AFTER. THIRTY YEARS.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17010, 7 April 1923, Page 4 (Supplement)

AFTER. THIRTY YEARS.

'J’be Valley hills around us rise, The city lights are far away. The rosy tints have kist the skies, To bid the night succeed the day. A clump of scrub, a chimney lone, Hal'd battered by besieging years. Where crackling 'fire no more is known. Where homely smoke no more appears. To nor’ward lies old Ned’s Farewell; To south’a.rd see the Staircase wind ; And gazing from the sod wall e Their lifted oontours are defined.. Our hilly full suspended swings, Sweet simmering on the flame that And something in its music .brings Us back our youthful camping days. The curtain o fthe night is down And wraps the very hills l The tussock gray arid bracken Are buried in the shades that creep. We listen through the- failing hgh For music that we do not hear ; It- should have sounded with *he nigh , The weka’a vesper, plaintive, dear. Bat far away no sound is heard; We dip into the night m vain. The callings of that quaint brown bird Will never ring those hills again. For she is gone, our camp hie chum Has passed, we know not why nor when ; We only know she does not come To bid us welcome now as then. The morning breaks; the wild boar From off the ridge; we watch him go To shun the sunlight that reveals His preeenoe, to the shades below. How often on those very hills We hunted such at break of dawn. Where sweetest dew of heaven distills Where wide the bounds of space are drawn.

But now we leave the fierce pursuits The curtain of the night is down To pleasure in the lilting lutes That in one round of gladness swell . The pigeoni coos, the fantail , The make chimes the whole day through; . And come the warblers and the tits To bring us hack the days we knew.

And listening to theirmerry chimes, We cross again the staircase Hill. To enter, as in olden times. The homes that only memories fill. The riders of that time-worn track Are scattered long, %nd many sleep Through reverie we bnng .hem • And with them festal concourse heepT. E. L. ROBERTS.