thin your island bowers,
The slow departure of the languorous hours,
And breathe the sweetness of the strange wild-flowers.

And everything your soul and sense delights--
But in the solemn wonder of your nights,
When Peace her message on the landscape writes;

When Ocean scarcely flecks her marge with foam--
Your thoughts must sometimes from your island roam,
To centre on the sober face of Home.

Though many a league of water rolls between
The simple beauty of an English scene,
From all these wilder charms your love may wean.

Some kindly sprite may bring you as a boon
Sweets from the rose that crowns imperial June,
Or reminiscence of the throstle's tune;

Yea, gladly grant you, with a generous hand,
Far glimpses of the winding, wind-swept strand,
The glens and mountains of your native land,

Until you hear the pipes upon the breeze--
But wake unto the wild realities
The tangled forests and the boundless seas!

For lo! the moonless night has passed away,
A sudden dawn dispels the shadows grey,
The glad sea moves and hails the quickening day.

New life within the arbours of your fief
Awakes the blossom, quivers in the leaf,
And splendour flames upon the coral reef.

If such a prospect stimulate your art,
More than our meadows where the shadows dart,
More than the life which throbs in London's heart,

Then stay, encircled by your Southern bowers,
And weave, amid the incense of the flowers,
The skein of fair romance--the gain is ours!

F. J. COX.

_Weekly Sun_, 11_th_ November 1904.

R. L. S., IN MEMORIAM.

An elfin wight as e'er from faeryland
Came to us straight with favour in his eyes,
Of wondrous seed that led him to the prize
Of fancy, with the magic rod in hand.
Ah, there in faeryland we saw him stand,
As for a while he walked with smiles and sighs,
Amongst us, finding still the gem that buys
Delight and joy at genius's command.

And now thy place is empty: fare thee well;
Thou livest still in hearts that owe thee more
Than gold can reckon; for thy richer store
Is of the good that with us aye most dwell.
Farewell; sleep sound on Vaea's windy shrine,
While round the songsters join their song to thine.

A. C. R.

APPENDIX

The following appeared some time ago in one of the London evening papers,
and I make bold, because of its truth and vigour, to insert it here:

THE LAND OF STEVENSON,
_ON AN AFTERNOON'S WALK_

Will there be a "Land of