ESSAYS IN VERSE.

Evening Post, Volume LXXV, Issue 122, 23 May 1908, Page 13

ESSAYS IN VERSE.

WHICH WAY? Whero leads the road to Arcady? Thr' tho purplo bilk on a'jbumoy long, Or into the eaBt by tho brim of tho sea To an isle of song? Or must ono take, when tho sun has set, Tho silver trail of a pale moonbeam? May its mystics bales alone bo mot Iv a land of dream? Pray, how do tho fortunate ones who go Discover this land of dear dolight? Make they their way in tho noontide glow Or in blackest night? Whero runs the road to Arcady? Wo sock it oft, but our search is vain — O, winds it over a flowering lea Or a path of pain? — George S. Marsh. Tho Scrap-book. THE SHEPHERD OF DREAMS. I heard ono fluting on tho moor, Aross tho honeyed heather,' And all tho dceams that arc drest in grey, Like running streams and the close of day, Went by in. a llock together. They passed the rich, they passed the poor, No pasture might delay them — They lingerod not beside my door, Who stretched my hands to stay them — Flockß of dreams! I heard ono piping on the hill, Among the dewy clover ; And all tho dreams that are decked in gold, Liko delicate gleams when the dawn is' cold, • He counted over and over. Then each by each with gesture still. With eyes deep-set and serious. He summoned unto him at will, .To wend in ways mysterious — Flocks of dreams ! I heard one singing down the strand, Above tho spray-wet shingle — And all tho dreams that are dark and dim, As storm-wrack seems on the night's long rim, I saw a crowd commingle. Ho raised his crook, he waved his hand, Ho led their lovely number, Ho fed them far >in Fairyland, On shadowy slopes of slumber — Flocks of dreams ! Shepherd of dreams, O South-West Wind! Bring all thy cloudy fleeces Onco more to rest in that quiet fold Within my breast, where they dwelt of old, When strenuous day surceases. Bnt ono ewe-lamb canst thou not find? Come, satisfy mo straightway! Call them to-night, thou Shepherd kind, Through mine untrodden gateway — Flocks of dreams! — May Byron. St. James's Budget. LITTLE HOUSE 0' DREAMS. * O little house with windows wido, A-looking towards tho sea! How have you come — why haVo you come To mean so much to me'! Your walls within my heart arc raised, And O, how strange it eeeme, My hopes but measure to your roof, 0 little house o* dreams! 0 little place, whero friends will come, The tangled world to flee; Bravo little nook where peace will bide, And hospitality! Pray, whero's the m«gio. wand I noed To touch your slender beams, And chango you to a home in truth, O little house o' dreams? .— Clairo Wallace Flynn. Ainlee's Magazine. — THE WORDS IN D. Those words in D ! A dismal dreary dose ! Here dilatory dandies dandling doze, Dull dunces dog our steps and dreadful duns. Dolors and dragonß, donkeys, dolts, and duiies, Devils and demons, and "the dreaded name Of Demorgorgon !" Dirks and daggers haunt, ' ' Dank dandelions flourish, dampness daunts, Depression and dejection drag us down, , Drear desolation dwells, and dire 'delay, - ' Disaster, disappointment, disarray, Defeat, disintegration, 'and despair, Disease, decay, delirium, darkness, death ! Yet through tho darkest dens of dimmest doubt ' Dogged determination drives its way, Dilemmas yield to diligenco at last, Deliberation dissipates dispute, Dismay is dashed with draughts of dear dolight, Deft dainty dances, and delicious dreams! The power to do one's duty still survives, Still dawns the day, djvino dominion rules. — Professor Skcat. Notes and Queries. SONNET. Love, when the great hour knelled for theo and me, Tho great hour that should prove thee faJBo or tiue, When life surged round us like a wintry sea, • And thy heart feared to say what both hearts know ; When all thy vows and honeyed words wora Droven False to the core of thy poor trcachorous heart ; When by God's fire by heart's false heaven was cloven And, white and dumb, our torn souls turned to part — O, novor think, for all tho flash and thunder That showed us the dead body at our feet, Though hcavon and hell conepirod our eoulh to sunder. And i hough we twain in heaven nor hell shall moot — Think n'pt, where' or Love's clay-wrought idols lie, The Love through which I prayed to these can die. —Alfred Noyes. Westminster Gazette. ' NOT NOW. Few are the days of Spring 1 , /' And short tho April hours: ' Wo have no time to ping Or danco, between the showers ; We, have no time to ptray Alonsr the woodlnnd lanes, And nlan our little day Of honours or of gains. For, e'er tho sun be high, Or even noon haß come, So lurid grows tho sky That we must hasten horne — To find our hearthstone void, Ts> see our bright estate By one strong shaft destroyed: And we aro desolate. , Ah, yes ! It is not here, It is not thus nor now While we beside tho bier Lie stunned and spent and low, — It ia not thus, that we, Or such aa We, can toll ' How tru» these words may be — "He doeth all things well." — Arthur Munfey. Spectator. Under the heading of "Some Books of New Zealand Interest," our London correspondent, gives some account of two recent novels, both of which appear to be very flimsy and scarcely worthy of serious notice. "The Sacred Herb," by Fergus Hume, is published by Mr. John Lang. The herb is a narcotic, the smoke of which renders any one unconscious for an indefinite period, and which is therefore a serviceable article in the hands of ft criminal. In the story there are at least three murders, an abduction, a suicide, and false clues innumerable. "The Elixir of Life," by William Satchel!, is published by Chapman and Hall. A ship's surgeon discovers a bacijlus which renders animals immune to every known disease, and introduces complications by rendering certain undesirable persons practically immortal. Both books apparently aro maiked by that straining alter novel themes which i? fatal to literary quality or artistic effect.