"The great Rewa, my beloved, shall himself bind these round thee!

"And my ear-ring of precious jasper shall be hung in thy ear. "For oh! my most precious jewel, thou art now lost to me. "Yes, thou, the pillar that didst support my palace, hast been borne to the skies.

66 Oh, my beloved! you used to stand in canoe, inciting all others to noble deeds. wast great.

"And now thou hast departed to the mighty must at last go.

the very prow of the war Yes, in thy lifetime thou

place where even all the

"Where, oh physicians, was the power of your remedies? "What, oh priests, availed your prayers!

"For I have lost my love; no more can he revisit this world.

"MATEUE TE WHIWHI
RIWAI TE AHU.

WIREMU TAMIHANA TE NEKE.
PARAKAIA TE POUEPA.
HOROMONA TOREMI.

ARAPATA HAUturu.

KARANAMA TE KAPUKAI.

PARAONE TE MANUKA.

MUKAKAI.

MOROAKI KIHAROA.

"HAPE TE HOROHAU.

TAMIHANA TE RAUPARAHA.
RAWIRI TE Wanui.
KINGI TE AHоAHO.

HANITA TE WHAREMAKATEA.
HUKIKI.

PARAONE TOANGINA.
HOHUA TAIPARI.

KEPA KERIKERI.

PITA TE PUKEROA.”

TO THE PRINCESS ALICE.

(From "Punch," July 12, 1862.)

DEAR to us all by those calm earnest eyes,

And early thought upon that fair young brow;
Dearer for that where grief was heaviest, thou
Wert sunshine, till He passed where suns shall rise
And set no more: then, in affection wise

And strong, wert strength to Her who even but now
In the soft accents of thy bridal vow,

Heard music of her own heart's memories.

Too full of love to own a thought of pride
Is now thy gentle bosom; so 'tis best:

Yet noble is thy choice, O English bride!
And England hails the Bridegroom and the guest

A friend-a friend well loved by Him who died;
He blessed your troth-your wedlock shall be blessed.

THE PRIMATE OF ALL IRELAND.

(From "The Spectator," June 26, 1862.)

To his rest among the saints of old
That our stately Primate must be laid
In an ever hallow'd mould;

That the good Archbishop sleepeth well,
Tongue and pen unto the people tell
Drape the great cathedral where he pray'd,
Let the bell be toll'd

Not for marvellous speech or musings grand,
Not for martyr's pains! Those noble eyes
Opened on a golden land

With him beauty, honour, wealth, and power,
Grew like hue and fragrance round the flower,
Stormless all in sunshine did he rise,

And in sunshine stand.

Taylor round the altar twining roses
Colour'd by the summer of his touch;
Ken, his music who discloses

Half by angels, half by thrushes taught;
Butler's regal modesty of thought,
Ireland's princely Primate had not such—
Weep where he reposes.

Aye, whilst now the white sail of his soul Watch we glimmering round death's misty cape, Grandly let the organ roll!

From our clouded hearts let rain-drops fall
To the soft breath of the ritual;
Solemnly the great cathedral drape-

Let the church bells toll!

Grand is eloquence, and lore is deepBut for kingly quiet, that to strife

Sometimes seemed a saintly sleep,
For the love that was so simply wise,
For the lordly presence, and calm eyes,
For the eloquence of that blameless life
Let the people weep!

Not by fourteen thousand bits of gold
Measured, but by books at Resurrection
Of the perfect just unroll'd-
Christ! it must have been a weary weight,
Fifty years of honour and of state-
Well, he need not fear the recollection,
Let the bell be toll'd!

Ah, the great bell tolleth; never blow
Twice the self-same flowers, but other ones.
Flows not twice the self-same river.
All that majesty of prayers and alms,
All that sweetness as of chanted psalms,
Round the brow half princely, half St. John's,
It is gone for ever.

Ah, the great bell tolls! but through the cloud
If we see aright, and through the mist,

Larger-eyed, and broader-brow'd,
With his stainless lawn divinely whiter,
With a crown, and not a heavy mitre,
In the grand cathedral fane of Christ,
Is the Archbishop bow'd.

Leave him with the Bishop of our souls.
Leave the princely old man with the bless'd.
Need is none of Fame's false scrolls.
Gleams are on his brow from God's own climate.
Draw the curtain round our grand old Primate.
Let the Angels sing him to his rest.
Ah, the great bell tolls!

W. A.

EARL CANNING.

(DIED TUESDAY, JUNE 17TH, 1862.)

(From "Punch," June 28, 1862.)

ONE more strong swimmer gone down in the deep,
But not in mist of storm and breakers' roar:

He had fought through the surf and gained the shore,

His native England's windy whitewalled steep,

Which he had toiled, and borne so much, to reach.
Ah, little did we think, who cheered him in,
How busy Death was mining all within :
The while we gave him welcome from the beach.

He waved acclaim and greetings of the crowd,
And only prayed he might be left at peace,
In pomp's eclipse and toil's well-earned surcease—
Toil that had stemmed disease, and grief o'ercowed.

We who had seen him striving with the storm,

In that dread time when England's Empire reeled,
Till her foes shouted, Lo, her doom is sealed!"

66

And, as foul things round a sick lion swarm,

Base creatures on sore-stricken England pressed,
We who then watched him, patient, calm, and strong,
Not paying hate with hate, and wrong with wrong,
But fear and fury both serene to breast,

We deemed him steeled of body as of soul,

And when Death took his partner from his side,
And left him lone, his weary lot to abide,
We said the same high heart could grief control,

That had controlled despair, and doubt, and fear;
And when we knew that his return was nigh,
We planned him labours new and honours high,
Blind that we were, nor dreamed the end was near.

Of all the gifts that England could bestow

He has received but one-an honoured grave;
Where knightly banners in the Abbey wave
O'er dust of English worthies heaped below,

Another worthy sleeps; the black plumes waved
Above him, cold and coffined, through the street
Where oft, we hoped, he would in council meet
For India's weal, the land that he had saved.

Nor for such council, nor speech of his peers,

Comes he to Westminster, but for his grave,

Where write, "He died for duty-modest, brave,

Mild, when the good felt wrath, calm, when the brave had fears."

THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION.

CANTATA by the POET LAUREATE. Sung by Music composed by Professor Sterndale Bennett at the Opening of the International Exhibition, May 1, 1862.

UPLIFT a thousand voices full and sweet,

In this wide hall with earth's invention stored,

And praise the invisible universal Lord,
Who lets once more in peace the nations meet,
Where Science, Art, and Labour have outpour'd

Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet.

O, silent father of our Kings to be,

Mourned in this golden hour of jubilee,

For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee!
The world compelling plan was thine,
And lo! the long laborious miles
Of Palace; lo! the giant aisles,
Rich in model and design;
Harvest-tool and husbandry,
Loom and wheel and engin'ry,
Secrets of the sullen mine,
Steel and gold, and corn and wine,
Fabric rough, or Fairy fine,
Sunny tokens of the Line,
Polar marvels, and a feast

Of wonder, out of West and East,
And shapes and hues of Art divine!
All of beauty, all of use,

That one fair planet can produce,
Brought from under every star,
Blown from over every main,

And mixt, as life is mixt with pain,

The works of peace with works of war.
O ye, the wise who think, the wise who reign,
From growing commerce loose her latest chain,
And let the fair white-winged peacemaker fly
To happy havens under all the sky,

And mix the seasons and the golden hours,
Till each man find his own in all men's good,
And all men work in noble brotherhood,

Breaking their mailed fleets and armed towers

And ruling by obeying Nature's powers,

And gathering all her fruits of peace and crowned with all the flowers.

A. TENNYSON.

THE TWO QUEENS IN THE EXHIBITION

(On the Night of May 1st, 1862.)

(From "Punch," May 10th, 1862.) MIDNIGHT in the monster Building, The day's labour done,

Silence, where two thousand voices

Pealed but now like one;

For the crowd of twice three thousand,

Here I pace alone,

From the orchestra deserted

To the empty throne.