AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1213, 31 May 1895, Page 15

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

MERRY AUTUMN. Golden woodland, sea-blue sky, Crests of cloud-waves tossed on high; Bouncing breezes, lustrous showers, .Leaves and berries gay as flowers. Purple, storms in rainbow belt, Morning frosts that flash and melt; Dawns arrayed in gorgeous light, Dazzled earth in motley dight. Robins flute a sprightly tune, " Orchards glow with apples strewn; • Sunbeams bless the gathered sheaves, Children chase the skipping leaves ; Buds grow plump in glossy sheath— . "Who dare call this rapture death ? ' Autumn's neither sick nor sad ; Spring's begotten ; God is glad. —Alfred Hayes in the Spectator. TO " PROWL," MY CAT. You are life's true philosopher, An epicure of air and sun, An egoist in sable fur, To whom all moralists are one. You hold your race traditions fast, — While others toil, you simply live, And, based upon a stable past, Remain a sound conservative ! You see the beauty of the world Through eyes of unalloyed content, Arid, in my study chair upcurled, Move me to pensive wonderment! I wish I knew your trick of thought, The perfect balance of your ways ; They seem an inspiration caught From other laws in older days. Your padded footsteps prowl my room Half in delight and half disdain ; You like this air of studious gloom When streets without are cold with rain ! Some day, alas! you'll come to die, And I shall lose a constant friend ; You'll take your last look at the sky And be a puzzle to the end ! C.K.B. in the Spectator. THE BUSH CAVALIER. The still silent bush and the wide yellow plain, The gaunt weird white gum trees that stud the lone creek, Have a charm which elsewhere you may look for in vain, Have a language which Nature has taught them to speak; And the sweet wattle bloom with its fragrance is dear To the heart of each wandering bush cavalier. The plains and the mountains, the creeks and the trees.

All. Nature's great book filled with wondrous lore, Are the pages most loved and most studied by those Who live far away from the city's great roar, Who lie down to sleep with the stars overhead, A saddle their pillow, the brown turf their bed.

When the thunder of thousand hoofs makes the ground tremble With the rush of. the scrubbers across the wide plain, There's a rapture which no other joy can resemble In racing to head them and wheel them again ; For the stockrider knows neither danger nor fear, And Avhat jockey can ride like our bush cavalier P When the great orb of day has just sunk in the. west, Suffusing the sky with its warm afterglow, Ah ! that is the time when the bushman loves best To tell of the deeds ho has done long ago. And the rays from the camp fire shine out in the night, All tongues are unloosed and all pipes are alight. When the first rays of ruby light flush the gray morning l , And can the [blue hills with a mantlo of gold, Ere the last star of night is lost in the gloaming, The billy is boiling, the swags are all rolled, And before half the world have yet welcomed the day The knights of the saddle are riding away. So wandering, wassailing, oftenest working, Nob always moody, and not always gay, Yet never a hardship nor grim danger shirking, But joking and loving and riding away ; For the wild roving life with its hardships is dear To the heart of each wandering bush cavalier. So fill up your glasses and drain a big bumper To the free careless knights of the pigskin and spur, With a little one in for each saucy buckjumper That can cause such a knight from the saddle to stir. And all old overlanders will honour you here, And drink to the health of the bush cavalier. —" OLD OVEKLANDEK,," In the Queenslander.

THE LAND OP MY DREAMS. 0 spaoious, splendid Land that no man knows, Whose mystery as the tidelcss sea is deep, Whose beauty haunt 3 me in the courts of sleep ! What whispering wind from thy hid garden blows, Sweet with the breath of Love's celestial rose P What fields hast thou that mortal may not reap P What soft enchantment do those meadows keep Through which Life's bright unfathomod river flows ? 1 can resist thy charm when noon is high ; Mine ears are deafened while earth's clamours rave ; But now the sun has set, the winds are low, And night with her proud company draws nigh, Thy spell prevails, thy mystic joys I crave — Land of my Dreams, I will arise and go. —Louise Chandler Moulton. In the Atlantic Monthly.

WITHIN. To fail in finding gifts, and still to give, To count all trouble ease, all loss as gain, To learn in dying as a self to live— This dost thou do, and seek thy joy in pain ? Rejoice that not unworthy thou art found For love to touch thee with his hand divine; Put off thy shoes, thou art on holy ground ; Thou standest on the threshold of his shrine. But canst thou wait in patience, make no . sign, _ And where in power thou faii'st—oh, not in will — See sore need served by other hands than thine, And other hands the dear desires fulfil, Hear others gain the thanks that thou woud'st win, Yet be all joy ? Then hast thou entered in. —Anna C. Hackett In Harper's Magazine.