of Arrochin prepare a great feast there for their coming guest,
and for fear he should lose himself on the road thither they (the spirits)
call to him and blow trumpets, sending some one at the same time with torches
to meet him and guide him on his way to those blessed regions.

Explanation of Native Words:

"Arrochin"--Heaven. "Cava"--a drink extracted from a root.
(The natives believe it is made and drunk in Arrochin where it grows
as in Tanna). "Muska" (corruption of the English term, musket)--
of late their chief weapon in war. "Muttow"--a fishing-hook.
"Whyeena"--woman (this is not the original native appellation;
that I could never ascertain). "Weepan"--Fish (their principal food).
"Leenna" and "Yona"--native names.--H.K.

The Earth Laments for Day

There's music wafting on the air,
The evening winds are sighing
Among the trees--and yonder stream
Is mournfully replying,
Lamenting loud the sunny light
That in the west is dying.

The moon is rising o'er the hill,
Her slanting rays are creeping
Where Nature lies profoundly still
In happy quiet sleeping,
And resting on her face, they'll find
The earth is wet with weeping.

She mourneth for the lovely day,
Now deep in darkness shaded;
She sheds the dewy tear because
Of morning's mantle faded;
She misses from her breast the garb
In which the moon array'd it.

The evening queen will strive in vain
To break the spell which bound her;
A million stars can never throw
Departed warmth around her;
They all must pass away and leave
The earth as they had found her.

But why should gentle Nature weep
That night has overtaken
The wearied world that needed sleep,
Refreshed to re-awaken,
So richer light might burst around,
The gloomy shadows breaking?

Oh, can she not from yonder sky
That gleams above her, borrow
A single ray, or find a way
To check the tear of sorrow?
A beam of hope would last her till
The dawning of to-morrow.

The Late W. V. Wild, Esq.

Sad faces came round, and I dreamily said
"Though the harp of my country now slumbers,
Some hand will pass o'er it, in love for the dead,
And attune it to sorrowful numbers!"
But the hopes that I clung to are withering things,
For the days have gone by with a cloud on their wings,
And the touch o