWith the spoiler’s grasp entwine?No! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks,And the deep sea shall be mine.Baffled by me shall the Dane return,And here shall his torch in the temple burn,Until that holy man shall ploughThe waves from Innisfail.His sail is on the deep e’en now,And swells to the southern gale.”

“Ah! knowest thou not, my bride,”The holy Aodh said,“That the Saint whose form we stand besideHas for ages slept with the dead?”“He liveth, he liveth,” she said again,“For the span of his life tenfold extendsBeyond the wonted years of men.He sits by the graves of well-loved friendsThat died ere thy grandsire’s grandsire’s birth;The oak is decayed with old age on earth,Whose acorn-seed had been planted by him;And his parents remember the day of dreadWhen the sun on the cross looked dim,And the graves gave up their dead.

“Yet preaching from clime to clime,He hath roamed the earth for ages,And hither he shall come in timeWhen the wrath of the heathen rages,In time a remnant from the sword—Ah! but a remnant to deliver;Yet, bless’d be the name of the Lord!His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever.Lochlin, appalled, shall put up her steel,And thou shalt embark on the bounding keel;Safe shalt thou pass through her hundred ships,With the Saint and a remnant of the Gael,And the Lord will instruct thy lipsTo preach in Innisfail.”

The sun, now about to set,Was burning o’er Tiriee,And no gathering cry rose yetO’er the isles of Albyn’s sea,Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dipTheir oars beneath the sun,And the phantom of many a Danish ship,Where ship there yet was none.And the shield of alarm was dumb,Nor did their warning till midnight come,When watch-fires burst from across the mairFrom Rona and Uist and Skye,To tell that the ships of the DaneAnd the red-haired slayers were nigh.

Our islesmen arose from slumbers,And buckled on their arms;But few, alas! were their numbersTo Lochlin’s mailèd swarms.And the blade of the bloody NorseHas filled the shores of the GaelWith many a floating corse,And with many a woman’s wail.They have lighted the islands with ruin’s torch,And the holy men of Iona’s churchIn the temple of God lay slain;All but Aodh, the last Culdee,But bound with many an iron chain,Bound in that church was he.

And where is Aodh’s bride?Rocks of the ocean flood!Plunged she not from your heights in pride,And mocked the men of blood?Then Ulvfagre and his bandsIn the temple lighted their banquet up,And the print of their blood-red handsWas left on the altar cup.’Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said,“Tell where thy church’s treasure’s laid,Or I’ll hew thee limb from limb.”As he spoke the bell struck three,And every torch grew dimThat lighted their revelry.

But the torches again burnt bright,And brighter than before,When an aged man of majestic heightEntered the temple door.Hushed was the revellers’ sound,They were struck as mute as the dead,And their hearts were appalled by the very soundOf his footstep’s measured tread.Nor word was spoken by one beholder,While he flung his white robe back on his shoulderAnd stretching his arm—as eathUnriveted Aodh’s bands,As if the gyves had been a wreathOf willows in his hands.

All saw the stranger’s similitudeTo the ancient statue’s form;The Saint before his own image stood,And grasped Ulvfagre’s arm.Then uprose the Danes at last to deliverTheir chief, and shouting with one accord,They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver,They lifted the spear and sword,And levelled their spears in rows.But down went axes and spears and bows,When the Saint with his crosier signed,The archer’s hand on the string was stopt,And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind,Their lifted weapons dropt.

The Saint then gave a signal mute,And though Ulvfagre willed it not,He came and stood at the statue’s foot,Spell-riveted to the spot,Till hands invisible shook the wall,And the tottering image was dashedDown from its lofty pedestal.On Ulvfagre’s helm it crashed—Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain,It crushed as millstone crushes the grain.Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and eachOf the Heathen trembled round,And the pauses amidst his speechWere as awful as the sound:

“Go back, ye wolves, to your dens,” he cried,“And tell the nations abroad,How the fiercest of your herd has diedThat slaughtered the flock of God.Gather him bone by bone,And take with you o’er the floodThe fragments of that avenging stoneThat drank his heathen blood.These are the spoils from Iona’s sack,The only spoils ye shall carry back;For the hand that uplifteth spear or swordShall be withered by palsy’s shock,And I come in the name of the LordTo deliver a remnant of his flock.”

A remnant was called together,A doleful remnant of the Gael,And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hitherTook the mourners to Innisfail.Unscathed they left Iona’s strand,When the opal morn first flushed the sky,For the Norse dropt spear, and bow and brand,And looked on them silently;Safe from their hiding places cameOrphans and mothers, child and dame:But alas! when the search for Reullura spread,No answering voice was given,For the sea had gone o’er her lovely head,And her spirit was in Heaven.