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 perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles!
Her thoughts are not of thee:
She better loves the salted wind,
The voices of the sea.

Her heart is like an outbound ship
That at its anchor swings;
The murmur of the stranded shell
Is in the song she sings.

She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise,

But dreams the while of one Who watches from his sea-blown deck

The icebergs in the sun.

She questions all the winds that blow,
And every fog-wreath dim,
And bids the sea-birds flying north
Bear messages to him.

She speeds them with the thanks of

men

He perilled life to save, And grateful prayers like holy oil To smooth for him the wave.

Brown Viking of the fishing-smack!
Fair toast of all the town!
The skipper's jerkin ill beseems
The lady's silken gown!

But ne'er shall Amy Wentworth

wear

For him the blush of shame
Who dares to set his manly gifts
Against her ancient name.

The stream is brightest at its spring,
And blood is not like wine;
Nor honored less than he who heirs
Is he who founds a line.

Full lightly shall the prize be won,
If love be Fortune's spur;
And never maiden stoops to him
Who lifts himself to her.

Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street,
With stately stairways worn
By feet of old Colonial knights
And ladies gentle-born.

Still green about its ample porch

The English ivy twines, Trained back to show in English oak The herald's carven signs.

I trow they did not part in scorn:

Lovers long-betrothed were they: They two will wed the morrow morn: God's blessing on the day!

"He does not love me for my birth,

Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?"

"It was my cousin," said Lady Clare,

"To-morrow he weds with me."