QUEEN POMARÈ

AN IMAGINARY POEM.

REFT of her realms, defrauded of her throne,
Her subjects murder'd, helpless, and alone,
Queen Pomare, protected by her flight,
Breathless, ascended to the craggy height
Which overlooks Matavai's* circling bay,
Where, treacherous in repose, the squadron lay,-
That hostile squadron, which awhile before

Had drench'd her country's pleasant fields with gore.
Graceful she stood, yet, with a haughty look,
That could misfortune's utmost terrors brook ;

And as the clouds unveil'd her airy form
She seem'd a guiding spirit of the storm.
In deep anxiety she turn'd around,

And on a sudden saw the fatal ground
Where war its fiercest ravages had made,
Mark'd by the mangled corses of the dead.
There fell her king and husband; still his hand
Grasped the long spear, to save his sinking land;
Still frown'd the gather'd features of his face,
Though lock'd in stiffness and death's last embrace,
Beside him, useless, lay his bow and shield,
Broad as his manly breast, that scorn'd to yield,
Whilst, circling round him, clamorous birds of prey
Shadowed with flitting wings the rocky way.
At that sad sight her heart with sorrow rent,
Pour'd to the winds and waves this last lament.

Our isle was the fairest that ever was seen;
Our hills were so lofty, our valleys so green;
Our streams that gush'd out in the shade of the trees,
Whilst our cocoa-nuts rock'd in the swell of the breeze.
Tahiti Tahiti! I never shall see

An island so beauteous, so lovely as thee!

Our daughters were chaste, and each chieftain was brave,
And as free as the sea-bird that floats on the wave;

'Neath his high arching plume, flash'd his dark rolling eye,
As keen as the arrow he shot through the sky.

Tahiti Tahiti ! I never shall see

An island so beauteous, so lovely as thee!

'Twas sweet in the woods at the break of the morn,
When the dewdrop still spangled the plantain and thorn,
To hear their loud shouts, whilst from dingle and dell
Clear echo repeated each blast of their shell,

Tahiti Tahiti! I never shall see

An island so beauteous, so lovely as thee!

'Twas sweeter at eve, in the close of the day,
When the west's purple light was fast fading away,
To see the young lovers so graceful advance,
Whilst the aged sat round to encourage the dance.
Tahiti Tahiti! I never shall see

An island so beauteous, so lovely as thee!

With what pride I beheld the long, stately canoe
Launch forth full of warriors, courageous and true;

* The great western bay of Otaheite.-Vide Captain Cook's Voyages.

Whilst the King brandish'd high his pattoo and his spear.
And the gales seem'd to whisper success in his ear.

Tahiti Tahiti! I never shall see

An island so beauteous, so lovely as thee!

On one sultry noon, as we stood on the hill,

When all sounds were hush'd, and tired Nature was still,
We
We saw a white vapour pass over the bay,

Then sink in the distance, and vanish away.

Tahiti! I ne'er thought that vapour would be
A source of misfortune and sorrow to thee!

We deem'd it deception, or else but a storm
In its rack, which had gain'd a fantastical form ;
But it soon rose again, when whate'er it might be,
It surprised us in beauty, in size, and degree.

Tahiti! I ne'er thought that beauty would be
A source of misfortune and sorrow to thee!

We fear'd to approach it, and shouted aloud,
And we thought it a giant bird dropp'd from a cloud,
Or our forefathers' spirits to earth come again,

Nor guess'd, like ourselves, they were warriors and men.
Tahiti ! I ne'er thought those spirits would be
A source of misfortune and sorrow to thee!

It slowly moved onwards, when, oh! what a sight
Struck us all with amazement, with awe, and delight;
It look'd like an island of tall, stately trees,

Which was torn from the forest, and sail'd on the seas.
Tahiti! I ne'er thought that island would be
A source of misfortune and sorrow to thee!

At length it was still, and a beauteous canoe
Came off to our shore; and as nearer it drew,
To our hills as a refuge we instantly fled,

And abandon'd our huts and plantations with dread.
Tahiti! I ne'er thought that landing would be
A source of misfortune and sorrow to thee!

But we soon at their signals of friendship return'd,

When each chieftain, and warrior, and young maiden burn'd
For the gifts which amongst them the stranger men shared,
Whose sight and whose presence no longer they fear'd.

Tahiti! I ne'er thought that those gifts would be
A source of misfortune and sorrow to thee!

We row'd to their ship, and we curiously gazed

On that mountain of wonders, and, wildly amazed,

We saw their great chiefs in their war-dress array'd,

And we heard the sweet sounds which to please us they play'd.
Tahiti! I ne'er thought those sweet sounds would be
A source of misfortune and sorrow to thee!

They gave us strange liquors, which joyous and mad

First made us-then left us forgetful and sad.

They call'd themselves Christians, and brothers, and friends;
But their friendship they proved was to serve their own ends.
Tahiti! I now felt their friendship might be

A source of misfortune and sorrow to thee!

We went to the beach, and we plainly descried

They were quitting our coast on the surf of the tide,
And their tall, taper vessel, so gracefully bent,

Seem'd as if on the cloud's snowy bosom it leant.

Then I hoped, O Tahiti! their friendship would be
No longer a source of suspicion to thee!

Pattoo-the name of a war-club at Otaheite.-Vide Captain Cook's Voyages,

Ah! how short was that hope, for they still were in sight,
When we found to our horror, distress and affright,
They detain'd some young men and young women as slaves,
To convey them away o'er the far distant waves.

Tahiti! their friendship proved death to thy fame,
To thy nation, thy language, thy country, and name!

Then loud were the groans, quick and piercing the cries,
Whilst affection's warm tears trickled down from our eyes;
Our youth shook their spears with resentment and rage,
And the blood rush'd anew to the cold brow of age.

Tahiti their friendship proved death to thy fame,
To thy nation, thy language, thy country, and name!

For they now are return'd to our island again,
And our king, and our people, and children have slain,
And have planted their banners with tyrannous hand,
And they claim to be chiefs of this ill-fated land.

O fields of my fathers, that once were my king's,
Your sight and remembrance no happiness brings,
But regret and despair to this desolate heart,
Ah! soon from your shades and existence to part!

There are none left my bones with my husband's to lay
Side by side on the turf in the silent Morai.*
There are none left, when life from this body is fled,
To mourn for their Queen in the garb for the dead.

O thou Sun, that shin'st over us, darken thy rays

From these spoilers, that come o'er the seas' trackless ways;
In pity, O Moon, hide thy face in a cloud,

Nor shed thy pure light o'er the cruel and proud.

O ye stars, that to earth shoot from heaven's high bow,

Strike their masts, and their sails, and their vaunting prows low;

Close o'er them, ye waves, in Eternity's sleep;

And receive them, ye rocks, in the caves of the deep.

Thus, as she spoke, a thick and sudden cloud
Burst from each vessel, pealing long and loud;
With vivid flash, th' incessant cannon's roar
Shook the wide bay, and thunder'd round the shore.
She paused awhile, and, as in madness, smiled,
As if these sights and sounds her heart beguiled.
She shriek'd, and threw her trembling arms on high,
As to implore some unknown Deity;

Then, with convulsive grasp, she closely press'd
Her bursting heart within her heaving breast;
Then, with a searching look, that would devour,
She bade adieu to every tree and flower,
And, pointing forwards to the deep recess
That skirts the gorge of the lone wilderness,

She rush'd impetuous, and no more was seen;

Save round the path where waved bananas green,

She reappear'd in momentary light,

And into darkness vanish'd from the sight.

W. B.

Morai- the name of their burying-place at Otaheite.- l'ide Captain Cook's Voyages.

THE GAOL CHAPLAIN;

OR, A DARK PAGE FROM LIFE'S VOLUME,

CHAPTER XLVIII.

" DRINK !"

IT were better for a man to be subject to any vice than to drunkenness; for all other vanities and sins are recovered, but a drunkard will never shake off the delight of beastliness; for the longer it possesseth a man the more he will delight in it, and the elder he groweth, the more he shall be subject to it; for it dulleth the spirits, and destroyeth the body as ivy doth the old tree, or as the worm that engendereth in the kernel of the nut.-SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

"A LOWER figure this time, Governor!" said the Matron, handing in, as she spoke, a rosy, middle-aged woman, dressed in the costume usually adopted by the sisters of the sect styled "The Plymouth Brotherhood." She curtsied as she made her appearance in the Board Room; then applied her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared wholly overpowered by the severity of her misfortunes. "We get more moderate, I observe, as we grow older," continued the female official; "only eight and forty squares on this occasion! The last commitment was for smashing fifty-four!"

Mr. Croak's virtuous sensibilities were in immediate exercise. "What a distressing, what a humiliating, what an alarming position for you, Nurse Larum, -a person of education, and, outwardly, of high religious professions! What can induce you to give way to such a disgusting habit as intemperance?"

·

"Ah!" cried the culprit, with a lengthened groan, "I'm like many more! I see the best: and yet the worst pursue!'' "And a Plymouth Sister!" reiterated Mr. Croak. Brethren say to you?"

"What will the

"I left the Brethren," cried Nurse Larum exultingly, "months ago. There was nothing sustaining in their principles: they were too abstemious. I'm now joined to the Primitive Methodists."

"You 're joined to the bottle: that's your real meaning."

Mrs. Larum looked at the Governor reproachfully, drew a deep sigh, and then remarked with dignity, "I am in the body, Mr. Croak, and I have my infirmities."

"And very remarkable ones they are; that when you are in your cups nothing will serve you but smashing panes of glass right and left, especially those belonging to the workhouse."

"A delusion!" observed the Nurse, in a deprecating tone. "A delusion! violent, but soon over."

"Of frequent recurrence, however," persisted the Gaoler. “This is the seventh time you have been committed here. Woman, for shame! Learn to do better."

"I ought," cried the "Primitive." "I lack not information. I have all the late Sister Pawson's notes, thoughts, and explanations: a precious body of divinity! Piles upon piles of it; only written in short-hand, and in a kind of short-hand so cramped that no living soul can make aught out of it."

"Nor of you," said Mr. Croak, interrupting her. "Amend, I say! Remember, this is your seventh appearance within these walls."

"It may be; I wont be so unpolite, Mr. Croak, as to dispute your calculations. It may be! but I never trouble you long. Mrs. Heyrick will release me. She has never failed me yet in any of my difficulties, nor will she now."

"Matron, away with her!" cried the Governor; thus abruptly terminating the interview. "Mrs. Heyrick," he added aside, "is a wealthy and benevolent woman, but abominably deceived in that hypocritical gin-consumer yonder."

But who was the party thus described, benevolent, and yet deceived? The past must supply the answer.

Through the little village of Meadwaters in Somerset, on a stormy day in the spring of 1800, passed in quick succession strong detachments of the 40th, 42nd, and 57th regiments, en route for Bristol, to embark for foreign service. The villagers eyed the strangers, some with curiosity, some with compassion, some with an eager and almost irrepressible desire to join their ranks, but none with the beating heart and eager gaze of the aged vicar, Mr. Rudkin. All his sons had been soldiers; all had distinguished themselves; and all had fallen. The old man scanned rank after rank as it passed him till tears dimmed his vision. The noble bearing, the manly step, the sparkling eye, the gallant achievements of those who were gone, memory brought rapidly before him and then the idea, ever present to the memory, and often embodied in words, again recurred:

"Ah! if I could but feel sure about them as to the future! And why not? They were true to their country, true to their King, true to their colours; why may I not hope they were pardoned and accepted, as being true to their GOD? But still" A long and passionate burst of tears closed the ejaculation.

The day wore on, as life does, chequered with alternate storm and sunshine; at sunset all was quiet at the Parsonage, and its primitive occupants were seated at their evening meal, when the landlady of "The Buzzard" made her appearance, and in hurried accents informed the vicar that a soldier's wife was dying at her house; that a child which was with her, lay, "seemingly in a fit;" that no doctor could be found; and that the Pastor's presence and aid were "humbly sought and truly needed."

I'll accompany you, my dear," said Mrs. Rudkin, her woman's heart roused, with all its sympathies, the moment mention was made of the suffering child: "I may be of use either to mother or infant. Lead the way, Mrs. Mammatt; neither the vicar nor myself can walk quite as briskly as we did some five and thirty years ago." "True, madam; but you feel as warmly."

"Tut, tut, landlady! Who would not feel for a dying woman with a senseless babe beside her? One meets at times with imposition, but-Vicar! Vicar! on with your great-coat! wrapper!"

Here came very visible signs of resistance.

Now your

"Nay-you quit not your chimney corner this bitter night without it; so- SO another knot-good! Now, landlady, we are at your

service!"

On a truckle-bed, in a miserable room at "The Buzzard," lay a young and decidedly handsome woman; pale from loss of blood, dis