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The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity,

Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears.
Than aught, except its living years.

If sometimes in the haunts of men

Thine image from my breast may fade, The lonely hour presents again

The semblance of thy gentle shade: And now that sad and silent hour

Thus much of thee can still restore, And sorrow unobserved may pour

The plaint she dare not speak before. Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile

I waste one thought I owe to thee, And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile,

Unfaithful to thy memory! Nor deem that memory less dear,

That then I seem not to repine ; I would not fools should overhear

One sigh that should be wholly thine. If not the goblet pass unquaff'd,

It is not drain'd to banish care;
The cup must hold a deadlier draught,

That brings a Lethe for despair.
And could oblivion set my soul

From all her troubled visions free, I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl

That drown'd a single thought of thee. For wert thou vanished from my mind,

Where could my vacant bosom turn ?

And who would then remain behind

To honour thine abandon'd urn ? No, no- it is my sorrow's pride

That last dear duty to fulfil : Though all the world forget beside,

'Tis meet that I remember still.

For well I know, that such had been

Thy gentle care for him, who now Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene,

Where none regarded him, but thou. And, oh! I feel in that was given

A blessing never meant for me; Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven,

For earthly love to merit thee.

THE SONG OF TOOBONAI. How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai, When summer's sun went down the coral bay! Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, And hear the warbling birds! the damsels said: The wood-dove from the forest-depth shall coo, Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo; We'll cull the flowers that grow above the dead, For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head: And we will sit in twilight's face, and see The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, The lofty accents of whose sighing bough Shall sadly please us as we lean below; Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. How beautiful are these ! how happy they,

Who from the toil and tumult of their lives,
Steal to look down where nought but Ocean strives!
Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon,
And smoothes 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 woos us back,
The sound of mats is heard along our track ;
Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen
In flashy 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.
Alas! for them the flower of mankind bleeds ;
Alas! for them our fields are rank with weeds :
Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown,
Of wandering with the moon and love alone.
But be it so:—they taught us how to wield
The club, and rain our arrows o'er the field;
Now let them reap the harvest of their art !
But feast to-night! to-morrow we depart.
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 waists the Tappa's white display'd ;
Thick leaves 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.

But now the dance is o'er-yet stay awhile ;
Ah, pause ! nor yet put out the social smile.
To-morrow for the Mooa we depart,
But not to-nightto-night is for the heart.
Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo,
Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo !
How lovely are your forms ! how every sense
Bows to your beauties, softened, but intense,
Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep,
Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep!
We too will see Licoo; but-oh! my heart-
What do I say? to-morrow we depart !


To' our tale.-The feast was over, the slaves gone,

The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired, The Arab lore and poet's song were done,

And every sound of revelry expired ; The lady and her lover left alone,

The rosy flood of twilight sky admired : Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of heaven is worthiest thee! Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour!

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power,

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirred with prayer. Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer !

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love! Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair!

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove What though 'tis but a pictured image strike That painting is no idol, 'tis too like. Some kinder casuists are pleased to say,

In nameless print that I have no devotion ; But set those persons down with me to pray,

And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way:

My altars are the mountains and the ocean,
Earth, air, stars all that springs from the great

Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.
Sweet hour of twilight !_in the solitude

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,

Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er To where the last Cesarian fortress stood,

Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,

And vesper bells that rose the boughs along : The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye.

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