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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"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.

"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."

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.

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.