POETRY OLD AND NEW.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LI, Issue 15518, 28 January 1914, Page 12

POETRY OLD AND NEW.

UNATTAINED. Deal gently with us, ye who read I ■ -Our largest hope is unfulfilled; The promise still outruns the deed; Ihe tower, but not the spire, we build. •Our whitest pearl we never find. Our ripest fruit we never reach; The flowering moments of tie mind Lose half their petals in our speech. —OUVBII WBNDBLIi Homos. GHOST SHIPS, A warm wind creeps up the long lagoon. Where the lover's barque mocks the prying moon, And a swift light searches the, sleeping bay As the great white steamer slips away, Her course sure-Compassed, her flag unfurled, Her haven the door of the wide West world. Behind the bay lies the roystering town, Where the oath goes up and the drink goes down, Where living is lawless and love is rare, Where lust takes license and fraud sets

snare; ■ • Where the church-tower shadows the bawdy inn. And the sputtering street lamps wink at sin. From the headalnd see gaunt squadrons pass. While the warm wind whispers among the grass, Their Bails of the floating mists are made. And they glide to the Bast in gloom arrayed, When the west wind drives at the death of day, And the moon-led mariner churns the spray. There's gold in the gleam of their glancing lights As they cruise round the quiet bay o' nights. There's a clean-keeled cutter, which carried Drake, Still sailing the sea for the ol dtime's sake; And yonder a clipper, coloured with blood. From the crew of Commodore Collingwood. See the white foam fly in a forward line When a ghostly hand waves a white ensign. And the grey fleet glide from the twlit shore Though it shakes no sail and it swings no oar. It furrows the face of the frothing sea, But its haven is where it used to be. The quaint old quay with its crumbling posts Is a gathering-ground for gallant ghosts, The cliffs stand guard o'er the harbour pool Where the mermaids keep hot memories cool: And the weak waves ebb and the wild waves flow, But forever the grey ships come and go. When the paddles pause and the syrens sleep. They ride in the roads while their captains

weep. When the liners struggle with straining speed They seek safe anchorage in the weed, And the sea shuts over them with a sigh For the lore that must long with their timbers lie. From cliff unto bay and from bay to pier, By moonlight they marshal from year to year, But if any should hear their crew make wail Then woe for the morrow's murderous tale, For the dead ships guard where the live ships go And signal above what they see below. —G. H. Nbttlh. A SONG OF THE WEST. The Mendir; hills lie in the West, And they see the Severn waters flow, Brown waters rolling till they rest In the grey sea below. Oh, the men of the Mendip hills are the best Of all the men I know; ■ Their days are passed on heath and crest, And they watch the waters go. The Severn waters flowing by, And the broad expanse of purple hillThere I am fain to live and die. Where hearts are simple still! Oh, there let mo live until I die. And then bury me by the hill, Where I may hear the waters cry And the nightjar singing shrill ! i; —Q. E. S&OOOKM,.