retired from the society with which during his long life he had delighted to mingle. He was buried in Hornsey churchyard with his brother and sister.

Rogers lives in our memory not only as a poet, but as the centre of a brilliant social circle and as an encourager of art and genius. His poetry is exquisitely refined, which he spared no pains to make it. Nothing slovenly or careless proceeded from his pen, and he never in a single instance made an unworthy use of the wonderful gift he possessed.

J. C. M. BELLEW.

THE PEARL OF THE PHILIPPINES.

"I HEAR, Relempago, that you

Were once a famous fisherman,
Who at Negros or Palawan-
Or maybe it was at Zèbou-
Found something precious in the sand,
A nugget washed there by the rain,
That slipped from your too eager hand,
And soon as found was lost again.
If it had been a pearl instead

And what's the pearl called? Let me see-
The pearl of all the Philippines."

'Twas at Manilla, and the three
Sat in a shaded gallery
That looked upon the river, where
All sorts of sailing-boats all day
Went skimming round like gulls at play,
And made a busy picture there.
The speaker was--what no one knew,
Except a merchant: Jew with Jew,
A Turk with Turks, Parsee, Hindoo,
But still to one religion true,

And that was Trade; a pleasant guest,
Who, knowing many things, knew best
What governs men, for he was one
Whom many trusted, trusting none.
His host, Relempago, who heard
His questions with an inward shock,
Looked up,
but answered not a word.
He was a native Tagaloc-
A man that was not past his prime,
And yet was old before his time.
His face was sad, his hair was gray,
His eyes on something far away.
His wife was younger and less sad;

(Why does your good wife shake her head?), A Spanish woman, she was clad

I could the story understand;

For I have known so many lost,

And once too often to my cost.
I trade in pearls; I buy and sell:
They say I know their value well;
I have seen some large ones in my day,
Have heard of larger: who shall say
How large these unseen pearls have been?
I don't believe in things unseen.

I hear there's one now at Zèbou
That dwarfs a bird's egg, and outshines
The full moon in its purity.

What say you? Is the story true?

As are the Tagal women; fair,
With all her dark abundant hair,
That was a wonder to behold,
Drawn from her face with pins of gold.

"You have not seen it, I perceive,"
Said the pearl-merchant, "nor have I:
I'd have to see it to believe,

And then would rather have you by.
There's no such pearl."-" You spoke of
me,'

After a pause his host began..
"Yes, I was once a fisherman,

And loved, though now I hate, the sea.
'Twas twenty-thirty-years ago,
And this good lady by my side.
Had not been many moons the bride
Of poor but proud Relempago.
That I was poor she did not care :
She let me love her-loved again;
She comes of the best blood of Spain;
There is no better anywhere.
You see what I am. As I said,

I cast my bread upon the sea,

Or from the sea I drew my bread,

What matter, so it came to me?

I know not if the tale be true-
Another child in other days
Came hither to depart no more,
Found one bright morning on the shore,
The Infant Jesus of Zèbou.”-

"So you, too, had," the merchant said,
With just a touch of quiet scorn-
"What shall I say?—a Krishna born,
But with no halo round its head.
What did you name the boy?"-" A girl,
Not boy, and therefore dearer, sweeter:
We called the infant Margarita,

We loved, were young, our wants were few- For was she not our precious pearl?

The happiest pair in all Zèbou.

At last a child, and what before
Seemed happiness was more and more

The thing it seemed, the dream come true.
You smile; I see you never knew
A father's pleasure in a child."—
Pardon, my friend; I never smiled.
I am a father: I have three
Sweet troubles that are dear to me.
"But ours was not a trouble-no,"
Said simple, good Relempago.
"It was the sweetest, dearest child,
So beautiful, so gay, so wild,
And yet so sensitive and shy,
And given to sudden strange alarms :
I've seen it in its mother's arms,
Bubbling with laughter, stop and sigh.
It was like neither in the face,
For we are dark, and that was fair,
An infant of another race,
That, born not in their dwelling-place,
Left some poor woman childless there;
A bird that to our nest had flown,
A pearl that in our shell had
grown;
We cherished it with double care.
It came to us as, legend says―

You, who have children, as you say,

Can guess how much we loved the child,
Watching her growth from day to day,
Grave if she wept, but if she smiled
Delighted with her. We were told
That we grew young as she
grew old.
I used to make long voyages,
Before she came, in distant seas,
But now I never left Zèbou,

For there the great pearl-oysters grew,
And still may grow, for aught I know:
I speak of twenty years ago.

Though waves were rough and winds were

high,

And fathoms down the sea was dark,
And there was danger from the shark,
I shrank from nothing then, for I
Was young and bold and full of life,
And had at home a loving wife,
A darling child who ran to me,
Stretching her hands out when I came,
And kissed my cheek and lisped my name,
And sat for hours upon my knee.

What happier sight was there to see?
What happier life was there to be?
I lived, my little Pearl, in thee.

Oh, mother, why did I begin?"

He stopped and closed his eyes with pain,
Either to keep his tears therein.

Or bring that vision back again.

You tell him."—

'Twas morning when I made the vow,
And well do I remember now
How light my heart was as I ran
Down to the sea, a happy man.
All that I passed along the way,
"Sir," the lady said, The woods around me, and, above,
The plaintive cooing of the dove,
The rustling of the hidden snake,
The wild ducks swimming in the lake,
The hideous lizards large as men,
Nothing, I think, escaped me then,
And nothing will escape to-day.

'My husband bids me tell the tale.
One day the child began to ail:
Its little cheek was first too red,
And then it was too deathly pale.
It burned with fever; inward flame
Consumed it, which no wind could cool;
We bathed it in a mountain-pool,
And it was burning all the same.
The next day it was cold-so cold
No fire could warm it; so it lay,
Not crying much, too weak to play,
And looking all the while so old.
So fond, too, of its father, he,
Good man, was more to it than I:
The moment his light step drew nigh
It would no longer stay with me.

I said to him, 'The child will die.'
But he declared it should not be."

""Tis true," Relempago replied;
"I felt if Margarita died
My heart was broken. And I said,
'She shall not die till I have tried
Once more to save her.' What to do?
Then something put into my head
The Infant Jesus of Zebou.
'I'll go to him: the Child Divine
Will save this only child of mine.
I will present him with a pearl,
And he will spare my little girl-
The largest pearl that I can find,
The one that shall delight his mind.
The purest, best, I give to you,
O Infant Jesus of Zèbou!'

I reached the shore, untied my boat,
Sprang in, and was again afloat
Upon the wild and angry sea
That must give up its pearls to me—
Its pearl of pearls. But where to go?
West of the island of Bojo,

Some six miles off, there was a view
Of the cathedral of Zebou,

Beneath whose dome the Child Divine

Was waiting for that pearl of mine.
Thither I went, and anchored; there
Dived fathoms down, found rocks and sands,
But no pearl-oysters anywhere,
And so came up with empty hands.
Twice, thrice, and-nothing! Cruel sea,
Where hast thou hid thy pearls from me?
But I will have them, nor depart
Until I have them, for my heart
Would break, and my dear child would die.
She shall not die! What was that cry?
Only the eagle's scream on high.
Fear not, Relempago!' Once more,
Down, down, along the rocks and sands
I groped in darkness, tore my hands,
And rose with nothing, as before.
'O Infant Jesus of Zèbou,
I promised a great pearl to you;
Help me to find it.' Down again,