POETRY.

New Zealand Times, Volume LXVII, Issue 3330, 12 January 1898, Page 2 (Supplement)

POETRY.

, THE GATE PAH. E r Line? aaggested OB seeing an nsezploded shell, fired at the Gate Pah, April, 1854. i {By J, M, Smyth.] i. Take away that stern memento; Kelic of inglorious day, When revenge of man was lent, to t Sully British chivalry. zi. » But the blood which then commingl'd, Of the invader and the foe. Since has in the liviog tingl'd, 1 Grasping hands for weal or woe, | in. Therefore hurl the'insulting missile Out of sight of men who foughtj Reckless of your bayonets' bristle ; Setting armaments at nought, 1 IV. Worthy foemen they—you've own'd it; Wherefore then 'gain flush their blood ? If they err’d they have aton'd it In the tide of havoc flood. V. Where's our vaunted myth of teaching Higher aims to untaught man, If we, failing in our preaching, Have recourse to savage plan, VI. Take away, and grind to ashes Monster this of barbarous war ; Symbolising dealh-path gashes— Civilising messenger ! VII. Take it and its atoms scatter (Curs’d the mind that gave it birth), . Or with Cyclops’hammer batter r It into the deepest earth, vin. And if she again should yield it To the sight of mortal eye, i May she fail, when she's reveal’d it, To relate its history. IX, 1 Take it hence and crush to powder—i Screw It on your stormiest seas; Human voices, than them louder, L S-*y the time Is past for these, i t x. , ’Tie the boast of every Briton, That no taunt is given to foe, 1 Whose sad pages Fate has writ on, i “ Fortune gives the foulest blow," XI, From men's right the hell-gift banish, Doubly dumb now passion's fled j Let its red-Jln’d history vanish— All but of the valiant dead. ) XII. ' Britain rocord*stones has graven, i And her deeds 'gainst Time ensures— Do likewise for men ne’er craven, In a nobler cause than yours. ( xnr. Take them now, they own dominion—--1 Not as conquer'd, but as kin ; Falcons nurtur’d ’neath your pinion , Give them " flight" your battles in* 1 XIV. k Then upon your history's pages Shall be writ in unison, . When m> more the combat wages, k M Victors we—they most have won,” Wellington, December 4, 1897. j FAITH AND DOGMA. |BY WILLIAM H. HATNE.] I Faith is a giant, serene and wise, With starlit brow and an angel’s eyts; > Mansions arise where his feet have trod On the mighty rock of the grace of God, Dogma, the dwarf, is a stubborn olf, Who hugs all tenets that please himself ; He only builds for the world's vast deeds Frail huts on the sand of unproved creeds, i —The Independent. ' THE WAY OF THE WORLD. THEBE MEBEY MEN, Three men rode out to the wide, wide world; (Sing ho, sing hey, for the merry, merry way 1) And the first joined the war, where the banner was furled : (Sing hey, sing ho, where the skulls lie low !) And the seoond had a post in the court of a King; (Sing ho, eing hey, for the bribe and its P »y') But he crowed too high, for the throne he tried to eing; (Sing hey, sing ho, where the gallowe-winds blow 1) And the third, he married a fine bonny wife ; (Sing ho, sing hey, for the merry marriage day t) But she spent his money, and led him each a life; (Sing bey, eing ho, to the fnneral go I) Such were the waya of these three merry men; (Sing bo, sing hey, at the world’s sweet way I) Some trifling pleasure, a hope and then—(Sing hey, sing ho, for the grave below I) ' —Temple Bar. REGRETS. [BY ALICE MEYNELL J Ae, when the eeaward ebbing tide doth pour Out by the low sand spaces, The parting waves Blip back to clasp the shore With lingering embraces. So in the tide of life that carries me From where thy true heart dwells, Waves of my thoughts and memories tarn to thee With lessening farewells. Waving of bands; dreams, when the day forgets; A care half lost in cares ; The saddest of my verses ; dim regrets; Thy name among my prayers. I would the day might oome, so waited for, So patiently besought, When I, returning, should fill np onoe more Thy desolated thought; And fill thy loneliness that lies apart In still, persistent pain. Shall X content thee, 0 thou broken heart, As the tide comes again, And brims the little sea-shore lakes, and Beta Seaweeds afloat, and fills The silent poo s, rivers and rivnleta Among the inland hills f —Songs of Adieu. (Thomas B, Mosher), RECOMPENSE. [BY WILLIAM 8. LORD ) As some great tree that deeper, d»y by day, Takes root into the earth—some hardy oak That ti mer stands for every tempest stroke, And grapples with huge rocks which bar its way,— Doth pneh abroad into the winds that sway Now .branches and new buds, which suns provoke To leaves of living green, until they cloak

Its trunk Its beauty, and new strength display ; So does the human soul, when torn with grief. Grown stronger for the trial and the pain. Beach out for truths that know not time nor change, And hold them fast, until they bring relief, While hope and gladness blossom out again In beauty new and wonderful and strange. —Blue and Chid. THE SKY IS A DRINKING CUP. (BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.] The sky ia a drinking-cup, That waa overturned of ol I, And it pours in the eyes of men Its wine of airy cold. We drink that wine all day', Till the la*t drop is drained up, And are lighted rtf to bed By the jewels in the cup, THE COMING MAN. A pair of very chubby lege, Encased in scarlet hose ; A pair of little stubby boots, With rather doubtful toes; A little kilt, a little coat— Cut ae a mother can— And Jo! before us stands in state The future’s “coming man.” His eyes, perchance, will read tire stars, And search their unknown ways ; Perchat ce the human heart and soul Will open to their gaze ; Perchance their keen and flashing glance Will be a nation’s light— Those eyes that now are wistful bent On some “ big fellow’s ” kite. Those hands—-those little, busy hands— So sticky, small and brown ; Those hands whose only mission seems To pull all order down ; Who knows what hidden strength may be Within their tiny clasp. Though now 'tia but a taffy stick In sturdy hold they grasp ? IT’S VERA WEEL. WITHOUT A WIFE. It’s vera weel, throughout the day, When ta’en up wi* wark or play, To think a man can live alway Wi’oot a wifey. It'e vera weel when cla’es are new, To think they’ll always last so, And look as well as they do non, Wi’oot a wifey. Bnt when the holes begin to show, The sti ches lip, the buttons go, What in the warl’s a man to do Wi’oot a wifey ? It’s vera weel when skies are clear. When frien’a are true and lassies dear, To think ve’H gang through life, nae fear, Wi’oot a wifey. But c’ouda will come the ekies athwart, Lassies will marry, frien’e maun part; What then can cheer your saddened heart ? A dear, woe wifey. It’s vera w»el when young and hale, But when you’re auld,. and crazed and frail And your blithe spirits ’gin to fail. You’ll want a wifey. But mayhap then the lassie dear, Will treat your offers wi’ a sneer ; Because you're cranky, gray and sere, Ye'll get nae wifey. Then haste ye, haste, ye silly loon ; Rise up and seek about the toon, And get greatest earthly boon, A wee bit wifey, —Great Thoughts. A DROP OF INK. [BY EARNEST WHITEY.] The drop of ink chance leaves upon my pen. What might it write in Milton’s mighty hand! What might it speak at Shakespeare’s high command j What words to thrill the throbbing hearts of men 1 Or from Beethoven’s soul a grand amen. All life and death in one full compass spanned! Who could its power in Goethe’s touch withstand ? What words of truth it holds beyond our ken, — : - What blessed promise we would fain be told, And cannot, —what grim sentence dread as death, — What venomous Re, that, never shall unfold, — What law, undoing science with a breath 1 But—mockery of life’s quick-wasted lot Dropped on a virgin sheet’tis but a blot! — Poems. MY LOVE’S GIFT. [BY JULIANA HORATIO EWING .] Yon ask me what—since we must part— You shall bring home to me; Bring back a pure and faithful heart. As true as mine to thee. I ask not wealth nor fame, I only ask for thee. Thyself—and that dear self the same — J My love, bring back to me 1 You talk of gems from foreign lands. Of treasure, spoil and prize. Ah. love! I shall not search your hands, But look into your eyes. I ask not wealth nor fame, I only ask for thee. Thyself—and that dear self the same— My love, bring back to me 1 You speak of glory and renown. With me to share your pride. Unbroken faith is all the crown I ask for as your bride. I ask not wealth nor fame, I only ask for thee. Thyself—and that dear self the same— My love, bring back to me! You bid me with hope’s eager gaze Behold fair fortune oome, I only dream I see your face Beside the hearth at home. T ask not wealth nor fame, I do but ask for thee! Thyself—and that dear self the same— May God raatore to me ! — Poems. THE GIPSY TRAIL. [BY BUDYARD KIPLING .] The white moth to the closing vine. The bee to the open clover. And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood Ever the wide world over. Ever the wide world over, lass. Ever the trail held true. Over the world and under the world. And back at the last to you. Out of the dark of the gorigo camp. Out of the grime and the gray (Morning waits at the end of the world), Gipsy, come away! The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp, The red crane to her reed, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad By the tie of a roving breed.

Morning waits at the end of the world Where winds unhaltered play. Nipping the flanks of the plunging ranks. Till the white sea-horses neigh. The pied snake to the rifted rook. The buck to the stony plain, And the Eomany lass to the Eomany lad. And both to the road again. Both to the road again, again ! Out of a clean sea-track — Follow the cross of the gipsy trail Over the world and back! Follow the Eomany patteran North where the blue bergs sail. And the bows are gray with the frozen spray. And the masts are shod with mail. Follow the Eomany patteran Sheer to the Austral Light, Where the besom of God is the wild west wind. Sweeping the sea-floors white. Follow the Eomany patteran West to the sinking sun. Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift. And the east and the west are one. Follow the Eomany patteran East where the silence broods By a purple wave on an opal beach In the hush of the Mahira woods. The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky. The deer to the wholesome wold. And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid. As it was in the days of old. The heart of a man to the heart of a maid— Light of my tents, be fleet! Morning waits at the end of the world. And the world is at our feet! WHEN THE DAY IS DONE. [BY DANIEL J. DONAHOE. J Darling, when the shadows fall. And the day is done. When the crimson veil is drawn O’er the sunken sun, Through the meadows moist with daw. Swift I hie away ; All my hours of pleasure oome With the close of day. As the perfumes from the flowers Grow more sweet at night, As the dewdrops softer glow In the pale moonlight, So, the hours of care all passed With the sunken sun, Joy comes springing to my soul When the day is done. For thy pleasant face I greet And thy smile I see. When across the dewy fields I have oome to thee; When I hasten home, my love. With the sinking sun, All my sweetest pleasures oome When the day is done. —Boston Transcript,