The Poet’s Corner.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1013, 31 July 1891, Page 4

The Poet’s Corner.

LIFE’S LESSONS. Into each heart the evil thoughts will steal, And rob the beauty from the purest life, Leaving the soul with bitter sorrow rife, And causing wounds that time can scarcely heal.

No chain in stronger than its weakest link ; lu word aud deed we build for good or ill, A sudden strain will swerve the stoutest will, Our acts no better ttan the thoughts we think.

We fall, but rise again if we but seek New courage, and a higher ideal live. Each failure use to step above, and give New hope and trusting faith to lieartß still weak.

Thus, day by day, life’s lessons we are tancht. In weakness gaining strength of mind and heart, Heady to speak the words and act the part Of heroes who a lifelong light have fought.

THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR. Whose steps are those ? Who comes so late ‘ Let me come in, the door unlock.’ 'Tis miduight now ; my lonely gate I open to no stranger’s knock.

< Who art thou ? Speak !’ ‘Men call me Fame To immortality I lead,' • Pass, idle phantom of a name.’ * Listen again, and now take heed.

’Twas false. My names are Song, Love, Art. My Poet, now unbar the door.’ Ait’s dead, Song cannot touch my heart. My once Love’s name I chant no more.’

Open then now, for see I stand, Riches my name, with endless gold, Gold, and your wish in either hand.’ ‘ Too late —my youth you still withhold.’

‘ Then if it must be, since the door Stand shut, my last true name do know, Men call me Death. Delay no more : I bring the cure of every woe.’

The door flies wide. ‘ Ah, guest so wan, Forgive the poor place where I dwell ; An ice-cold hearth, a heartsick man, Stand here to welcome thee full well.’ THE VOICELESS. We count tho broken lyres that rest V/liere the sweet wailing singers slumber— But o’er their silent singers’ breast The wild flowers who will stoop to number ? A fow can touch the magic spring, And noisy Famo is proud to win thorn : Alas for thoso who never sing. But die with all their music in them ! Nay, grieve not for the dead alone. Whose song has told their heart’* sad story— Weep Tor the voiceless, who have knowD The cross without the crown of glory ! Not whore Leucadion breezes sweep O’er Sappho’B memory-haunted billow, But where the glittering night dews weep On nameless sorrow’s"churchyard pillow. O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses. Till death pours out his cordial wine Slow-dropped from Misery’s crushing presses— If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang was given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad aa earth, as sweet as heaven