AT THE SIGH OF THE LYRE.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1424, 15 June 1899, Page 22

AT THE SIGH OF THE LYRE.

(By Thomas Hardy.)

I LOOK INTO MY GLASS.

I look into my glass, And view my wasting skin, And say: “Would God it ; came to pass My heart had -shrunk as thin !’’ For then, 1, undistrest By hearts cold grown to me, Could lonely wait my endless rest With equanimity. But Time, to make me grieve, Fart steals, lets part abide; And shakes this fragile frame at eve. With throbhings of noontide.' MELISSA. (By Given Grey.) My lady walks, with footsteps light, Among the dewy grasses, With webs of gossamer bedight, Nor bends them 'when the passes. Her hair is honey-golden. Brown Her eyes, as, on the mountains, The litHe streams that bicker down The slope, in laughing fountains. Her brew is whiter_than the- mccn, Upon the ocean dreaming. Her cheeks are like the rose of June, Among the lilies gleaming. Her bosom is the hawthorn enow Upon the scented hedge®. Her sighs, like summer winds that blow. Across the spicy sedges. To flower, and stream, to earth, and air, _ Men once their gods assigned; . . I worship her alone, and there My whole panthec-n find. VOLAPUK. Take a spoonful of English, A modicum of Dutch, Of Italian just a- trifle, And of Gaelic rot too much; Some Russian and Egyptian And then unto the whole With just enough of favour Of the lingo of the Pole. Some Cingalese and Hottentot; A soupcon, too, of French, Of native Scandinavian A pretty thorough drench; Hungarian and Syriac, An inch of Japanese, With just as much Ojibbeway And Turkish as you please. Now stir it gently, boil it well, And if you’ve decent luck, The ultimate residuum You’ll find is Volapulr. —London “ Answers." CAMP LIFE. Singing ballads, playing cards, Eating sidemeat, running guards; Marching, drilling, exercising, Lying ’round philosophising;" Digging ditches, learning tactict, Standing guard until your back aches; Doing laundry, picking trash up; Cleaning camp and dishing hash up; Cooking pork and taking baths, Eating hardtack, cleaning paths; Getting yellow as a tanyard. Wondering when we’ll meet the Spaniard;’ Getting letters from cur folks, Snoozing, boozing, cracking jokes; Thinking of the folks—if not them, Then of sweethearts—those who’vfe • got them; . • f Reading papers, reading books; Fa stiff g, grumbling, ‘‘cussing’’ cooks; Writing letters, cleaning tents up, In our trousers sewing rents up;* Stewing, growling, fretting, fussing, Kicking, howling, working, “cussing;" Drilling like old-time cadets, Smoking pipes and cigarettes; Telling stories, making wishes. Splitting woood and washing dishe-e; Turning in at sound c-f “ taps,” Spouting verse and shooting craps; Wanting fight with Spain’s '“ eonceitoe,’” Getting it with big mosquitoes; Taking quinine, sick or'Well, Castor oil or calomel; Running out to see the “ dummies,” Calling one another “rummies;’’ Getting up at 5 o’clock, Wanting fight and hearing tqik ; Thinking we are not in clover, Wondering when the war’ll be over. —“Boston Post.”

WHILE THE KETTLE-SINGS. . When open the door swings and Some One comes in. The roses of winter on cheek and on chin, Her curly locks loosened, hex features ablow, And sits herself down in the firelight’s glow, It’s little she dreams as she sips her Bohea That envy is taking possession of me! Her muff—why, the eyes on it roguishly wink At me till, distracted, hew can I but think What luck is in store for that monster of fur Bound home through the still, snowy twilight with her, hold; hold; The closer, the surer to keep out the cold. The bubble of china —thin, delicate pink— She tilts with a glance at me over the brink. Has malice prepense in the lingering way It touches her lips, just as much as to say Provokinglv. gibingiy: “Talk about bliss! What would’t you give for a chance to do this?” Yes, even the dragon that’s carved on her chair Grins mischievously at the sight of her there, With rude oaken arms round about her, while I Must wistful and longing stand patietly by, And count it sweet favour accorded to rne To pass up her cup for a little more tea! r—M.E.W.j “ Life/’