Four moons have passed—and nights and days have flown Cloudless—a summer of an orient tone, Since my unequal pen essayed to tell Brief passages of what I loved so well. Above me now, where blossoms fell in spring, Large purple grapes hang thickly clustering; The fig-tree near, with ample leaves displayed, Shelters its sweet, cool fruit beneath their shade. Still hang the oranges upon their stems, Whose dark green foliage makes them glow like gems. The cypresses by yonder convent wall Shoot up as freshly green, as stately tall, And there the drowsy vesper-bell ne’er tires Calling to prayers the brown-robed, bearded friars. Down on the beach, content with slender gain, Still drag their nets the red-capped fishermen. Still glide the days as fair—the nights more cool, The sea is still as ever beautiful; And yonder purple mount, towering as proud Still blends its light smoke with the flying cloud. And now, ere I these pleasant scenes resign, I would yet linger o’er and make them mine. I would remember every odorous breeze That wafted incense from these orange-trees— The roses clustering on their leafy stalks, Dropping their faint leaves in the garden walks— The sweet geraniums and the passion flowers Entwined with multifloras—the noon hours When underneath the oaks I watched the sea Rippling below me calm and dreamily. The hueless olives where the full moon came Kindling behind them with a holy flame, Touching their pale leaves with mysterious sheen And shimmering o’er old boughs of silvery green— Above, the inextinguishable lights That made all nights in heaven like festal nights, That seemed too holy for frail men to keep, And yet too costly to be spent in sleep. O lovely nights and days! too quickly flown; Leave me the memory of your sweetest tone. O ocean! long I’ve lingered on thy shore, Lulled by thy whisper, wakened by thy roar. Ere I depart and see no more thy face, Let me retain some sign of thy embrace— Not pearls nor painted shells, nor coral rare, But dreams of Beauty. So the goddess fair, Who rules all hearts, and fills the Olympian home, Rose in a sea-shell from thy glittering foam— Sprang an immortal to the blaze of day, And wide o’er gods and men extends her sway. * * * * * [Illustration: THE CARIBOO; OR AMERICAN REIN-DEER.] * * * * * THE GAME OF THE SEASON. BY FRANK FORESTER, AUTHOR OF “FIELD SPORTS OF AMERICA,” “FISH AND FISHING,” ETC. THE CARIBOO; AND CARIBOO HUNTING _Cervus Tarandus._ American Rein-Deer. [SEE ENGRAVING.]