AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1247, 23 January 1896, Page 13

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

IS LIFE WORTH LIVING ? By Alfred Austin. (The New Poet Laureate.) Is life worth living P Yes, so long As Spring revives the year, And hails us with the cuckoo’s song To show that she is here ; So long as May of April takes, In smiles and tears, farewell, And wind-flowers dapple all the brakes, And primroses the dell; While children in the woodlands yet Adorn their little laps With ladysmock and violet, And daisy-chain their caps ; While over orchard daffodils Cloud shadows float and fleet, And ousel pipes and laverock trills, And young lambs buck and bleat; So long as that which bursts the bud And swells and tunes the rill Makes springtime in the maiden’s blood, Live is -worth living still.

Life not worth living ! Come with me, Now that, through vanishing veil, Shimmers the dew on lawn and lea, And milk foams in the pail; Now that June’s sweltering sunlight bathes With sweat the striplings lithe, As fall the long straight scented swathes Over the crescent scythe ; Now that the throstle never stops His self-sufficing strain. And woodbine-trails festoon the copes, 4nd eglantine the lane ; Now rustic labour seems as sweet As leisure, and blithe herds Wend homeward with unweary feet, Carolling like the birds * Now all, except the lover’s vow And nightingale, is still; Here, in the twilight hour, allow, Life is worth living still.

When Summer, lingering half-forlorn, On Autumn loves to lean, And fields of slowly yellowing corn Are girt by woods still green ; When hazel-nuts wax brown and plump, And apples rosy-red, And the owlet hoots from hollow stump, And the dormouse makes its bed; When crammed are all the granary floors, And the Hunter’s moon is bright, And life again is sweet indoors, And logs again alight; Ay, even when the houseless wind Waileth through cleft and chink, And in the twilight maids grow kind, And jugs are filled and clink ; When children clasp their hands and pray “ Be done Thy Heavenly will!’’ Who doth not lift his voice, and say, “ Life is worth living still ?”

Is life worth living? Yes, so long As there is wrong to right, Wail of the weak against the strong, Or tyranny to fight; Long as there lingers gloom to chase, Or streaming tear to dry, One kindred woe, one sorrowing face That smiles as we draw nigh ; Long as at tale of anguish swells The heart, and lids grow wet, And at the sound of Christmas bells We pardon and forget; So long as Faith with Freedom reigns, And loyal Hope survives.

And gracious Charity remains To leaven lowly lives ; While there is one untrodden tract For Intellect or Will, And men are free to think and act, Life is worth living still. Not care to live while English homes Nestle in English trees, And England’s Trident-Sceptre roams Her territorial seas ! Not live .vliile English songs are snug Wherever blows the wind, And England’s laws and England’s tongue Enfranchise half mankind! So long as in Pacific main, Or on Atlantic strand, Our kin transmit the parent strain, And love the Motherland ; So long as flashes English steel, And English trumpets shrill, He is dead already who doth not feel Life is worth living still.