POETRY, OLD AND NEW.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLVI, Issue 14148, 25 August 1909, Page 9

POETRY, OLD AND NEW.

STUMPS AND SLUMPS. Another bad beating! Australia's defeating Hie mother who gave her birth, And folks are inquiring In tones that are tiring What English cricket is worth. If exports arc truthful, A trifle iioore youthful Should be the selected man. 'Tis " Riflns before polish 1" And we, should abolish The inveterate veteran. —The World. THE BED OF ROSES. The world is a bed of rosea, The roots are sunk in belt, The blossoms rear to heaven, The thorns are long and fell. A yokeQ comes with a sickle And friewg with heavy scorn, And reap? a. mingled harvest Of petal, stalk, and thorn. But a poet waits unnoticed Anew the trampled bed, And waters it and watches Till a rose-bud lifts its head. And then he plucks it quickly, And quickly steals awav, For the yokel comet lusty For another harvest clay. The poet showeth no man The rose-bud next his heart, But praiseth it in story,. • And the story men call art. R. T. Chandler, PANTOUM OF, THE MORNING WATCH. The blue-black arching dome of sky, The countless stars, our ceiling make; The coast shows dimly to the eye. Our ship is in the squadron's wake. The countless stars our ceiling make, The soft sea bears us on its breast. Our ship is in the squadron's wake— A black shape, phosphorescence-dressed. The soft sea bears us on. its breast O'er billows shot with silver sheen— A black shape, phosphorescence-dressed, Astern of others, dimly seen. O'er billows shot with silver sheen— The setting moon's reflected beams— Astern of others.. dimly seen, We chase their stern-lights' heaving gleams. The setting moon's reflected beams Touching the wavelets on the deep. We chase their stern-light's heaving gleams; The day stirs from its shaken sleep. Touching the wavelets on the deep. The twilight, faintly seen, is here; The day stirs from its shaken sleep, O'er the sea's edge pale rays appear. The twilight, faintly seen, is here, The watchful sentry strikes the hour; O'er the sea's edge pale rays appear, The dawn shows up the lighthouse tower. The watchful sentry strikes the hourThree bells!— stars fade just the least; The dawn shows up the lighthouse tower, And streaks of gold break in the east.

Three bells! The stars fade just the least, The coast shows sharper to the eye, And streaks of gold break, in the east, The blue-black arching dome of sky. JULIAN TENISON, in Chambers' Journal.

BETWEEN-TIME POEMS. Mr. Oliver Davies comes before us with a volume of poems marked by that rarest of qualities, individuality. There is more than a touch of mysticism in much of his work, and occasionally the conciseness at which he evidently aims results in a want of clarity. Pew of his pieces exceed a score of lines m length, and the lines are often of the briefest. Here are the closing stanzas of a poem entitled "Repentance":— I met an ancient beggar; Would I had kissed his cheek, And given bread and honey To help him, worn so weak. I met a foolish lordling; . Would I had tamed his pride. And showed him his dishonour. And all he lacked beside. So, had I done my duty, I still at eve should see The stars that, taught my childhood How wondrous man might be. I still had strolled high places, Unscorched of flames of Hell, And thanked the God Who made me For making me so well. Even in lines so brief as to suggest singsong Mr. Davies manages to maintain the dignity of a theme without allowing it to degenerate into jingle. Here is a joyous song of "Exaltation":— Within my mind The light has shone; •Wherefore denned The path goes on. Unto my ears The stars have sung; Wherefore my fears Aside are flung. Joy in the day, ,-.••„- Joy in the night, Blessing alway Hope and delight. ■Plain to my eyes The path ascends. It cleaves the skies But nowhere ends. A kind of mystic. optimism seems to Inform much of this work, that and " the love of love" of which a greater poet has sung. It is brief emotions, passing thoughts, sudden moments of insight that seem to move Mr. Davies to expression in verse, and if now and: again his instinct- for verbal reticence makes his expression obscure, there is enough in his volume to impress us with the hope that we shall see further and yet better work from his pen. <