His tools lay round him; wake him such as might. A carbine hung beside his India fan, His hand could reach a Turkish ataghan; Pistols, with quaint-carved stocks and barrels gilt, Crossed a long dagger with a jewelled hilt; A slashing cutlass stretched along the bed;-- All this was what those lying boatmen said. Then some were full of wondrous stories told Of great oak chests and cupboards full of gold; Of the wedged ingots and the silver bars That cost old pirates ugly sabre-scars; How his laced wallet often would disgorge The fresh-faced guinea of an English George, Or sweated ducat, palmed by Jews of yore, Or double Joe, or Portuguese moidore; And how his finger wore a rubied ring Fit for the white-necked play-girl of a king. But these fine legends, told with staring eyes, Met with small credence from the old and wise. Why tell each idle guess, each whisper vain? Enough: the scorched and cindered beams remain. He came, a silent pilgrim to the West, Some old-world mystery throbbing in his breast; Close to the thronging mart he dwelt alone; He lived; he died. The rest is all unknown. Stranger, whose eyes the shadowy isle survey, As the black steamer dashes through the bay, Why ask his buried secret to divine? He was thy brother; speak, and tell us thine! . . . . . . . . . . . Silence at first, a kind of spell-bound pause; Then all the Teacups tinkled their applause; When that was hushed no sound the stillness broke Till once again the soft-voiced lady spoke: "The Lover's Secret,--surely that must need The youngest voice our table holds to read. Which of our two 'Annexes' shall we choose? Either were charming, neither will refuse; But choose we must,--what better can we do Than take the younger of the youthful two?" True to the primal instinct of her sex, "Why, that means me," half whispered each Annex. "What if it does?" the voiceless question came, That set those pale New England cheeks aflame; "Our old-world scholar may have ways to teach Of Oxford English, Britain's purest speech,-- She shall be youngest,--youngest for _to-day_,-- Our dates we'll fix hereafter as we may; _All rights reserved_,--the words we know so well, That guard the claims of books which never sell." The British maiden bowed a pleased assent, Her two long ringlets swinging as she bent; The glistening eyes her eager soul looked through Betrayed her lineage in their Saxon blue. Backward she flung each too obtrusive curl And thus began,--the rose-lipped English girl. THE LOVER'S SECRET