VARIOUS VER

Evening Post, Volume LXXIII, Issue 28, 2 February 1907, Page 13

VARIOUS VER

! MAKTJRI GORGE. (For tho Post.) Silont, majestic, eolomu, grand — The choicest spot on Gpd » own land, By N*turo's Arcbiiect designed — Given U3 in truit for all mankind. Shall wq such beauties dare to rob. And spoil this maetorpieqo of God? Dull aro my thoughts and faiijit my pea To paint tho beauties of the glen. The limostOno cliffs before me rise, Towering' in grandeur to the ikies ; Along its faco -in bushy sheen Our monster forest trees airo seen, And to relievo tho eombro gloom Sco yonder rata's crimson bloom. The biroh'e flowers, like bloom of may, Deck out the gorge in A bridoV^array, And to tho purest air is lent The cabbage trees sv/eet fragrant Ecent. Tho underjjrowth oomnletes the scene With till its varied shades of green. Clematis' drooping flowers I yeea Aro garlands for a fairy queen ; The raptured eyo, w.hero'or it turns, Beholds a wealth of varied ferns ; Now Zealand's emblem thus we see Growing in sweet simplicity. The tui a notes, so true and clear, Another charm has added hero. Poising, tlio pigeon seams to rest Before descending 'to ' hor nesc. Quiet and peaceful is tho rcenc, Except yon roaring mountain stream — Glittering un^er' lea^y 1 shades, ' ' Dashing m rapids and cascades, Plunging on through slippery dolla And over fossil pipi ehclls, Leaping the massive' boulders' side Yet in deep pools it opens wide, Always in perpetual motion Flowing onward to the pcean. — Makuri Settler. A CANADIAN FpLp-SONG. Tho doors ore shut, ths window* fast, Outside the'gust 'is driving' 'past, Oiilsido the shivering ivy cjings, Whilo on the hob the kettld sings, — Margery, Margery, make the tea. Singcth ( the kettle incrrily. '' * Tho streams are hushed U P where they flowed, ' ' The ponds are frozen along the road, 'Tho cattle arb housed in' shed'amd" byre, ■JVhile singoth tho kettle on the flro,— ' Margery, Margery, make tho tea, Singeth thytettle merrily. The fisherman on tfeo ba.y in his boat Shivers and buttons 'up his 1 coat ; The traveller stops at tho tavern door, And tho kettle answers the chimney's roar, — ' ' • Margery, M ar ff orv » malco the tea, Singeth the kettle .merrily. Tho firelight dances upon tho wall, footsteps ftro heard in' iho outer hall, And a kiss and a welcomo that' fill tho room, And the kettlo sings in the glimmer and gloom, — Margery, Margery, mat a the tea, Singeth the kettle merrily. —William Wilfred Campbell. Toronto Globe. ' ■ BALLADE OF THE SYBARITE AND THIS SWUEP. When Augmt burns with a baking sun, And tho rippling river is silver-bright, My punt will under tho willows rimHoy, for i;he song of tho' Sybarite! But, ah! when Youth was at' fovcr height, I knew' how a racing "eight" could leap j To the rnetaured swing of her 1 m'en of I might — i Ho for the tuna of the toiling sweep t ' When tho hours of my working day axe I done, j 'Tis timo to bo bidding you all^'good 1 night" : Ere sotno folks' evening has begun — Hey for tho of tho Sybarito! But with first glimmer of dawning light I rise from tho bojoni of baSrny rlcep, Again in worka<2t>y garments dight — Ho for the tune of tho toiling sweep ! And when & holiday's fairly v.-on, , Blitho 09 a. boy I take my flight, Yielding in 'joy of life to none^Hoy jior tho eoDg of tho Sybarito! But lifo is a hattla wo needs must fight, For men must work, or'womon will yreep'.' Back to the field with tho beX drwtvn tight— , ' Ho for the tune of the toiling sweep ! L'Envoi. When old limbs totter, and hair 13 white, Hey for tho cong of the Sybaritol 1 But as long as tho' muscles elastic keep, 'Ho for the tune' of fhe toiling sweep! —St. James's Budgot. THE CALL OF THE BUSH. Oh, tfco life out hero is an easy ono, And the hours of work aro light j* And there is no'need'for worry or strife, No need to struE'g'o or fight! But I know as I lie in my easy chair The east wacn't meant for pel And I hear from far o'er the ocean •wide Tho buahland casing me ! I hear the. thud of the _ shoeless hoof*, I feol tho tug On tho rein : And, borno from afar to my exile heart, Comes the magpie's; song again! I hear tho laugh of the laughing jock Perched high on tho tall gunitroe ; And I hear from far o''er the ocean wide Tho buahland calKng .-mo f Away in the buth thero i? work to do— Thoro is toiling early and late : There is endless struggle and endless strife, And fighting 'gainst cruel fate 1' s . But what does it matter? Tho life out there Is fetterless, grand, and free ; Aad I hear from far o'er tho ocean wide The bushland calling me! So I'll sling my traps in tho morning light. And early I'll be astir; For thero is no "doubt when the bushland calls ' ' ' Her sons must away to heri , So ril quit) tho east with tho morning light, With its" lifo of luxury ; For I hour from, far o'er the ocean wide Tho bushland calling mo! — Gjcorge W. Ayliffe. Adelaide Observer. TO THOMAS BAILEY ALDBICH. (On his eeventioth birthday, 11th November, 1906.) Throughout thy spring,— »h, hale and happy time Of the inviolate vision void of cloud !-*- And through the summer passion of thy prime, Thy lips to song were vowed. Now that tho autumn newetb, and thy voice Ii muto within tho tempi© halls of Art. A something whispers that thy vernal choice ' Enamours still tbjjr hoart. There- runs a gathering rumour through tho air Of etrange gods harboured in the Mute'p stead, ' ' That tho, the deatblen end for .ever fair, Walks with avertpd head. ' \ Hail thou. akin to that immortal band Whom Age can touch not with his fingori frore! Take thou thy lute within thy charmed band, And smite the strings or.cc morel Clinton Scollard. Putnam's Monthly/ AN OLD RUSSIAN CANpLESTICK. Once, long ago — I know not whoro nor when — It cast its light upon some strango-sot board, Around whioh, fur-enmantled, lounged * horde Of hot-eyed youth and swart, thick-beard-ed men. Its flame lit up their wine-wild faces, then It caught the studded hilt of dirk and sword. And stopped till, coarse-carousing with her lord. ' * Some jewelled woman flashed it back again. Far from thoto mjnglod scanes of mirth and iro This bit of brass forlornly braves its doom — To waste with me the silent days' desire, To watch long nights of quietness and gloom, To share the lonely glimmer of my firo, And cheer the hired bareness of my room. <— Margaret Ashnjan. New Zetland Magazine