Yeats' FAIRY AND FOLK
TALES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY
HY-BRASAIL--THE ISLE OF THE BLEST
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,
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;
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,
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
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
Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before;
Lone evening came down
on the wanderer's track,
And to Ara again he looked timidly back;
on the verge of the ocean it lay,
Yet the isle of the blest was away, far
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,
thy calm life of labour and peace.
The warning of reason was spoken in
He never revisited Ara again!
Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest
And he died on the waters, away, far away!