tahitan sailor. (reclining on a mat.) hail, holy nakedness of our dancing girls!—the heeva-heeva! ah! low veiled, high palmed tahiti! i still rest me on thy mat, but the soft soil has slid! i saw thee woven in the wood, my mat! green the first day i brought ye thence; now worn and wilted quite. ah me!—not thou nor i can bear the change! how then, if so be transplanted to yon sky? hear i the roaring streams from pirohitee’s peak of spears, when they leap down the crags and drown the villages?—the blast! the blast! up, spine, and meet it! (leaps to his feet.)