Select Poetry.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 271, 7 April 1877, Page 3

Select Poetry.

at two score. The leafless branches snap with cold ; The niebt is still, the winds are laid ; And you are sitting, as of eld, Beride my hearthstone, heavenly maid ! What would have chanced me all these years, As man and boy, had you not come And brought me gifts of smiles and tears From your Olympian home ? « mjje blackest cloud that ever lowers”- - You sang when I was most forlorn—“lf we but watch some patient hours, Takes silver edges from the mom.” Thanks for the lesson ; thanks for all, Not only for the ambrosia brought, But for those drops which fell like gall Into the cup of thought. Dear Muse, 'tis twenty years or more Since that enchanted, fairy time When you came tapping at my door, Your reticule stuffed full of rhyme. What strange things have befallen, indeed. Since then ! who has the time to say What bards have flowered (and gone to seed)— Immortal for a day ! We’ve seen pretence with cross and crown, And folly caught in self-spun toils ; Merit content to pass unknown And honor scorning public spoils— Seen Bottom wield the critic's pen While Ariel sang in sun-lit cloud : Sometimes we wept, and now and then We could but laugh aloud. And once we saw—ah, day of woe ! The lurid fires of civil war. The blue and grey frocks laid a-row, . s And many a name rise like a star W. lo shine in splendor evermore. A 1 The fiery flood swept hill and plain, 11 But clear above the battle’s roar Bang slavery’s falling chain. With pilgrim staff and sandal-shoon, One time we sought the Old World shrines; Saw Venice lying in the moon, The Jungfrau and the Apennines; Behind the Tiber rolling dark. Rent temples, fanes, and gods austere— In English meadows heard the lark That charmed her Shakspere’s ear: What dreams and visions we have had, What tempests we have weathered through 1 Been rich and poor, and gay and sad, But never hopeless—thanks to you. A draught of water from the brook, Or “ alt Hochheimer” —it was one ; Whatever fortune fell we took— Children of shade and sun. Through lacking gold we never stooped To pick it up in all our days ; Though lacking praise we sometimes drooped, We never asked a soul for praise. The exquisite reward of song Was song—the selfsame thrill and glow Which to unfolding flowers belong, And wrens and thrushes know. I tried you once—the day I wed : Dear Muse, do you remember how You rose in haste, and turned and fled. With sudden-knitted, scornful brow ? But you relented, smiled, at last Returned, and, with your tears half-dried—-“Ah well, she cannot take the Past, . ~ ■ Though she have all beside !" H l ' ■ What gilt-winged hope 3 have taken flight, - f l And dropped like Icarus in mid-sky ! •'? ? What cloudy days have turned to bright! What sad sweet years have flitted by ! jjf ’ What lips we loved vain memory seeks ! What hands are cpld that once pressed ours ! What lashes rest upt n the cheeks Beneath the snows and flowers ! jjjl We would not wish them back again, L The way is rude from here to there, H For us the short-lived joy and pain; ■ ■ 1 :• L For them the endless rest from care, » The crown, the palm, the deathless youth | We would not wish them back—ah no ! ■j And as for us, dear Muse, in truth, H! We’ve but half way to go. §§! — Harper's Magazine.