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174 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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LUKE AYLMER CONOLLY ( -1833)
THE ENCHANTED ISLAND
T
O Rathlin's Isle I chanced to sail When summer breezes softly blew, And there I heard so sweet a tale That oft I wished it could be true.
They said, at eve, when rude winds sleep, And hushed is ev'ry turbid swell,
A mermaid rises from the deep, And sweetly tunes her magic shell.
And while she plays, rock, dell, and cave, In dying falls the sound retain,
As if some choral spirits gave
Their aid to swell her witching strain.
Then, summoned by that dulcet note, Uprising to th' admiring view,
A fairy island seems to float
With tints of many a gorgeous hue.
And glittering fanes, and lofty towers,
All on this fairy isle are seen : And waving trees, and shady bowers,
With more than mortal verdure green. |
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