ESSAYS IN VERSE

Evening Post, Volume LXXIX, Issue 113, 14 May 1910, Page 13

ESSAYS IN VERSE

GYPSY CROON. Croon! croon! cuddle and croon! Little star-eyes will bo sleeping soon ; Hi 3 cradlo swings from tho forest pine, Two white stars for his candles shine; His lamp is the risen moon. And his pillow is fair and tine. Croon ! croon ! cuddle and croon ! Little star-eyes will be sleeping soon. Swing! swing! slumber and swing! Little star-eyes is a mighty king. Round him. his measureless kingdom' lies, Wide as the wind and high as the skies, And the winds caress him, and sing Musical, magical lullabies. Swing ! swing ! slumber and swing, Little star-eyes is a mighty king. Dream ! dream ! drowsily dream ! Little star-eyes has crost the stream, Little soft winds come, nestle and creep, Little shy stars come, twinkle and peep, Above him the great stars gleam ; But he plays on tho shores of sleep ; Dream ! dream ! drowsily dream ! Little star-eyes has crost the stream. — Maud Peacocke. "Songs of the Happy Isles." THE BUD. "In the depth of winter tiny red pointe, the beginning of leaf-buds, may be found on the leafless trees." "This was tho text," he said, "Of a sermon preached to me"j Touched with his finger the red Leaf-bud on a leafless tree. "Yea, for this tiny thing, Red ppeck, that I show you here, Is the beating heart of Spring In the dry bones of the Year."One was my all, and died, And faith lay dead in his grave, No praying, no praise, I cried : He took back all that He gave. The elm stood black in snow, And black in the snow stood I: And thought in my rage of woe, God laughed at His creature's cry. Death in my barren soul: And death in the elm-tree bare ;; Then sunset flamed in the bole, And I saw the red bud there. "Nothing I slay but Death : » Nor take, but I give again" : God spake- to me under His breath, And He did not heal my pain. But in my wintry grief, And straight on my frozen sorrow, There quickened the pulse — Belief, There crimsoned tho bud — To-morrow. In the Book of the Lord, The sky, and the earth, and: sen, I kisfc the verse of His word, Tho bud on the winter tree—M. Brotherton. The above verses, found 1 on the author's wriling-tablo after her death, aro published in the Spectator. Mrs. Brotherton, who died on 25th January, at the age of nearly niriety, was a remarkable- woman, tho friend of Thackeray, the Brownings, Lord Tennyson, Frederick Tennyson, LadyRitchie, G. F. Watts, and others distinguished in art and literature. For over fifty years she lived in retirement at the Isle of Wight, and suffered much from illhealth. She was a writer of essays and stories, and all her life wrote poems full of real snwio and deep feeling. Among ; her published, writings aro "Old. Acquaintances" (1874-) and "Rosemary for Remem- j brance" (1895). • ; THE INFINITE. ! Nay, then, poor man. If science fright theo with its bold array of barren truths Face it as boldly and ehout against its shrieks, "You have not in your soul the measure of all things. You have but borrowed things to measure jour own soul." If, weary one, Men come, to you withtlife, God., and .universe plain writ upon a parohment, Saying they bring before your eyes the awful soul of tho infinite made manifest, , Say to tbsm, softly, 'gainst their hard, discordant words, "There's not tlie soul of God that you've unrolled, 'Tis pitiful and poor. See ! 'Tia your own poor minds. P.C.B. Wellington. SONNET. Forth from the window of my eoul I sent The Raven, Pride-of-Lifo and Lustof-the- j eye. Who, croaking, flapped to windward ; nor could I Discern at first what wastrel way ho went ; But he across the lowering firmament Flew to and fro, until he could espy Flesh on the waters borne, or stranded high ; And came not home, on carrion business bent. And all was dark, and hope was but a name. Till at a Voice's bidding, from my hand Fluttered the little pinions of a Dove, Who long returned not, but, at last, she came ; And all was lit \\ ith promise of firm land, For in her beak sho held the flower of love. —Eric Clough Taylor, Westminster Gazette. RIVALS. Wid her shnailo that is wishtful and pad, Wid her hand foldeo^ close liko a wing, Wid her blue eyes so Ihroubled and wide, She waits for tho letter I bring. Wid a laugh and a toss ay the head She blows me a kiss from the wall ; But the letther she holds to her breast. And she's weepin' at nothin' at all ! And she'll sob and she'll brood on a scrawl From this habbage gone many a year:— While she stabs me wid kisses and shmiles, But crowns mc not wanst wid a tear! — Arthur Stringer. The Bellman.