Postscript

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.

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.

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!