And I am still alone, and years have fled, And other scenes are ’round me, as I call The past by Memory’s magic from the dead, As Endor’s Sibyl brought the Seer to Saul. (May _he_ not then have thought of that good time When David’s music lulled his soul from crime?) XII. And I, with more of bitterness than bliss, The summoned years of my past life review, Till Hope’s red lips with love pale Sorrow’s kiss, And all things good and beautiful and true, Start rainbow-like from Sorrow’s falling tears, Spanning with hues of Heaven all my years. XIII. And as I ope the temple of my heart And seek its inmost and its holiest shrine, Still there, my love, my darling one, thou art,-- There still I worship thee and call thee mine; And this sweet anthem all that temple fills-- “Love cannot lose, ’tis loss of love that kills.” [POSTSCRIPT.] XIV. What cry was that which woke me from my dream? I stand upon my native, island shore, And hear the startled curlews round me scream O’er the mute cliffs that make the fierce waves roar; I watch the “stately ships” go sailing by, And wonder how my heart has learned to sigh. XV. Ah! _that_ was but a dream. A summer’s eve Breathes all its balmy blessings on my brow; I feel as though the earth had got reprieve From its death-sentence. See, the sun sets now-- The blue of heaven grows gently dark above,-- Below, blue eyes are growing dark with love. XVI. _That_, too, was but a dream. What startled me? The winds are making havoc ’mong the leaves Of summer-time, and each once happy tree For its lost darlings rocks itself and grieves. The night is dark, the sky is thick with clouds-- Kind frost-nymphs make the little leaves their shrouds! WINTER. Now lies Adonis in Prosérpine’s breast, Who o’er him spreads a mantle lily white, And every dryad, with disordered vest, Teareth her hair for sorrow at the sight. And ere he waketh, many an eye, now bright, Shall deaden; many a rosy cheek shall pale; O’er many a fair, young head shall rise the wail Of those whom Death hath spoiled of their delight. And, when, at touch of Spring, the winding sheet That wraps thee now, Adonis, melts to flowers, To deck thee for thy Queen; and sunny Hours, Dancing around thee on their soft swift feet, Sing “Wake, Adonis;” many a one shall weep For those that in the Earth’s dark bosom sleep. PER NOCTEM PLURIMA VOLVENS. I. When the weary sun has ended his journey and descended, By his own bright, golden pathway, to his mansion in the west, And the sentry stars have taken the sky he has forsaken, To watch till he awaken, bright and smiling, from his rest; II.