ESSAYS IN VERSE.

Evening Post, Volume LXXVII, Issue 133, 12 June 1909, Page 13

ESSAYS IN VERSE.

SERENADE. Will you not wake ? The^ grey-eyed daws Siill droops her lashes for your sake Till she shall see your curtains drawn. Will you not wake? Will you not rise? The primrose path ' Lies open to the morning's eyea, Tho dewy dawn fresh glories hath. Will you not rise ? Will you not come ? The birds of spring By cop&e and dale as vet are dumb, But at your coming they will sing. Will you not come ? — Duffield Bendall. Westminster Gazette. THE IDLE SINGERS. Call us the idle singers who sit by the . road and dream; ! Sunning ourselvea in the weather and • winding a web of 'gleam; j Call us the nonproducers — our fingers are '. on the loom ' Of silver cities of morning and golden ' valleys of bloom ; • We sail on a painted ocean with shallops ] of silver sails, j Or eifc on a hillside tolling our own selves < fairy tales. Call us llio idle singers, who wake and ' are worn in a day, ' Dreaming our dream ot rlover in the ' hyacinth porches of aSlay ; i Dwellers in no man's temple, dolvers at : no man's feet, ' Call us the necromancers who dine on tho t ho:icymoat ; ' Wo swing us the golden hammers and the oriflamme anvils aro o\irs, _ That the pageants may pass in music and the Princess ot Love wear flowers. ] Call us the idle singers, with' never a , hand on plough, Dreaming the dream oi beauty and weav- ; ing rho whence and how ; Call us the roadside children — oh, whether ( we sail or sleep ' ! We come back bringing the kingdoms of ' song from the vasty deep ; s Sunlight, woven of fancy, laughter in j golden bales, _ _ i We bear to the \vorn_ world waiting to ; hark to our fairy tales. I Call us the idle singers ; whether we toil i or sing, _ i The looms of our silver music are weaving ] the web of spring ; . , The thunder of many cities, the roar of ( tho mills is heard. , But we aro the juagic-maker3, who uttor | the final word ; I Dreaming tho dream of beauty, or sailing '' j tho silver seas, < Give us who fear ihe thunder the making i of meiodies ! ; — Folger M'Kinsey. i Baltimore Sun. ] DAFFODILS IN A WINTER ROOM. ] Sweet warm-lipped heralds of the gentle j spring, ] Ye boar into this sunless love-lit room j A dream of blos&oim and each tendor thing That soon will wake ; palo motha that ' seek the gloom ' Of fragrant nignts, and whispering buds ( that break ' Some dawn into a low enraptured eong. i The call of bluebirds near a sunset lake, And meadows murmuring where the j [ j bees most throng. i . i So when tho May-month trips adown the hills. ' ' Spreading her soft enchantments far aiuf wide, I'll then remember ye, my daffodils, i That gave mo message sweet before >c died ' ' ; — William Northrop Morse. Outlook (New York). QUI PREND S'ENGAGE. Morning aud Maytime. Tho sungold glinted Through larchgi-ovo and oakwood all bathed in dew, On woodspurgo and windflower, lilactiutcd, On crimson of orchw and hyacinth blue. — "Qui proud s'pngage." ' Wo took tho King's Shilling ! In days to (.-onto beat of the drum, Dust ot' Hie road, long noonday marches, A flag to follow, glad or unwilling, Defeat or, maybe, triumph archea. Reaped tho cornfields, late poppies redden In withered grass where tho dim mists rise, The laggard twilight is grey and leaden, In lnrchsfrovo and oakwood the rosedusk dies. — ' Qui prenil s'eiigasi*." Wo wore tho i King's Colour ! A thirsty laud oi drought and sand, Whilo tents at night and a hot wind fretting, Sleep, when the glare of the camp grows duller, i A brief, brief dream when tho sun is j setting. Autumn and nightfall. My old playfellow. The owls are hooting in larchgrove and oak, A sleepy moon hangs, round and yellow, Over the field whero the weed-fires smoke. — Deserted, we two! — Wrists bound, wounds aching, A last parade with the King's Brigado. Beat of tho drum, the King's flag flying, A stain on the turf when tho day is breaking "Qui prond s'engage,' living or dying. — Una Artcvolde Taylor. Westminstor Gazette. MORA BENEFICA. Give me to dip unwitting of the day, And .stricken in Life's brave heat, with .senses clear, Not swathed and couched until the linos appear Of Death's wan mask upon this withering clay, But as that old man eloquent made way From Earth, a nation's conclave husht aneai: ; Or as the chief whose Fates, that ho may hoar The victory, one glorious moment stay. Or if not this, then with no cry in vain, No ininistrant beside to ward aud weop, ITand upon helm' 1 would my quittance gain In some wild turmoil of the waters deep, And kink content into a dreamless sleep j (Spared grave and shroud) below the ancient main. r-^Edmund Clarence Stedman. THE DREAM. Begin at onco to make ideal real, Teach men to know what love would have •> them be, By lives, not perfect, but of perfect trust With courage to obey tho deathless dream, Till what was fancy is earth'a common ! fact. The ancient hope lives in tho heart of him Who glimpses glory through tho passing sliF.mo And wrong he longs to right, or turns in pain Upon himself, when sorrow makes man wiso And visionary | All i? yet to bo ! ; Whatever prophet dreamed of far-off joy, 1 Or poet chanted in his lyric heart, i 1 Shall j;low a moment ere it i'ado boforc Tliu grander beauty yet undreamed by man , Let othcih hunt and hoard, but you lnuf-t '. boar , Tho burden of the future , let the years C'rovid honour otherwhere, but you must walk •Vt ith grief companion, lorieliuoss as guide. Along tho vsllev where tho vision loads." ' To-morrow we ure gone, if lifo were well, To other higher eiforts. Do wo fail? .Another takcd our place, and all we loved Or lhed shall blaro anew iv younger eyes ; By stronger hands tho banner wo let fail Be flung above defeat, the lords of life ' Singing triumphant us they inarch to fame : 1 ■ "Who fights for truth muafc light without reward." —William Mountain. Philadelphia Ledger.