beauty its poorest part— At once the scar of the wound and the order pinned on the heart.

The beauties of man are frail, and the silver lies in the dust, And the queen that we call to mind sleeps with the brave and the just; Sleeps with the weary at length; but, honoured and ever fair, Shines in the eye of the mind the crown of the silver hair.

Honolulu.

XXXIII—TO MY WIFE (A Fragment)

Long must elapse ere you behold again Green forest frame the entry of the lane— The wild lane with the bramble and the brier, The year-old cart-tracks perfect in the mire, The wayside smoke, perchance, the dwarfish huts, And ramblers’ donkey drinking from the ruts:— Long ere you trace how deviously it leads, Back from man’s chimneys and the bleating meads To the woodland shadow, to the sylvan hush, When but the brooklet chuckles in the brush— Back from the sun and bustle of the vale To where the great voice of the nightingale Fills all the forest like a single room, And all the banks smell of the golden broom; So wander on until the eve descends. And back returning to your firelit friends, You see the rosy sun, despoiled of light, Hung, caught in thickets, like a schoolboy’s kite.

Here from the sea the unfruitful sun shall rise, Bathe the bare deck and blind the unshielded eyes; The allotted hours aloft shall wheel in vain And in the unpregnant ocean plunge again. Assault of squalls that mock the watchful guard, And pluck the bursting canvas from the yard, And senseless clamour of the calm, at night Must mar your slumbers. By the plunging light, In beetle-haunted, most unwomanly bower Of the wild-swerving cabin, hour by hour . . .

Schooner ‘Equator.’

XXXIV—TO MY OLD FAMILIARS

Do you remember—can we e’er forget?— How, in the coiled-perplexities of youth, In our wild climate, in our scowling town, We gloomed and shivered, sorrowed, sobbed and feared? The belching winter wind, the missile rain, The rare and welcome silence of the snows, The laggard morn, the haggard day, the night, The grimy spell of the nocturnal town, Do you remember?—Ah, could one forget!

As when the fevered sick that all night long Listed the wind intone, and hear at last The ever-welcome voice of chanticleer Sing in the bitter hour before the dawn,— With sudden ardour, these desire the day: So sang in the gloom of youth the bird of hope; So we, exulting, hearkened and desired. For lo! as in the 

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