ESSAYS IN VERSE.

Evening Post, Volume LXXVIII, Issue 117, 13 November 1909, Page 13

ESSAYS IN VERSE.

PRAISE. His years and hours, his world's blind powers, His stars and flowers, hi 6 nights and days, Sea-tide and river and waves that ■shiver, _ ... Praise God, the giver of tongues to praise. Winds in their flowing, and fruits in growing, " Time, in its going, while time shall be, In death and living, "with one thanksgiving, Praise Him whose hand is the 6trength of the sea. \ —Algernon Charles Swinburne. OUTWARD BOUND. • Down ' the Sound to the open ees, Fronting the' south-west wind, With the great Atlantic rolling free, And our hearts left far behind. Over the ( hills and far away, Down in a sunny dell, -My little sweetheart 6ings all day In a gard,en I know well. Infinite space 'mid the stars above, And, below, the infinite deep. . Alone on the bridge I pray my love - Will true and loyal keep. Though wild wastes of waters roll Between_ my' dour and me, My faith is surer than the Pole, And deeper than the sea. - -l — Stephen Coleridge. SHE WHO DWELLS 'AT HAVERFORD, -s It's she who dwells at Haverford, • And I who bide at Ross ; Between the plaoid waters pour , A rippling rood across ; It's there are terraces and towers; And sunny banks of ferns and flowers; It's here the reek of coal-smoke lowors, And when expire the weary hours They seem of little loss. And yet I know — ah, yet I know, Though here is gloom and there is glow, That^Love can bridge an arching bow The wljole wide way across > 'Twixt her who dwells at Haverford And me who bide at Ross! And so, oho, and still, oho ! Let greybeard Care a-trudging go, My heart's as light by day and night As thistledown, or floss ; There is a wind that whispers low (Wnate'er the sister Fates bestow), She'll dwell l no more at Haverford — Nor will I bide at Ross ! — Archibald Crombie. Sun (New York). THE SONNET. Sonnet, be not rebellious in my hands ' •' That ply tho spindle oftener than the lute : Without our woman's singing thou werfc mute, O sonnet^ born of us in sunnier lands ! Think, how the Singing-woman .trooped in bands To seek the greenwood, dancing to the flute ! Hast thou forggt tho refrain dissolute? The circling dance, tho chant, the ivied ** wands ? Sonnet, a thousand years ago to-day Thou wast indeed the wild instinctive song That women chanted for the Feast of May! But no\y,, O solemn mirror of tho mind, Now it is I am Weak, and thou art strong, Keep me a coign of clearness and bo kind ! ''• — Madame Darmesteter. "Retraspect : And Other Poems." / AT MALPLAQUET. ["Tho battle of Malplaquet" (September Hth, 1709) "ono of tho bloodiest ever fought by morlnl men. Little is known of the details of tho fighting, these being swallowed up in the shades tot the forest. — All that is certain is that neither side gavo quarter, and that the combat was not only fierce but savage." — "A History of tho British Army," by tho Hon. J. W. Forlescue, Vol. 1., p. 525.] It is very etill and cold in tho wood, In the wood by Blaregnies, vßut the smell of, -the earth is rich and good, And tho grass grows strong and free. Beyond and away on the slanting leld, Whore tho lily banners blew, Where tho gay Guards broke and the "Household" reeled, And the scarlet horse drove through, The labourer eings in, tho fallow ways, And the tinkling streamlets run, And the face of the land is all ablaze With the brave September sun. \ But hero in the wood it is still and cold, In tho wood by Blarognies, And the silent dead deep under the mould, How still and how cold they be ! Oh ! pray for the souls of them that are not, , ■> Tread soft in tho tangled brake ,, ; And dowif in the dell where, the red leaves rot Speak low* for tho dead men's 6ake ; For the dead men's sake that grappled, and swayed, And stumbled, and stabbed, and slashed - Over fosse and fence, through thicket and glade, While the round balls ripped ihd crashed, iVTill the tall trees rocked in the tortured air, And the leaves fell parched and sere, And the timid creatures that harboured thero Fled forth in a panic of fear ; And nobody knows if the deeds they did Wore fitter for praise or blame; The splendour of valour itself was* hid, . And the ntfmeless things of shame. There wore tboso that whimpered and thoso that cursed, Thero vvere thoso that prayed to die, And the frenzied laugh, and the moan of thirst, And the scream of agony. * In a myriad murmur si pains and fears. From tho dark grove- rose and fell, As calls to the sorrowing angels' ears The sob of tho sea of hell. Thero was blood in the ruts of trampled mud, , , There was blood on root and bough, And coppice and covert ran red with blood — ' They are green and glossy now. It is very still and cold in the' wood, In the wood by Blaregnies, But tho smell of tho earth is rich and good, " I And tho grass grows" strong and free. —Frank Taylor. Spectator. AT NIGHT— A VIOLIN. Thou hast, soul mine, brought gentle comforting Since we, held by the sombre, spell Of wind and rain and evening bell, Leaned to the darkness, wailing, listening: Tho tall black houses, too, meseemed did wait Till, whore a window opened bright /Its square of- gold upon the night, A violin began, low, nussionate, A charmed theme so wilding 6trango and sweet, So magical a melody, It summoned, wistful spirit, theo, A starward pilgrim through the stormy bjeak street, To fair wide gardens in a, dream-bound Spain By music conjured, tone on tone, Fountain and bower and carved stone, Lost now in wind and rain, toft drip of rain. —Wanda Petrunkovitch. Outlook '(New York).

The youthful author pocketed his rejected verses, but he could not swallow tho editor's criticism. "Sir," said he, not without dignity, "a poot is born, not made!" "Young man, ' returned the editor blandly, "it won't help your case to try to shift the blame on to your parents 1" ' >