Select Poetry.

Otago Witness, Issue 1177, 20 June 1874, Page 7

Select Poetry.

BY T. BHET HA.KTE.

MISS BLAXCHB SAYS.

And you arc the poet— and so you want Something— what is it ' "• theme, a fancy? Something cv other the Muse won't grant In yourolrt poetical necromancy ? Why, one half you poets— you can't deny— Don't know thiOluse when youchauco to meet her, But sit in your attics, and mope and si£h Fov a faineant codrless to diop from the sky, Wlion flesh and blood may be standing- by Quite at your service, should you but greet lier. What if I told you my own romance 1 Women are poets, if you so take them, One-third poet— the rest what chance Of man and marriage may choose to make thorn. G've me ten minutes before you go — Here at the window we'll nit together. Watching the currents that ebb and How ; Wntcliliu the world as it drifts below Up the hot avenue'H dusty (slow ; Isu't it pleasant this bright June weather .' Well, it wns after the war broke out. Auil I was ii school-girl fresh from Paris ; Fupa hud contrncts, and roamed about, And 1 did nothing— for I was an heiress. Ticked some Hut, now I think ; perhaps Knitted some stookiniis, a dozen nearly ; Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps ; Ktnod at fair tables, and peddled traps, Quito at a prollt. The shoulder straps Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you, really. Still it was stupid. Katatata-tat 1 Those were the sounds of that battle summer, Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat, And every footfall the tap of a drummer; And, day by day, down the avenue went Cavalry, infantry, all together, Till my pitvinj,' nnjrelnno (lay sent My fate in the shape <>f a regiment That halted, just as the day was gpent, Here at our door, in the brielit Juiio weather. None of your dandy warriors they : Men from tho « ust, but where I know not ; Hasuard and travel-stained, worn and gray, With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot And I opened the window, and leaning there, I felt in their presence the free winds blowing ; My neok and shoulders and arms were bare— I did not dream they mlirht think me fair, .But I hud somi' flowers that night In mv hair, And hero on my bo"om a red rose glowing. And I looked from tho window alone the Hue, Dusty and dirty, and grim and solemn, Till an oyc like a hayonuMlatm met mino, And r dark faoo g row from thu dttrkeulntr column. A*i 9, iuick flame leaped to my P yv« mjcj hair,

Till cheeks and shoulders burned altogether ; And the next I found myself standing there With my eyelids wet and my checks less fair, And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air. Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather. Then I drew back quickly ; there came a cheer, A rush of figures, a noise and tussle, Aud then it was over, and high and clear s[y red rose bloomed On his gun's black muzzle. Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried, And slowly and steadily all together, Shoulder to shoulder, and side to side, Rit-ing and falling, and swaying wide, But bearing above them the rose, my pride, They marched away in the twilight weather. And I leaned from my window, and watched myroso Tossed on the wavps of the surginsr column, Warmed from above in ihe sunset jrlows,

Borne from below by an impulse solemn. Thou I shut the window. I heard no more

Of my soldier friend, my flower neither, But lived my life as I did before ; I did not go as a nurse to the war — Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore-

So I didn't go to the hospital, either. Yon smile, 0 poet, and what do you ? You lean from your window, and watch life's column Trampling- and struggling 1 through damp and dew, Filled with its purposes grave and solemn ; An act. a gesture, a face— who knows ?— Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you, And you pluck from your bosom the verse that

grows, And down it flies like my red, red rose, And you sit and dream as away it goes, And think that your duty is done— now don't you? I know your answer. I'm not yet through. Look at this photograph, " In the Trenches :" That dead man in the coat of blue

Holds a withered rose in his band. That clenches Nothing 1 Except that the sun paints true,

And a woman is sometimes proplietic-mindcd. And that's my romance. And, poet, you Take it and mould it to suit your view ; And who know* but you muv iiiul it too Come to your heart once more as mine did.