With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air, the purple curtain Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motionless pale brows; While the gliding of the river sends a rippling noise forever Through the open casement whitened by the moonlight's slant repose.

Said he "Vision of a lady! stand there silent, stand there steady! Now I see it plainly, plainly; now I cannot hope or doubt There, the brows of mild repression, - there, the lips of silent passion, Curved like an archer's bow to send the bitter arrows out."

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit

Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power

Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she stood

Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs

O'erthwarted with the brazenheaded spear

Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold,

The while, above, her full and earnest eye

Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek

Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.

"Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,

These three alone lead life to sovereign power.

Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncalled for), but to live by law,

Acting the law we live by without fear;

And, because right is right, to follow right

Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.'

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.

Again she said: 'I woo thee not

with gifts.

Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am,

So shalt thou find me fairest.

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