Page:Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry - Meyer.djvu/26

 Unknown is wailing or treachery In the homely cultivated land: There is nothing rough or harsh, But sweet music striking on the ear.

Without grief, without gloom, without death, Without any sickness or debility— That is the sign of Evin: Uncommon is the like of such a marvel.

A beauty of a wondrous land, Whose aspects are lovely, Whose view is wondrous fair, Incomparable is its haze.

Then if Silverland is seen, On which dragon-stones and crystals drop— The sea washes the wave against the land, A crystal spray drops from its mane.

Wealth, treasures of every hue Are in the Land of Peace —a beauty of freshness: There is listening to sweet music, Drinking of the choicest wine.

Golden chariots on the plain of the sea Heaving with the tide to the sun: Chariots of silver on the Plain of Sports, And of bronze that has no blemish.

Steeds of yellow gold are on the sward there, Other steeds with crimson colour, Others again with a coat upon their backs Of the hue of all-blue heaven.