Whence to the Hours beauteous birds outchime;
In harmony of song, with fluttering feather,
They hail together each new birth of Time.

And through the Isle glow all glad shades of colour,
No hue of dolour mars its beauty lone.
'Tis Silver Cloud Land that we ever name it,
And joy and music claim it for their own.

Not here are cruel guile or loud resentment,
But calm contentment, fresh and fruitful cheer;
Not here loud force or dissonance distressful,
But music melting blissful on the ear.

No grief, no gloom, no death, no mortal sickness,
Nor any weakness our sure strength can bound;
These are the signs that grace the race of Evin.
Beneath what other heaven are they found?

A Hero fair, from out the dawn's bright blooming,
Rides forth, illuming level shore and flood;
The white and seaward plain he sets in motion,
He stirs the ocean into burning blood.

A host across the clear blue sea comes rowing,
Their prowess showing, till they touch the shore;
Thence seek the Shining Stone where Music's measure
Prolongs the pleasure of the pulsing oar.

It sings a strain to all the host assembled;