Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon,

And smooths his ruffled mane be

neath the moon.

Yes-from the sepulchre we'll gather flowers,

Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers,

Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf,

Then lay our limbs along the tender turf,

And wet and shining from the sportive toil,

Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil,

And plait our garlands gathered from the grave,

And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave.

But lo! night comes, the Mooa wooes us back,

The sound of mats is heard along our track;

Anon the torchlight-dance shall fling its sheen

In flashings mazes o'er the Marly's green;

And we too will be there; we too recall

The memory bright with many a festival,

Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes

For the first time were wafted in canoes.

Strike up the dance, the cava bowl

fill high,

Drain every drop!-to-morrow we may die.

In summer garments be our limbs arrayed;

Around our waist the Tappa's white displayed;

Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like spring's,

And round our necks shall glance the Hooni strings;

So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow

Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below.

The way then upward soared and, as she spread

Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks,

Laughed, and the sound was answered by the rocks.

They had gained a central realm of earth again,

But looked for tree, and field, and sky, in vain.

And led him into each recess, and showed

The secret places of their new abode. Nor these alone, for all had been prepared

Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared;

The mat for rest; for dress the fresh gnatoo,

The sandal-oil to fence against the dew;

For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread

Born of the fruit; for board the plantain spread

With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore

A banquet in the flesh if covered o'er; The gourd with water recent from the rill,

The ripe banana from the mellow hill;

A pine torch pile to keep undying light;

And she herself as beautiful as night, To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the

O perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles!
Her thoughts are not of thee:
She better loves the salted wind, .
The voices of the sea.

Her heart is like an outbound ship
That at its anchor swings;
The murmur of the stranded shell
Is in the song she sings.

She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise,

But dreams the while of one Who watches from his sea-blown deck

The icebergs in the sun.

She questions all the winds that blow,
And every fog-wreath dim,
And bids the sea-birds flying north
Bear messages to him.

She speeds them with the thanks of

men

He perilled life to save, And grateful prayers like holy oil To smooth for him the wave.

Brown Viking of the fishing-smack!
Fair toast of all the town!
The skipper's jerkin ill beseems
The lady's silken gown!

But ne'er shall Amy Wentworth

wear

For him the blush of shame
Who dares to set his manly gifts
Against her ancient name.

The stream is brightest at its spring,
And blood is not like wine;
Nor honored less than he who heirs
Is he who founds a line.

Full lightly shall the prize be won,
If love be Fortune's spur;
And never maiden stoops to him
Who lifts himself to her.

Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street,
With stately stairways worn
By feet of old Colonial knights
And ladies gentle-born.

Still green about its ample porch

The English ivy twines, Trained back to show in English oak The herald's carven signs.

And on her, from the wainscot old, Ancestral faces frown,

And this has worn the soldier's sword,

And that the judge's gown.

But, strong of will and proud as they,
She walks the gallery-floor
As if she trod her sailor's deck
By stormy Labrador!

The sweet-brier blooms on Kitteryside,

And green are Elliot's bowers; Her garden is the pebbled beach, The mosses are her flowers.

She looks across the harbor-bar
To see the white gulls fly;
His greeting from the Northern sea
Is in their clanging cry.

She hums a song, and dreams that he,
As in its romance old,

Shall homeward ride with silken sails

And masts of beaten gold!

O, rank is good, and gold is fair,
And high and low mate ill;
But love has never known a law
Beyond its own sweet will!
WHITTIER.

LADY CLARE.

IT was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn: Lovers long-betrothed were they: They two will wed the morrow morn: God's blessing on the day!

"He does not love me for my birth,

Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?"

"It was my cousin," said Lady Clare,

"To-morrow he weds with me."

"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast;

I speak the truth, as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead."

"Falsely, falsely have ye done,

O mother," she said, "if this be true,

To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due.”

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse,

"But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,

When you are man and wife."

"O mother, mother, mother," she said,

"So strange it seems to me.

"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so,
And lay your hand upon my head,
And bless me, mother, ere I go."

She clad herself in a russet gown,
She was no longer Lady Clare:
She went by dale, and she went by
down,

With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought

Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And followed her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:

"O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!

Why come you drest like a village maid,

That are the flower of the earth?"