To the Harper O'Connellan (From the Irish)

Enchanter who reignest
Supreme o'er the North,
Who hast wiled the coy spirit
Of true music forth;
In vain Europe's minstrels
To honour aspire.
When thy swift slender fingers
Go forth on the wire!

There is no heart's desire
Can be felt by a king,
That thy hand cannot match
From the soul of the string,
By its conquering, capturing.
Magical sway.
For, charmer, thou stealest
Thy notes from a fay!

Enchanter, I say,—
For thy magical skill
Can soothe every sorrow,
And heal every ill:
Who hear thee they praise thee;
They weep while they praise;
For, charmer, from Fairyland
Fresh are thy lays!