AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

New Zealand Times, Volume LVII, Issue 2543, 22 June 1895, Page 1 (Supplement)

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

TUB SEA AND THE MOON. In “ A Hymn to the Sea,” a beautiful poem published by Mr William Watson in the last Yellow Book , the writer thus freshly allegorises the old attraction of the sea for the moon:— “ When, as yonder, thy mistress, at height of her mutable glories. Wise from the magical Bast, comes like a sorceress polo. Ah, she comes, she arises, —impassive, emotionless bloodless, Wasted and ashen of chock, zoning her ruins with pearl. Once she was warm, she was joyous, desire in her pulses abounding : Surely thou lovedst her well, then, in her conquering youth ! Surely not all unimpassioned, at sound of thy rough serenading, She, from the balconied night, unto her melodist leaned, — Leaned unto thee, her bondsman, who koepest to-day her commandments, All for ibo sake of old love, dead at thy heart though it lie.” A FIRST EDITION. ! Tis perfect—plates and all complete ; I came across it yesterday— Just picked it up in Oxford Street— That litt’o shop down Holboru way. I know it’s an expensive fad, I paid for it with some contrition, It cost me nearly all I had— I can’t resist a First Edition.

My years on earth are just fourscore, And I am quite as staid as Moses, And yet I sit here turning o’er A work on Women, Wine, and Roses ! Ah mo I ’Tis such a long, long while (Though sympathy is Woman’s Mission) Since any Woman cared to smile On such a shabby First Edition,

It wasn’t shabby long ago, he print was good, the binding splendid, But some folks never care, you know. For books when they are patched and mended; Still, though the student’s Lethe-sleep Has killed Remembrance and Ambition, Last night a woman’s face would creep Between me and my Fii st Edition. —New Budget. RONDEAU. In after years, when Time has laid his hand Gently uj>on your head, and touched to gray Tho tresses whore tho sunbeams linger and stray. When on the downward slopes of life wo stand, Though Passion cease to riot through tho land, Love’s lamp shall brighter burn at dusk of day, Still shall there win to us, from far away, The scents and songs of Youth’s enchanted strand In after years. Will peace enfold us in tho afterglow, Or will life’s billows hurtle on tho shore To tret our rest ? I care not, for I know, Whatever Fate may hold for us in store, Dear Heart, I cannot love you less or more In after years. —New Budget. NORTHWARD TO THE SHEDS. There’s a whisper from the regions outbeyond tho Barwou banks, There’s a gathering of the legions and a forming of the ranks, There’s a murmur coming nearer with tho signs that never fail, And it’s time for every shearer to bo out upon the trail; They must leave their girls behind them, and their empty glasses, too. For there’s plenty left to mind them when they cross tho dry Barcoo : TheroTl be kissing, thero’U be sorrow, such as only sweethearts know, But before the noon to-morrow thoy’ll bo singing as they go ; For tho Western creeks are calling, And the idle days are done, With the snowy fleeces falling, And tho Queensland sheds begun. There is shortening of tho bridle, there is tightening of the girth, There is fondling of tho idol that they love the best on earth, Northward from the Lachlan River and the sun-dried Caatlereagh, Outward to the Never-Never ride the “ringers ” on their way. From the green bends of tho Murray they have run their horses in, For there’s haste and there *s hurry when the Queensland sheds begin; On the Bogan they are bridling, they are saddling on tho Bland, There is plunging and there’s sidling—for tho colts don’t understand That the Western creeks are calling, And the idle days are done, With the snowy fleeces falling, And the Queensland sheds begun. They will camp below the station, thoy’H be cutting peg and pole, Rearing tents for occupation, till the “ calling ot the roll,” And it’s time the nags were driven, and it’s time to strap the pack, For there’s never license given to the laggards on the track. Hark ! The music of the battle ; it is time to bare our swords J Do you hear the rush and rattle as they tramp along the boards? They are past the pen-doors picking lightwooled wcaners one by one ; I can hear the shear-blades clicking, and I know the fight’s begun i —W.H.O., in the Bulletin.