SELECTED VERSE

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1508, 24 January 1901, Page 33

SELECTED VERSE

©■ » THE VILLAGE CHURCH. It stands, gray-towered and ivyclad, The guardian of a peaceful spot; Heedless of ritualistic fad, As in old days of popish plot. And marks its years, for still below The mouldings of the porch are seen The smooth-worn grooves where long ago I(3tout bowmen made their arrows keen. Here, through pre-Reformation, glass, The slanting sunbeams from the west Show an esquire, on blackened brass, In richly blazoned tarband dressed; And there in stately solitude— Half-hidden in the chancel-gloom. Whose tracery casts a light subdued— The founder slumbers on his tomb. Yonder in stone a judge, whose life Was prosperous under good Queen Bess l , . * Reposes by his lady-wife, Stiff in a flounced and broidered dress ; While on the wall above their heads, Whither our eyes reluctant turn, A marble angel, stooping, sheds Her tears' above a marble urn. There lies, beyond the pulpit stair, A knight defaced by axe and blade, Whose simple-charged escutcheons bear The Cross of some remote Crusade. Haply where he lias knelt we kneel. And tread where he trod as a boy, * In days before misguided zeal Taught Cromwewirs Roundheads to destroy. How changed, and yet how changeless ton! We hearken to the self-same Word! And still that voice, unaltered through The lapse of centuries is heard; And still the same unending fight Is waged by hosts l sublime and strong, In faith unshaken, that the right Through all the world may crush the wrong. , And here, as in the days of old. Sad hearts' find something to inspireHearts that have borne like purest gold The fierce refining of the fire; And souls, that in the world have known The magic of temptation’s power. Here, struggling silent and alone. Seek courage in their darkest hour. And in the earth beneath its shade, Where sleeping generations lie, Still good and bad alike are laid, For good and bad alike must die; To rest unmoved by all around, Deaf to the ringing of the chimes, Unconscious of the drowsy sound Of bees at work among the limes. ’ So shall it stand while Time rolls on, Holding unnumbered secrets fast; Shall stand when we are dead and gone, Mere specks in the forgotten past; An heritage to young and old. To rich and poor a sacred trust. The Church, immortal, shall behold Our children’s children turned to dust. ROBERT COCHRANE. "Chambers’s Journel.” THE TYRANT OF THE HOUSE, .. V ' - --MN in- V. v;%. * • ' While baby sleeps— We cannot jump, or dance, or sing. Play jolly games, or do a thing To make a noise. The floor might creak If we should wah . We scarcely speak Or breathe, while baby takes a nap Lest we should wake the little chap! A strict watch nursie always keeps* While baby sleeps! When- baby wake®! Bat little gratitude he shows When other people want to> dose! JAt night, when folks have gone to bed, ffe rouses them all up instead. To wait on him. Ma lights the lamp, And warms milk for the little scamp! Pa walks him up and down the floor. Sometimes two hours and sometimes more ! And nurse comes running in a stew, To see what she for him can do! And Will and Harry, at the row, Call: "What’ s the matter with him now ?” And I’m waked up at all the clatter. To wonder what on earth’s the matter! Such uproar in the house ha makes, i * When baby wakes ! So if asleep, or if awake, The house exists but for his sake, And such a tiny fellow—he, ,To* be boss of this family! EVA LOVETT.

MAN’S LIFE. A thrum on the baby strings, A run on the wide sea-shore, A struggle with verbs and nouns, And childhood’s glad days are o’er. A glance at a- shy, sweet face, A walk in the verdant fields, A question by stammering tongue, And the maiden her secret yields. A morning or mornings best, A lassi to> her lover wed , A season, too brief, alone, And on to life’s' duties tread. A home with a true-love wife, A romp with the todd’ling things, A peep at their charms at night , When folded ’neath sleep’s soft wings. A giving away of the brides, A welcome to others got ; A sigh and a smile for the past, And man nears his final lot. Then hand-in-hand down the hill, All visions and dreaming o’er, With her ever trusty and true, Towards the fair, sun-lit shore. JOHN D. HARDESTY. THE CYCLISTS ALPHABET. A is the army of cycling folk. B is the Bobby, sometimes a bloke. O is the Camera cyclists’ carry. D is the Dog that makes one tarry. E is the Evening drawing nigh. F is the Fly that gets in one’s eye. G is the Grass on which w© recline. H is the hotel at which we shall dine. I is the Idiot, who brakeless rides. J is the Jolting a rough road provides. K the Kerbstone, a most useful thing. L the Lamp, we fail sometimes to bring. M are the Maladies cycling cures. N the Numbers, whose health it assures. O is the Oilcan, which often leaks. P are the Pence which the Porter seeks. Q are the Quadrupeds in one’s way. R the Railways, who' do make us pay. S is the .scorcher, at whom, we frown. T are the Thorns that let the tyre clown. U in their Union, the cyclists fined. V Victory o’er their foes l so blind. W is the Weather, ne’er long the same. X the Exercise, the cyclistsf. aim. Y are the young, just learning to ride. Z is the Zealir, may it long abide. H.W. AGAINST ALL PRECEDENT. She hacl spent three years in college and the lot of lore and knowledge She had packed within her cranium was wonderfully great, That she understood astrology, mathematics, physiology, And the art of pastel painting, there is hardly need to state. But she couldn’t make a biscuit, and his life no man would risk it, In making the attempt to eat her awful apple pies, For she baked one for her brother, and today his loving mother, * Mc-urns for her son so soon cut off and wafted to the skies. But her homely cousin Mary was exactly the contrary, Though she didn’t stand so very high in knowledge or in looks, When it came to making dinners, she was classed among the winners. And she’s made a reputation as a queen of cunning cooks. Now it happened that next, summer after she’d come back to “mommer,” To the village came a fellow who was quite a "daisy mash.’’ He was only six-and-twenty, and had stock and bond in plenty, While his air was most distinguished, as was also his moustache. He came, he saw, he tarried, and in course of time he married— But it’s only in the story Look that worth’s rewarded well. For he farmed a federation with the maid of education, And Miss Mary now is cooking at a second rate hotel.