ESSAYS IN TERSE.

Evening Post, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 77, 30 March 1912, Page 13

ESSAYS IN TERSE.

CARPET. "Receive from him my_ greyhound, Carpet, the whioh keep 6traitly by your side, and do not buffer him to go to the chase with any one, for he obyes neither call nor whistle, uud therefore would be as good as lo6t, which to me would be a great pain." — Letter from Agnes Sorel, 144t>. There's nothing iv the state of Franco Tha6 Carpet does not know, He'e challenged a Burgundian lance And sniffed a Proluty s toe. But Carpet, O my Carpet, Ho listens to no voice But that which swayed a severed realm And bade a King rejoice. There's not a plot on. foot these day* Which Carpet does not smell, There's nut a secret he betrays, For Carpet does not tell. But Carpet, O my Carpet, He chooses for his bed Tho beating heart a king has marked To rest a crowned head. About his noble neck I wound A collar of pure gold — A gift a sometimes lover found Upon a warrior cold — For beauty has a passing spell, And love is all too fleet, But not the love of he who lives A Oarpet for my feet Already where my look was law, And where my touch was flame, The King has turned him from my door To breathe another name. But Carpet, O my Carpet, The Pope of Rome mipht call; He would not stir you when you lie A-sleeping in my hall. And when the peaceful sign they trace The silent heart above, * And when they cover up this face That lived and shone for love, If one there breathes, who owes my sake A brief felicity, Take Carpet, lest his heart should break And comfort him for me. —Viola M. Wood. AN ARABESQUE. Vulcan stood at his anvil Wielding and twisting his pliant bars; From bis blows the eparks in a riotous race Like white-hot snow flew down through epaca Till men who read celestial runes Cried, "Thousands of planets, meteors, moona, Thousands of stars I" Venus walked in her garden Flinging blown roses that . fell at her feet ; They flashed, and the crimson petals spun Wavering, whirling, onb by one Till thsy touched the world in their long, slow fall, And lovers whispered, "Love, thou art all, Love, thou art sweet!" Men and women and children Play and weep, and work and die ; Nothing matters but love and deathLaughter may be but wasted breath, Tearß, the idle drops that brim When through the twilight, lone and dim The sad hours fly. Yet, let us laugh, O Vulcan, Proud and high in thy smithy pent!' Venus, we gather thy fallen flowers, Build of their beauty fairy bowers Wherein no soul's 'love withereth ; Bend us laughter, or tews, or death, We are content. -Wilfrid F. Randall. I Academy. DIANA OF THE EPHESIANS. Hour after hour, when the tidings came, They called on the great Diana's name; A loud and a long defence they made Of a threatened creed, and a threatened trade, ' Of the faith that their fathers knew and taught, And the craft that was like to be brought tv naught. New faiths, new crafts, new creeds may be, But Great is Diana — Great is she. So is it yet, when the old things pom, Ac the sands run down, run- down in the glass, ' Still in the forefront, still with ' ue, Are the noisy zealots from Ephesue, The men who would check Advancement's paca By a series of shouts in the market-place, The men who stand on 'the ancient ways, Loudly singing Diana's praise. Your iron steeds through the outting scream, But where is the Highflyer's famous team? In an idle column the hansomß stand, While your taxi whizzes you down the Strand ; And everywhere, always, by the way Lies the worn-out wisdom of yesterday,, ' The craftsmen who laboured and lived in state, In dayß when. Diana was reckoned great. O Catoß, figting at hopeless odds Against the causeß that please the Gods, In vain, in vain through the streets you cry Your images nobody wants to buy, In vain you chant to the heedless earth Of Diana's power, and Diana's worth, For the movement follows the usual lines, And there's no more money in silver shrines. —Alfred Oochrane. Spectator.