POETRY.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIII, Issue 108, 7 May 1892, Page 3 (Supplement)

POETRY.

THE FINDING OF MY HARP.

I sang when a child as young birds sing, Too frail of note, too early of wing ; I sang again, bub never a rune Was understood of my simple tune. And I said, ' 0 God ! for the magic strings That touch men's hearts when a poet sings; Whatever the prize or the doom may be, 0 grant, dear Lord, such a harp to me.' In rambles, then, by romantic streams, 1 revelled in weird and fairy dreams : I sang of love as I passed along, Though my soul rebuk'd such childish song. I tried to praise the ruling of kings— But found the earth had no meaner things, For love was bought and honour was sold And faith was faint, and men's hearts wero cold. And I cried again—'O grant to me A harp, my God. and I'll sing for Thee.* I came to a city's crowded streets And saw the saint and the leper meet; I watched the prince in his robes of state, The dissolute sins of the desolate, Virtue afraid, and grim lusb grown boldGod laid aside fcr a calf of gold. And I prayed again, ' Oh, for the power To charm the weak, and make tyrants cower.' Then a voice said : ' Sing ! and thy mission be To soothe the heart of its misery ; Sing, then, of love, when 'tis true and pure, And faith thab shall want and scorn endure. Ay ! sing of kings, if their hearts are greab, Crowned or uncrowned, who rule tbe Stabe, For weal of man, and for love of me, Then list bo the doom awaiting thee. ' And I cried : 'To bhe doom I wilh say "Amen," So I touch the hearts and the souls of men.' ■ F0013,' said the voice, - shall sneer ab thy song, Thy days be sad, and thy journey long ; For Wealth shall laugh at thy simple lay/. Want and woe shall be thine alway ; Ay! only a few shall grasp thy hand, And love thy songs in alien land ;' And 1 bent my head, and I thus r'eulied, ' Give me my harp, but be Thou my guide. What do I fear what my guerdon bo So my song is true, and it pleaseth Thee T So I sing of a lovo that never dies, Of jewelled worlds in the blue of skies ; And ever I curse tho false and greab Who mar this earth till 'tis desolate. And what do I reap 1 but thistles and tares, I Crossed with sorrows, and torn with cares ; Yeb my harp's my own, und its eilvery strings j Have a charm unknown to the greatest. I kings l ■;