E’en the dead—the bright, beautiful dead—there arise,

With their soft, flowing ringlets of gold:

Though their voices are hushed, and o’er their sweet eyes,

The unbroken signet of silence now lies,

They are with us again, as of old.

In the stillness of night, hands are beckoning there,

And, with joy that is almost a pain,

We delight to turn back, and in wandering there,

Through the shadowy halls of the island so fair,

We behold our lost treasures again.