Ethna, to cull sweet flowers divinely fair,
To seek for gems of such transparent light
As would not be unworthy to unite
Round thy fair brow, and through thy dark-brown hair,
I would that I had wings to cleave the air,
In search of some far region of delight,
That back to thee from that adventurous flight,
A glorious wreath my happy hands might bear;
Soon would the sweetest Persian rose be thine —
Soon would the glory of Golconda's mine
Flash on thy forehead, like a star — ah! me,
In place of these, I bring, with trembling hand,
These fading wild flowers from our native land —
These simple pebbles from the Irish Sea!