And icy clods above it rolled,

While fierce the tempests beat-
Away!-I will not think of these-
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,
Earth green beneath the feet,
And be the damp mould gently pressed

Into my narrow place of rest.

There through the long, long summer hours

The golden light should lie,

And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by.

The oriole should build and tell

His love-tale close beside my cell;

The idle butterfly

Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird.

And what if cheerful shouts at noon
Come, from the village sent,

Or songs of maids, beneath the moon
With fairy laughter blent?

And what if, in the evening light,

Betrothed lovers walk in sight

Of

my low monument?

I would the lovely scene around

Might know no sadder sight cr sound.

I know, I know I should not see
The season's glorious show,

Nor would its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music flow;

But if, around my place of sleep,

The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.

Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their softened hearts should bear The thought of what has been,

And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene; Whose part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills,

Is-that his grave is green;

And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice.

A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND.

COME, take our boy, and we will go

Before our cabin door;

The winds shall bring us, as they blow,
The murmurs of the shore;
And we will kiss his young blue eyes,
And I will sing him, as he lies,

Songs that were made of yore:

I'll sing, in his delighted ear,

The island lays thou lov'st to hear.

And thou, while stammering I repeat,

Thy country's tongue shall teach ;

'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet
Than my own native speech:
For thou no other tongue didst know,
When, scarcely twenty moons ago,
Upon Tahete's beach,

Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine,
With many a speaking look and sign.

I knew thy meaning-thou didst praise My eyes, my locks of jet;

Ah! well for me they won thy gazeBut thine were fairer yet!

I'm glad to see my infant wear

Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair,

And when my sight is met

By his white brow and blooming cheek, I feel a joy I cannot speak.

Come talk of Europe's maids with me, Whose necks and cheeks, they tell,