POETS' CORNER.

Otago Witness, Issue 1824, 5 November 1886, Page 29

POETS' CORNER.

Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse. —Milton. Discontent. I.— Thk Bmer Rose. I cling to the garden w 11 Outside, \\ hei c t he gi asses grow, Where the tall weeds flaunt in the sun, And the yellow mulleins blow, The dock and the thistle crowd Clo-e to my shrinking feet, And the gipsy yarrow shares ' My cup »ud the food I eat. The rude winds toss my hnir, The wild rama beat me down, The wa\ side dust lies white" And thick on my leafy crown. I cannot keep my robes From wanton fingers free. And the veriest beggar dares To stop and gaze ac me. Sometimes I climb and climb To the top of the garden wall, And I see her where she stands. Stately and fair and tali— My sister, the red, red rose, My sister, the n yal one, The fairtst flower that blows Under the summer sun ] What wonder that she is fair ? What wonder that she ib sweet ? The treasures of earth aud air Lie at her dainty feet ; The choicest tace is hers, Her cup is brimmed with wino ; Rich a<e her emerald robes, And hor bed is soft and fine. She need not lift her head Even to b p the dew ; No rude touch makes her shrink ' The whole long summer through. Her servants do her will ; They come at her beck and call. Oh, rare is lite in my lady's bowers Inside of the garden wall 1 ll.—The Garden Rose. The garden path runs east, And the garden path runs west; There's a tree by the garden gate, And a little bn d in a nt st. It sings nnd sings and sings! Does iho bird, I wonder, know How, over the garden wall, The bright days come ago ? The garden path runs north, And the garden path ruriß south ; The brown bee hums iv the sun, And kisses the lily's moutu ; But it flies away ere long To tho birch tree, dark and tall, What do y. v tiild, O brown bee, Over the garden wull ? With ruff and farthingale, Under the gardener's eye, In trimmest guise 1 stand— Oh, who so fni" as I? But c en the li^ht wind knows That it may not play with me, Nor touch my beautiful lips With a wild caress_and free. Oh, straight is the garden path, And smooth is the garden bed, Where never an idle weed Dares lirt its careless head. But I know outside the wall They gather, ft merry fcht ong ; They dance aud flutter and Blrig, And I listen all day long. The brier rose swinge outside; Sometimes she climbs so high I can see her sweet pink face Against the blue of the sky. What wonder that she is fair, Whom no strait bonds enthral^? Oh, rare Is lite to the brier rose, Outside of the garden wall 1 —Harper's Monthly.