Still we have a new romance in fire-ships through the tamed sea
  glancing,
And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty engine steed;
Still, Astolpho-like, we wander through the boundless azure yonder,
Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we read: 
Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is freed—­
        Wilder far indeed!

Now that Earth once more hath woken, and the trance of Time is broken,
And the sweet word—­Hope—­is spoken, soft and sure, though none know
  how,
Could we, could we only see all these, the glories of the Real,
Blended with the lost Ideal, happy were the old world now—­
Woman in its fond believing—­man with iron arm and brow—­
        Faith and work its vow!

Yes! the Past shines clear and pleasant, and there’s glory in the
  Present;
And the Future, like a crescent, lights the deepening sky of Time;
And that sky will yet grow brighter, if the Worker and the Writer—­
If the Sceptre and the Mitre join in sacred bonds sublime. 
With two glories shining o’er them, up the coming years they’ll climb,
        Earth’s great evening as its prime!

With a sigh for what is fading, but, O Earth! with no upbraiding,
For we feel that time is braiding newer, fresher flowers for thee,
We will speak, despite our grieving, words of loving and believing,
Tales we vowed when we were leaving awful Ceim-an-eich,
Where the sever’d rocks resemble fragments of a frozen sea,
        And the wild deer flee!

’Tis the hour when flowers are shrinking, when the weary sun is sinking,
And his thirsty steeds are drinking in the cooling western sea;
When young Maurice lightly goeth, where the tiny streamlet floweth
And the struggling moonlight showeth where his path must be—­
Path whereon the wild goats wander fearlessly and free
        Through dark Ceim-an-eich.

As a hunter, danger daring, with his dogs the brown moss sharing,
Little thinking, little caring, long a wayward youth lived he;
But his bounding heart was regal, and he looked as looks the eagle,
And he flew as flies the beagle, who the panting stag doth see: 
Love, who spares a fellow-archer, long had let him wander free
        Through wild Ceim-an-eich!

But at length the hour drew nigher when his heart should feel that fire;
Up the mountain high and higher had he hunted from the dawn;
Till the weeping fawn descended, where the earth and ocean blended,
And with hope its slow way wended to a little grassy lawn;
It is safe, for gentle Alice to her saving breast hath drawn
        Her almost sister fawn.

Alice was a chieftain’s daughter, and, though many suitors sought her,
She so loved Glengariff’s water that she let her lovers pine;
Her eye was beauty’s palace, and her cheek an ivory chalice,
Through which the blood of Alice gleamed soft as rosiest wine,
And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the fairies intertwine,[100]
        And her heart a golden mine.