ESSAYS IN VERSE.

Evening Post, Volume LXXXII, Issue 25, 29 July 1911, Page 13

ESSAYS IN VERSE.

THE FLOWING TIDE OF PEACE. (Quoted by the Primes Ministei at the Guildhall, London.) Say not "the 6t niggle naught availeth, The labour and the wounds_ are vain, The pneray faints not bor faileth, And as things have been they re« main." . < For though the tired waves vainly breaking Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far off, through creeks and inlets makiflg, Comes silent, flooding in the main. And not through eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly ! But westward, see, the land is brig&t. —Arthur Hugh Clough. OUR LADY'S GLASS. A carrier had jogged on all day With his wine cart thro' the forest way. To Aix-la-Chapelle his steps were bent, To the Emperor's Court and Parliament. The cart was heavy, and loaded well With wine of the Rhine and the Moselle. But of ever the mid-day hour was past, In a deep, deep rut the cart stuck fast. The carrier toiled long hours in. vain, He could not mov& it for all his pain. He paused in his fruitless task, and there Stood the Mother oi God, bo pale and fair. , Marvellous was she to look upon, It seemed that the sunbeams thro' her shone. Faint and weak was her voice so sweet, From her jouvney thro' the noontide heat. "Carrier, toil on, but _ pour toe first A glass of the white wine for my thirst." "Fain would I, Lady, but here alas ! In the wood is neither cup nor glass." By the way, like glasses from which to drink, Twined the white bell-flowers streaked with pinlc. The Mother of God took one of them By its twining stalk fof a wine-glass stem. As she held the fairy goblet fine, The carrier filled it With soft white wine. From the pink and white convolvulus cup The Mother of God drank the white wine up, I She smiled her thanks as her draught was done, And straight from its rut the cart moved on. Still, for the wonder that there did pass, Men call the bell-flower "Our Lady's Glass." — R. L. Gales. Westminster Gazette. THE GRAVE OF CARE. We buried Card in an open grave. And high, as we tamped the sods, The laugh and the song and the cheer we gave Rang out to the Hill of Gods. We buried Care with a right good will And never a sigh gave we, And over the mound we danced our fill And planted the seeds of glee. It's many a day since the seeds were sown In a single mirthful hour, And up from the mo*uld they all have grown With many a charming flow'r, There are Blossoms of Cheerfulness, Buds of Mirth, Sprigs of tho Merry Heart; There arc perfumed flow'rs of tho Joy of Earth And blooms of the Better Part. We water them all as they grow and grow With the tears of our revelry, And hour by hour they nod and blow To the beautiful sunlit sea. So eing, oh, sing mo a carefree sc-ftg ' And take lne^l wot hot where, So the sun bo warm and the day be long And the flow'rs on the grave of Core. ~*C. L. Armstrong. Smart Set. i BALLADE OF WANDERLUST. (To a burden of George Meredith's.) Now the sea-iyinds blow, now tho spring tides swell, Now a new moon summons me, thin and bright: For a tops'l schooner that I know well Is breasting the rip in the Straits tonight. And it's oh, to be out where the currents With tho mains'l reefed, and the white wake flying, Under the, beam of the Brothers Light— Yes, little girl, and it's no use crying I Oh, to be out where the coasters are— Weather brace taut and lee brace slack— Beating up for a nine-mile bar Where the signaU beckon across the wrack— Or going about on ft. shortened tack To an off-shore gust in the tops'ls dying, While the wheel spins round and the wheel spins backYes, little girl, and it's no use crying J I know the message the soa-winds spell, And the world-old lure of the seabirds' flight, And the good blue-water yarns they tell Of man's adventure, and ocean's might : And it's oh, to bo tossed in an open bight, Where tho hookers I know of old are plyFar from the shore and its dead delight 1 Yes, little girl, and it's no use crying ! Calls of the sea ate sounding far ; Oh, but I'm weariful, whiles I lack Whistling rigging, and creakifig sparBowlines' rattlo, and stays'l's crack. Out of the midnight's gold and black The call has come that there's no denying, And I must follow the seagulls' track—Yeß, little girl, and it's no use crying ! -*C, Maoriland. The Bulletin.