SAMOAN DAYS by ARTHUR PETERSON

Here winds the sweet iao his liquid horn
At break of day, proclaimer of the sun;
Here stalks the red-brown chief with lofty mien;
Here brood the palms and seem to whisper woe.

Here bronzine maids, save for a cincture, bare,
With round each head, of leaves or flowers, a wreath,
Stride through the tropic wood, or in the deep,
With outspread limbs, lovely amphibians, swim.

Here sounds the siva's music; and, with step
Caprine, in sylvan revels unrestrained,
Dance men and maids; so, to the pipe of Pan,
In fabled glades, danced nymphs and satyrs once.

Here rises, through the silent evening air,
The vesper hymn, circling from hut to hut,
By fresh Samoan voices chanted, taught
By pious missioners of the church of Christ.

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