# Littell's Living Age/Volume 139/Issue 1797/Lost Eileen

* LOST EILEEN.
* i.
* Soft lights may swathe the castle tower,
* O'er purple hills the dawn may break;
* Dark eves may shadow Eileen's bower,
* And night its dusky pinions shake;
* The bell may beat what hour it will,
* Or hang in silence hushed and still,
* But by the sea, or by the shore,
* The dark-browed maid is seen no more.
* ii.
* When gloaming last engloomed the land,
* And vapors gathering dimly swept
* The ridges of the dark-ribbed sand,
* And where the latest sun-glow slept,
* Ere yet the silver moon had shown,
* Or o'er the wave her light was thrown,
* Beside the ocean old and gray,
* Sweet Eileen bent her lonely way.
* iii.
* So still! The wind was all too weak
* To lift the wimple from her breast,
* Or toss the curl upon her cheek,
* But died away in tones of rest.
* So still! No other sound awoke,
* Save when a quivering billow broke
* About the cliff, or, faintly hailed,
* Her solitude the curlew wailed.
* iv.
* So still! But list — for as a beam
* Of silver moonlight slanteth through
* Deep-foliaged dells, a sudden stream
* Of saddest, sweetest music, new
* With echoes of the sobbing blast,
* Across the listening waters past,
* Now fell away, now rose again,
* Like gushes of the summer rain.
* v.
* A shallop through the mist appeared,
* Cleaving the dark in noiseless flight,
* And on the prow, as still she neared,
* There hung a soft and starry light;
* A shallop swift — nor oar nor sail
* Broke crystal wave or kissed the gale,
* Nor lacketh them, the path to win
* Soul-moved by one who sate therein.
* vi.
* Now by that wild uncertain gleam,
* Maid Eileen saw a vision bright,
* With bated breath, as when a dream
* Arises on the brain by night —
* The spirit of the mystic bark
* That oarless cleft the odorous dark,
* A youth with darkly floating hair,
* And eyes that glowed with lustre rare.
* vii.
* Close to his heart a harp he held
* Of chastely burnished Indian gold,
* That, by his fingers moist compelled,
* A weirdly woven music rolled,
* A strain where lingered strangely blent
* All notes of awe and wonderment,
* Like those sweet subtle thoughts that start
* At twilight through a poet's heart.
* viii.
* "Soft-bosomed maiden, o'er the main
* My palace halls are gleaming white;
* Full many an emerald they contain,
* And diamond and chrysolite.
* And there are domes of milky pearl,
* And thrones of sapphire, gates of beryl;
* And to the portals, wrought of gold,
* The tribute of the sea is rolled.
* ix.
* "Soft banners of the crimson even
* Hang grandly in the hyaline,
* White creamy waves to foam are driven
* Round islands nestled in the brine
* Endusked by bloss'my greenery,
* Those purple islets peaceful lie,
* And scented breezes upward run
* Like incense to the golden sun.
* x.
* "For thee, when gloaming mists were weft
* Across the gray face of the sea,
* The glory of those halls I left,
* The glory of those isles for thee:
* My heart was tingling all aflame,
* I could not rest me till I came,
* And if with me thou wilt not go,
* Alas! thou workest bitter woe."
* xi.
* Like netted sunbeams softly fleeing
* To sleep upon the violet's breast,
* Into the maiden's inmost being
* The magic of those strains hath pressed.
* A touch of hand, a breathless kiss,
* The mortal maiden seals her his;
* A parting look, a flashing oar,
* Sweet Eileen will be seen no more.
* xii.
* The purple-vestured dawn may break
* Once more across the restless main,
* Across the meadows she may shake
* Soft-falling dews in pearly rain.
* The glowing hues of eve may burn,
* And twilight lift its darkling urn,
* But by the sea, or by the shore,
* The dark-browed maid is seen no more.
* BelfastGeo. L. Moore. Chambers' Journal.