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 breese 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;

Oh, 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.

Rash 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 revisited Ara again!

Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,

And he died on the waters, away, far away!

~~Gerald Griffin