Therefore, in those wastes None curse the Czar. Each man's tongue is cloven by The North Blast, who heweth nigh With sharp scymitar. And such doom he drees, Till hunger gnawn, And cold-slain, he at length sinks there, Yet scarce more a corpse than ere His last breath was drawn. _James Clarence Mangan_ 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! _Gerald Griffin_ MO CRAOIBHIN CNO _From the Irish_ My heart is far from Liffey's tide And Dublin town; It strays beyond the Southern side Of Cnoc-Maol-Donn, Where Capa-chuinn hath woodlands green, Where Amhan-Mhor's waters flow, Where dwell unsung, unsought, unseen _Mo craoibhin cno_, Low clustering in her leafy screen, _Mo craoibhin cno_! The high-bred dames of Dublin town Are rich and fair, With wavy plume and silken gown, And stately air; Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair? Can silks thy neck of snow? Or measur'd pace thine artless grace? _Mo craoibhin cno_, When harebells scarcely show thy trace, _Mo craoibhin cno_!