Slowly his boat the languid breeze obeyed,
  Although the stream that that light burden bore
Was like the level path the angels made,
  Through the rough sea, to Arran’s blessed shore;
And from the rosy clouds the light airs fanned,
  And from the rich reflection that they gave,
Like good Scothinus, had he reached his hand,
  He might have plucked a garland from the wave.

And now the noon in purple splendour blazed,
  The gorgeous clouds in slow procession filed;
The youth leaned o’er with listless eyes and gazed
  Down through the waves on which the blue heavens smiled: 
What sudden fear his gasping breath doth drown! 
  What hidden wonder fires his startled eyes! 
Down in the deep, full many a fathom down,
  A great and glorious city buried lies.

Not like those villages with rude-built walls,
  That raise their humble roofs round every coast,
But holding marble basilics and halls,
  Such as imperial Rome herself might boast. 
There was the palace and the poor man’s home,
  And upstart glitter and old-fashioned gloom,
The spacious porch, the nicely rounded dome,
  The hero’s column, and the martyr’s tomb.

There was the cromleach with its circling stones;
  There the green rath and the round narrow tower;
There was the prison whence the captive’s groans
  Had many a time moaned in the midnight hour. 
Beneath the graceful arch the river flowed,
  Around the walls the sparkling waters ran,
The golden chariot rolled along the road—­
  All, all was there except the face of man.

The wondering youth had neither thought nor word,
  He felt alone the power and will to die;
His little bark seemed like an outstretched bird,
  Floating along that city’s azure sky. 
It joyed that youth the battle’s storm to brave,
  And yet he would have perished with affright,
Had not the breeze, rippling the lucid wave,
  Concealed the buried city from his sight.

He reached the shore; the rumour was too true—­
  Ethna—­his Ethna—­would be God’s alone
In one brief month; for which the maid withdrew,
  To seek for strength before his blessed throne. 
Was it the fire that on his bosom preyed,
  Or the temptation of the Fiend abhorred,
That made him vow to snatch the white-veiled maid
  Even from the very altar of her Lord?

The first of June, that festival of flowers,
  Came, like a goddess, o’er the meadows green! 
And all the children of the spring-tide showers
  Rose from their grassy beds to hail their Queen. 
A song of joy, a paean of delight,
  Rose from the myriad life in the tall grass,
When the young Dawn, fresh from the sleep of night,
  Glanced at her blushing face in Ocean’s glass.

Ethna awoke—­a second—­brighter dawn—­
  Her mother’s fondling voice breathed in her ear;
Quick from her couch she started as a fawn
  Bounds from the heather when her dam is near. 
Each clasped the other in a long embrace—­
  Each know the other’s heart did beat and bleed—­
Each kissed the warm tears from the other’s face,
  And gave the consolation she did need.