  On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell; And they called it Hy-Brasail the isle of the blest. From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim, The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim; The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, And it looked like an Eden, away, far away! A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail; From Ara, the holy, he turned to the West, For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest. He heard not the voices that called from the shore— He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar; Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day, And he sped to Hy-Brasail, away, far away! Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle, O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile; Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before; Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track, And to Ara again he looked timidly back; O! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away! Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again. Bash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss To barter thy calm life of labour and peace. The warning of reason was spoken in vain, He never re-visited Ara again! Night falls on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, And he died on the waters, away, far away! Gerald Griffin |
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