“Daughter,” the aged wizard said,
          “For what cause hath thy Gerald parted? 
        I cannot lend my mystic aid,
          Except to lovers, faithful hearted;
        My magic wand would lose its might—­
        I could not read my spells aright—­
        All skill would from my soul depart,
        If I should aid the false in heart.”

        “Oh! father, my fond heart was true,”
          Cried Ellen, “to my Gerald ever;
        No change its stream of love e’er knew,
          Save that it deepened like yon river: 
        True, as the rose to summer sun,
        That droops, when its loved lord is gone,
        And sheds its bloom, from day to day,
        And fades, and pines, and dies away.

“Betrothed, with my dear sire’s consent,
Each morn beheld my Gerald coming;
Each day, in converse sweet, was spent;
And, ere he went, dark eve was glooming: 
But one day, as he crossed the plain,
I saw a cloud descend, like rain,
And bear him, in its skirts, away—­
Oh! hour of grief, oh! woeful day!

“They sought my Gerald many a day,
’Mid winter’s snow, and summer’s blossom;
At length, his memory passed away,
From all, except his Ellen’s bosom. 
But there his love still glows and grows,
Unchanged by time, unchecked by woes;
And, led by it, I’ve made my way,
To seek thy aid, in dark Iveagh.”

        He traced a circle with his wand,
          Around the spot, where they were standing;
        He held a volume in his hand,
          All writ, with spells of power commanding: 
        He read a spell—­then looked—­in vain,
        Southward, across the lake of Lene;
        Then to the east, and western side;
        But, when he northward looked, he cried—­

        “I see!  I see your Gerald now! 
          In Carrigcleena’s fairy dwelling;
        Deep sorrow sits upon his brow,
          Though Cleena tales of love is telling—­
        Cleena, most gentle, and most fair,
        Of all the daughters of the air;
        The fairy queen, whose smiles of light,
        Preserves from sorrow and from blight.

        “Her love has borne him from thy arms,
          And keeps him in those fairy regions,
        Where Cleena blooms in matchless charms,
          Attended by her fairy legions. 
        Yet kind and merciful’s the queen;
        And if thy woe by her were seen,
        And all thy constancy were known,
        Brave Gerald yet might be thine own.”

        “Oh! father,” the pale maiden cried,
          “Hath he forgotten quite his Ellen? 
        Thinks he no more of Shannon’s side,
          Where love so long had made his dwelling?”
        “Alas! fair maid, I cannot tell
        The thoughts that in the bosom dwell;
        For ah! all vain is magic art,
        To read the secrets of the heart.”