Rash Son, return! Yon shores that dazzle
With glowing pleasance, glittering plain, 
And crystal keep is not Hy-Brazil,
But some false phantom of the main.
And yon bright band thy vision meeting,
Their warbled welcome hither fleeting_
Oh, trust not to their siren greeting,
Oh, wave not, wave not back again.
But veil thine eyes from their entreating
And list not their enchanting strain.

O Sovran Sire, no cruel vision
Compels my curragh o'er the deep!
Yea, have we seen the land Elysian,
Hy-Brazil out of Ocean leap.
None ever knew it smiling nearer,
Or hearkened yet, a blessed hearer,
Its Virgin Chorus chanting clearer
O'er lulled Atlantic's cradled sleep.
That strain again! What psalm sincerer
From Angel harps to Earth could sweep.

With hand to brow the monarch hoary
Stood rapt upon the Western ray,
Till in a gulf of golden glory
The bright bark melted o'er the bay.
Then cracked the glass of calm asunder!
Then roared the cave the sea cliff under!
Then sprang to shore, with hooves of thunder,
Mannanan's steeds of ghostly grey.
Yet ere the shock, a cry of wonder,
"Hy-Brazil's here!" rose far away.