Who blaze through untrod wilds the way
Successive generations tread,
Asking no more than this, to be
Lords of themselves, in all things free.
Here is a rose. It grew above
A grave in that fair tropic isle
The poets name the home of love—
Paul et Virginie. One can smile,
Remembering that idyl sweet
Of youthful passion, tender, pure,
For though it ends in death, 'tis meet
Such gentle souls should not endure;
Their fragile natures, soft and warm,
Are bruised to death in life's first storm.
Here is a relic some one brought
From the far South Pacific seas;
A souvenir of a battle fought
For freedom by the Tahitese.
The story stirs indignant blood,
For wrongs inflicted on a race;
Yet here, a lack of brotherhood,
A feeling of the lowlier place
In nature s plan for such as these,
Dulls our indignant sympathies.
36
