him away and concealed him in their waves—he sank through the rosy glimmer of evening as through blooming flowers, and through the succeeding gloom as through shady groves, and through a moist atmosphere wherein his eye became full of drops—then he heard a whisper around him, like an almost forgotten dream of childhood—then a distant complaint, which became louder and louder—a complaint which opened up afresh his closed wounds—the complaint was from Rosamond's voice—at length she herself stood before him irrecognisable,—alone,—hapless,—tearless,—colourless.
And Rosamond dreamed on Earth, and it seemed to her as if the Sun took unto itself wings, and became an angel—and she thought the angel drew down the moon, which became a face of mildness, and under the approaching face, a well known form at length appeared. It was Eugenius, and she raised herself to meet him, but when wrapt with joy, she gave utterance to the exclamation—"Now I am dead!"—the two dreams, his and hers both vanished, and the two beings were once more severed.
Eugenius awoke on high, the earth still stood glimmering in the clear sky—his heart palpitated, his eye burned with a tear which had never yet fallen upon the moon.—Rosamond awoke below, and a large warm dew-drop hung in a flower upon her bosom; the sultry
