ESSAYS IN VERSE.

Evening Post, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 23, 27 January 1912, Page 19

ESSAYS IN VERSE.

THE SONG-MAKER ' . I made ft hundred little, songs , Tnat told the joy .and pain of love, And eang them blithely', tho' I knew No whit theVeof. ' ' , 1 was a weaver deaf and. blind ; ' , A miracle was wf ought for rae, But I have lost' my skill to, weave, _ • Since I can see. > For while T cang — ah, ewift and strange 1. Love passed and touched me" on the brov#, 'And I who mide- gd many . 'songs '• :.•■ / -Am Bilefrii' nowi „*•> ' ' •" t \- '*' •;,';" I; "'r=S^eik' TAsdalei ' |- '• ; . ' 'ttokANOßv" '"■ - As I oanie- down, the" Higligate' Hill, ' Tho Highgttte Hill, the flighgate Hill,' ' As I cAine' down* the High'gatG Hill ■ I met the ' Bun's -bravaaoi'' l^ • - . And taw .below $16, told tin fold, '.' Grey to.pekrl, and pearl to gold,. :, Thi* London like. a' land, 'pf old,''* The land of eldorado. ' ' ' Oh. Drake, he Was a sailot bold, And Frobisher, Siv Walter, too, But nfe'er they saw go rich % realm 4e this that lny before us, ' ' Mtthinks they strode beside me (Sjtill, , Blood of my blood, down Highgate Hill, Me thinks they felt the self-same thrill And sang tht self-same chorus. ' And Keats he joined us half-way down — Keats the chemist, Keats the olerk, ' Oh, Keatß, he joined t» half-way down, 1 And laughed our lusty laughter. And hailed with us the far lagoons, The mystic groves, the hid doUbloons, | And all the passionate, splendid noons, And the feasts that fall thereafter. As arm in arm down HTghgaie Hill, Down Highgate Hill, down Highgftte Hill,' As arm in arm down Highgate Hill, We met the sun's bravado. Arid b&w below us, fold on fold, Grey to toeai'l, and pearl to gold, Otir London, like" a land of old, The land of pldofado. — H. H. Baehford. Spectator. . ' THE llilßT.. I His heUrt's a haibour, smooth and lair, But dangerous to win, Aii'i pietty little passing ships ' Take anchorage therein. But when they've nestled close in shore, And safely think to stay, He cuts their cables one by one, And lets them drift away. —Esther Wilkinson. AGE. Thou art the recompense of fretful years ; The compensation for the burdens borne Through striving dayd. The lens through which wo gaze Pant heights undreamed through all our purblind youth. The anaesthetic deadening memory To vain imaginings of earlier years. Attaining thee with all' thy attributes Tho soul may reach, the silvered peaks of peace , And purity, whdre all discordant sound From lower levels hath become a blend Of perfect harmony. Thy joys are those 1 Of true reality; though fewer yet More perfect than the joys of eager youth. —James Henry MacLaffer'ty.