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.

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

"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?"

"If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born," she said, "And not the Lady Clare."

"Play_me_no tricks," said Lord Ronald,

"For I am yours in word and in deed.

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "Your riddle is hard to read."

O and proudly stood she up!

Her heart within her did not fail; She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn: He turned and kissed her where she stood:

"If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the next in blood

"If you are not the heiress born,

And I," said he, "the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare." TENNYSON.