TO ETHNA.

Ethna, to cull sweet flowers divinely fair, To seek for gems of such transparent light As would not be unworthy to unite Round thy fair brow, and through thy dark-brown hair, I would that I had wings to cleave the air, In search of some far region of delight, That back to thee from that adventurous flight, A glorious wreath my happy hands might bear; Soon would the sweetest Persian rose be thine— Soon would the glory of Golconda's mine Flash on thy forehead, like a star—ah! me, In place of these, I bring, with trembling hand, These fading wild flowers from our native land— These simple pebbles from the Irish Sea!