THE ISLET.

`Whither O whither love shall we go,

For a score of sweet little summers or so’

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.’

`Thither O thither, love, let us go.’

`No, no, no!

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear,

There is but one bird with a musical throat,

And his compass is but of a single note,

That it makes one weary to hear.’

`Mock me not! mock me not! love, let us go.’

`No, love, no.

For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree,

And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea,

And a worm is there in the lonely wood,

That pierces the liver and blackens the blood,

And makes it a sorrow to be.’