Yet, indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, Unbiased by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, To push thee forward through a life of shocks, Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinewed with action, and the fullgrown will, Circled through all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.' "Here she ceased, And Paris pondered, and I cried, ‘O Paris, Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon, And smooths his ruffled mane beneath 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. Thus rose a song,- the harmony of times Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 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 It flapped, it filled, then to the growing gale Bent its broad arch: her breath began to fail With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high, While yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie: But no! it came not; fast and far away, The shadow lessened as it cleared the bay. She gazed, and flung the sea-foam from her eyes, To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. On the horizon verged the distant deck, Diminished, dwindled to a very speck Then vanished. All was ocean, all was joy! BYRON. Who shall mourn when red with slaughter, Finow sits on the funeral stone? Who shall weep for his dying daughter? Who shall answer the red chief's moan? He shall cry unheard by the funeral stone, He shall sink unseen by the split canoe, Though the plantain-bird be his alone, And the thundering gods of Fanfon noo. Let us not think 'tis but an hour Ere the wreath shall drop from the warrior's waist; Let us not think 'tis but an hour We have on our perfumed mats to waste. Shall we not banquet, though Tonga's king To-morrow may hurl the battlespear? Let us whirl our torches, and tread the ring, He only shall find our foot-prints here. We will dive, - and the turtle's track shall guide Our way to the cave where Hoonga dwells, Where under the tide he hides his bride, And lives by the light of its starry shells. Come to Licoö! in yellow skies ANONYMOUS. AMY WENTWORTH. HER fingers shame the ivory keys |