BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

Dominion, Volume 4, Issue 1198, 5 August 1911, Page 9

BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

VERSES' OLD AND NEW.

• THE MAID. Thunder of riotous hoofs over tho quaking Clash of' rooking squadrons, stool-capped, iron-shod; The White Maid, and the whito horso, and tho' flapping banner of God', Black .hearts riding for money; red hearts Tiding tor. fame,-' iho: Maid who rides for France and tho king u'ho rides for shauiu; Gentlemen, fools and a -saint riding in Christ's high name; Dust to' dust it is written! Wind-scat- , terod aro lanco and bow! ■ . Dust the Cross of St. George; dust, the banner of snow! ' The bones of tho king aro crumbled, and rotted tho shafts of the foe. •Forgotten, the young knights' valour; forgotten the captains' skill: ' , Forgotten, the fear and the hato and tho " mailed hands raised to kill: Forgotten the shields that clashed and the • arrows that cried 'so shrill. Liko a story from some old book, that battle of long ago . . Shadows, tho poor French king and tho might of his English foe; Shadows, tho charging nobles and the ■ archers. kneehuß a-row; But, aflamo in my heart and my eyes, the ' Maid with the banner of Siiow! —Theodore Roberts, in "Scribner's."

A SONG OF THANKS. Ero yet the bony hand of Death Hath froze my blood and choked mv breath, I will give thanks (great thanks aro duo) For joys I know, tor joys I knew. I would not onter the long night, Leaving tho earth and all delight, Like somo baso churl, sullen and rude, That shojvs no decent gratitude. Evil I've-known, and grief, and pain; I've hoped in vain and striven in vain; 1 havo, been lonely now and then, An alien among busy men; i. have been sick through all my soul Till some good wind hath nlado me whole: But whatsoever pang r.r smart Hath drawn my cheek, hath shook my heart, I've been too humble or too proud x To utter much my woo aloud: Nor.-'havo 1 sent beseeching sighs To unknown gods in unknown skies. Upon a wakeful couch to groan Hatli not been mine; for I havo, known Few nights that havo denied me sleep. And if I've had no friend to keep, And if my breast ho woman's breast In no embraco of love hath prest, This is not causo to sorrow long.' Como let me sing' my'thankful song. Thanks for all colours, dim or bright, That bring tho temperate soul delight; For suns that redly sot and rise, Whito moons creeping up blue skies, Purplo pathways wandering Through the.fresh warm greens of Spring, Waveless water softly sway'd With weeds'moving in its shade, Poppies 'mid tho silver-greens Of the honcy-tlower'd beans, Violet 'shadows gently thrust O'or the roadway's mollow dust, Goosehorry leaves grown yellow and red— Everywhere my feet aro led, Colours fair and. very fair Fill my soul and linger there. Thanks for sweet scents: for breath of flowers ' ' .That raise pure faces after showers!; For ■ the dear odours of the Spring, ■ The smell of woodruffe withering, The wallflower in the'crannied rocks, Tho hawthorn blossom that unlocks Within my heart a holiest place; For roses, and that child of graco The creamy, plumy meadowsweet; For smell of firs where branches meet; For'smoke of burning twigs and leaves, Borne on somo little wind that grioves, When garner' 4 ''My. .t lft' latest, Ttjanks. for'- sweet sounds;-- for tfiters flowing, v Wind through bowing grasses blowing; For , the little, skylark's trilling, 1 , Wondrously the Wide air filling; . For the nobler voice of'man, ; Who'can sing 'as'none else can; For '.oboes, harps, violoncelloes. Played in smooth concert with their fel-

io'ws: Tea, for oil good sounds I've known, Or made by man or nature's own, , From tho-haughty trumpet's calling, To lisp of rain on green leaves falling. Thanks, all thanks for- jyjocl men's faces; For.the simple natural graces Shown in many a lovely lass I haVe chanced to meet, to pass; For the books that in their hours Ilave been dear to me as llowers; For. the clouds, the winds, tho sun.' Yea, for good things every ono That I knew, or that I know, Lot 'me sing the thanks I owe. And when at last shall fail my breath, And all my pleasure withereth Thanks for death, for dreamless death. —A. Stevenson Nicol, in the "Nation."