Hy-Brasail

On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell; Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, 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!

Rash dreamer, return! O ye winds of the main, 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!