In her Island Home

n her island home, her home of flowers,The Queen of Beauty sat at noon,In the shade of one of her wild-rose bowers,Watching the spray of the bright sea-showers,As it sparkled in the sun of June.

And the smile of delight round her lip that playedWas as sweet as a smile can be,For that day had her minstrel-worshippers laidOn her altar a book where each pen had paidIts vows to their island-deity.

Its words still breathed, though the ink was coldAs the hopes of the hearts she had fettered,A magical name on the book was enrolled,And its hot-pressed pages were tipped with gold,And ’twas bound in green, and lettered.

As she counted the leaves, and counted o’erThe victims her frowns had killed,A stranger-bard, from a far-off shore,Came blushing, and said, “Here is one song more;”She answered, “The pages are filled.”

He sighed, of course, but he manfully stroveTo check the sigh as it rose;And, plucking a roseleaf, he tremblingly woveInto very bad verses the tale which, above,Is written in good plain prose.

And added, “In coming hours, Lady, when youOn the tears of your victims are feeding,As the sunbeam feeds upon drops of dew,Keep this withered leaf in the book—’twill doTo mark where you left off reading.”