"Fool," he answer'd, "death is sure To those that stay and those that roam,

But I will nevermore endure

To sit with empty hands at home.

"My mother clings about my neck,

My sisters crying, 'Stay for shame;' My father raves of death and wreck, They are all to blame, they are all to blame.

"God help me! save I take my part Of danger on the roaring sea, A devil rises in my heart,

Far worse than any death to me."

THE ISLET.

"WHITHER, O whither, love, shall we go,

For a score of sweet little summers or 80?"

The sweet little wife of the singer said, On the day that follow'd the day she was wed,

"Whither, O whither, love, shall we go?"

And the singer shaking his curly head Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys There at his right with a sudden crash, Singing," And shall it be over the seas With a crew that is neither rude nor rash,

But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd, In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd, With a satin sail of a ruby glow,

To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know,

A mountain islet pointed and peak'd;
Waves on a diamond shingle dash,
Cataract brooks to the ocean run,
Fairily-delicate palaces shine
Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine,
And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd
With many a rivulet high against the
Sun

The facets of the glorious mountain flash

Above the valleys of palm and pine."