THE SIGN OF THE LYRE

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXIII, Issue 7853, 15 July 1911, Page 12

THE SIGN OF THE LYRE

CUHRENT VLTtSE. Calvary. Within each heart there is a Calvary— A place of sacrifice —whereon there stands ;Tho cross that bears a dead divinity .slain by our own mad hands. lar some truth perishes, for some faith dies. But chiefly from that cross within each breast looks down at us with too forgiving eyes The love that loved us best. —Theodosia Garrison, in “Ainslee's Magazine.” To a London Statue. Chill-lipped and cold and carved in stone. Enisled by thundering seas of sound, I’amo's trumpet o’er them mutely blown. Throe dreamers stand on London ground: Three dreamers who have climbed tho heights. And won the ever-deathless bays. Watch here o’er London’s days and nights Musing amidst her busy ways. Here see we in his native town. Whose varied life he loved to view. Our first sweet singer of renown, Dan Chaucer, man yet dreamer too; Who read as books his fellow-men. And with rare wit and wisdom limned Their portraits with a faithful pen Whose truth nor Time nor Change have dimmed. Next him w T e love perchance the best, , So human yet immortal still, A man with passions: like tho rest And yet their master, honest Will: By mirth and fear and anger swayed. Most wayward yet most innocent. On-whom the winds of fancy played As on some sweet-stringed instrument. Last,' Milton, mighty-soulcd and strong— For weapons weighty words had he— Wafting fierce war against tho wrong For love of truth and liberty; Who. battle over, sought again The Mu.se he wooed in day;, more bright. Turning blind, eyes, and not in vain. Toward that inner, peaceful Light. IV ith thoughts remote, in chilly mood. The mignty three stand silent there. ■The music of the multitude Kings loud in London’s thoroughfare. Now harsh, now sweet, yet never thrills Their cars, nor sets one pulse abeat. Hark! What faint breath Fame’s trumpet fills. And stirs the folds about her feet? —W. J. Cameron, in' London “Spectator." A Sonrct She is a vessel of mysterious enow, A water-lily anchored in dark reeds. That in tuo evening’s violet afterglow Unfolds its hidden heart of flaming seeds. She has the halo of the lovely moon. And round her floats the jessamine's faint musk; With summer birds and bees sbe is in tune. And silvery motbs and tbe delirious dusk. In. the green twilight of her leafy bower She gave mo water from a whispering well. And there, a secret sun, she shone, for me. . Now I am banished from the ecstasy. Her face has filled tbe imperishable hour, • Sways like a phantom moon my soul in Hell. —From tbe "Collected Pooms” of Maurice Baring (John Lane).