So pass our years. It seems a little while Since, with wild throbbings in my boyish heart, I westward gazed from my own western isle, And saw the white-winged messengers depart. Ah! little thought I then that o’er the sea Lived any one that should be dear to me. III. Years fled--and other eyes were westward turned, And I was on the bosom of the deep, While strange emotions in my bosom burned-- A sorrow that I thought would never sleep: For all that I had loved on earth was gone,-- Perhaps forever--and--I was alone; IV. Save that I heard the dear familiar noise Of the old ocean, and can well recall The bliss, the awe, the love without a voice With which I felt that great heart rise and fall, Like some untamed and tameless “thing of life” That frets for something worthy of its strife. V. And then I was alone amid the din Of ceaseless strugglers after wealth and power, Content to hide the better soul within, And pass in men’s applause a gaudy hour,-- To act out well a something they are not,-- To be admired and praised--despised, forgot. VI. I was alone, but in my fancy grew A fair ideal, fashioned from the best And purest feelings that my spirit knew; And this ideal was the goddess-guest In my heart’s temple; but I sought not then To find my goddess in the haunts of men. VII. And yet I found her--all-personified The goddess of my lonely-loving heart, And--as an artist, when he stands beside Some genius-fathered, beauteous child of art, Worships it mutely, with enraptured gaze-- My love was far too deep for words of praise. VIII. But, ah! earth’s brightest joys are bought with pain: Meeting with parting,--smiles with bitter tears,-- Hope ends in sorrow,--loss succeeds to gain,-- And youth’s gay spring-time leads to wintry years; Nought lives that dies not in the world’s wide range, And nothing is unchangeable but change. IX. My bliss was o’er. I was again alone Amid the scenes that I had learned to love For her dear sake; but, ah! the charm was gone From river-side and mountain-slope and grove-- All, save the memory of happy hours That lingered like the sweetness of dead flowers. X. And as the ground on which a temple stood Is holy, though the temple stand no more, So river, mountain, waterfall and wood Wore something of the sacredness they wore When her loved presence blessed them, and her face Made all around her smile with her sweet grace. XI.