AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXI, Issue 4467, 21 September 1901, Page 4 (Supplement)

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE

PRESIDENT MoKINLEY. The news is flying far and swift to day. One of earth’s noble sons has passed away; Stricken from life, by an assassin’s hand. Sorrow and lamentation fill thg land. The cowardly blow is struck—a great man’s gone; And anarchism triumphs on its throne. America, we mourn with tnee in woe, Thy President, thy head, in. death laid low. » Deep is the indignation we express, Brothers in blood, we cannot .give the* less. But all our grief will not restore the dead ; His life is past, his noble spirit flea! His work is done, and he has heard the word “Well done thou faithful servant of the Lord.” We mourn a great man slain, a nation’s grief; We cry for vengeance, nought can bring relief; We mourn for her, the stricken, sorrow, ing wife: We contemplate her broken, shattered life. , ' Too sacred is her grief, we will not dare To peer behind the veil, but’ breathe a prayer That God. who can alone her heart sus. tain, Will comfort her and bring ■ her peace / again. Sorrow like hcr’s can but demand our tears Alone, alone,; through, all- the coming years. Ah, God! such grief as this makes strong men weep. And cry for vengeance, showering curses tleep Upon the head of him who wrought such woe. And caused a powerful nation’s tears to flow. , Accept this tribute from New Zealand’s shore, ' , W« share thy grief, we cannot give thee more. —i-A. G. Oliver, Taueru. September 17th. 1901, , THE BUTTERFLY ON THE BUND. 1 “That' self-same moment I could pray. When from my neck so free, The albatross fell- off, and sank Like load into the sea.” —“Ancient Mariner.”—-Coleridge.

Dainty, tasty, feminine, Quick to touch this heart of mine; Quaintly on the window blind— Like a thought from care refined,. Clung—a butterfly’. „ Say you, ’tig a gaudy thing, ■ Of wooden head and paper wing; But Fancy’s magic gates flow back, I trod tho sweet, supernal track, Where none-need ever sigh. . I’d passed o’er miry, devious ways. Where the common footfall strays; Bearing needless weight of cares— Lo, a-suddenl —unawares, The pretty thing I sPyl ' ' Surely it was placed to | Like a' touch of grateful ease, To the soul a-tired of strife. Forced to battle—for its lifel x , Where the bold are shy. Our poor Pegasus, flogged and tired, ', When by gracious touch inspired, . Leaps Up like a no'ble’ flame— ■ Strong and high and scarcely tame— Not in-vain, to die. Nay! In space of but a breath Passed we o’er the gates of Death; Where young aspirations-lay, Tombless on the sloping wav, But stirred as wo sped by. Nougat coherent can we bring Of tho hymns 1 used to sing, i 'Nor tho incense from the blooms, ? Climbing o’er-the unknown tombs. With the angels nigh. , ’ | . But a record here I make Of the joy —Bo well to, take (Now in grateful mem’ry laid),' When I softly, yeilding prayed ’Neath the butterfly. , , ' —Evelyn., Macdonald, JPahiatua. j 9th September, 1901- , THE DYING STREET ARAB. I knows what you mean, I’m a-dyin’— 1 ’ Well, I ain’t no worse than the rest; 'Taint them as does nothing but prayin’ I,reckons as is, as. the best- ‘ I ain’t had no father nor mother, A tellin’ roe wrong from the right; The streets ain’t the place, is it, parson, For sayin’ yer prayers of a night’’, I never knowed who was mv father; - And mother, ehe died long ago. The folks here brought me up somehow, ’ It ain’t much' they’ve reached me, 1 know. r Yet I thinks they’ll be ffi rxy and mig* me, - When I’m took right away from this - here; - ' - ' ' ' , For sometimes I catches era slyly, A wipin’ away of a tear. - • And they say as- they hopes Til get better; . • > - • x can’t be no worse when I’m dead; I ain’t had so jolly a time on’t, ;; - 1 A-dyin’ by inches for bread, i I’ve stood in them streets precious often When' the wet’s been n pourin’ down, /tmi X ain’t had a o much as a mouthful. Nor never so much as l a brown, i I’ve .looked in - the - shops, with the winders Chokeful of what’s tidy, to eat. And I’ve heard genta a lsrfin’ and talkin' While I drops like a dog at tEeir teefc. ’ ' - ■ '/ But it’s, kind of you,.air, to gib by ms, . I ain’t now afeeria of your face; . And 1 hopes as its true as you tells aw. We’ll all meet in ,th»fc t’other place. < -;,i ,it A *, ,-•/ , 1 .1 Ff ;iv, V ( I hopes as you’ll come when it s over, And talk to them-here in the Court;, < They’ll mind what .you say, you’re • parson, ‘ ■_.« There won’t I .he no larkin , nor sport. You’ll tell ’em as how 1 died happy. And a hopin’ to'i**thorn again; That In gone to the loud where the V!j weary- ' <j( j i t>) i \ H / ' Is freed from his sorrow ana paw. Now, open .that Book as yon give me, 1 ( I feels as it never tells lies. And read me- them yorit-jou know, As is good for a chap when he dies. There, 1 give me your hand, sir,' and thank’ee. * L 1 For the -good as yon’ve done a poor lad; ", - ' Who knows, had they Reached me some * better, I mightn’t have growed up' so bad? 1