SELECTED VERSES.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXVIII, Issue 8103, 24 March 1906, Page 7

SELECTED VERSES.

THE BRAVEST BATTLES. The bravost battle that over was fought, Shall 1 tell you where aud whenf On the mapß of the world you'll And it not; T'was fought by the mothers of men. Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, With sword or noble pen; Nay, not with eloquent word or thought, From the moutha of wonderful men. But deep in the walled-up woman's heart—- * Of woman that would not yield But bravely, silently bore her part— Lo! there is the battlefield! No marshaling troop, no bivouao song, No banner to gleam and wave I But, oh! these battles! they last so long, Prom babyhood to the grave. AN ENCOUNTER. Who cares for the burden, the night, and the rain, And the steep, long, lonesome road, When at last thru ugh the darkness a light shines plain, When a voice oalls hail, and a friend draws rein With an arm for the stubborn load! Though hie way lie over the prairies green And mine up the sunrise hill, Though no more in my path may his liqht be seen, And 1 never may travel the leagues between, His succour aids me still. For life is the chance of a friend or two ' This side of the journey's goal. Though the world be a desert the long night through, let the gay flowers bloom and the sky grows blue When a soul salutes a soul. —Harriet Monroe, in "Everybody's Magazine." THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE. (By Thomas Wentworth Higginson). 'Mid the flower wreathed tombs I stand, Bearing lilies in my hand. Comrades! in what soldier grave Sleeps the bravest of the brace? Is it be who sank to rest With his colours round his breast? Friendship makes his tomb a shrine, Garlands veil it; ask not mine. One low grave yon tree beneath, Bears no roses, wears no wreath; Yet no heart more high and warm Ever dared the battle storm. Never gleamed a prouder eye In the front of victory, Never foot bad firmer tread On the field where hope lay dead. Than are hid within this tomb, Where the untended grasses bloom; And no stone with feigned distress, Mocks the sacred loneiieness. Youth and beauty, dauntless will, Dreams that life conld ne'er fulfil, Here lie buried; here in peace Wrongs and woes have found release. Turning from my comrade's eye, Kneeling where a woman lies, I strew lilies on the grave, Of the bravest of the brave. % THE MOSQUITO. (By Hugh Howard). Good-evening; it is very hot; Indeed, quite sultry, is it not? Your blinds were drawn, so in I flew To have a cozy chat with you. My dear sir, what is this I find? You don't feel sooiably inolined? You screen your left ear from my sight? Oh, very well, I'll try the right. My buzzing injures your repose? Well, then, I'll peroh upon your nose. How's this. A sudden, angry slap! Why, bless me, what an ugly ohap? You've hurt yourself, 'tis very dear; That trick is somewhat old, I fear! At all such games, please understand, You'll .find me quite an ancient hand. I now confess, you've roused my spite; I mean, if possible, to bite; Some wrongs, it is ray pride to say, In blood alone 1 wash away! You'll feign that slumber binds you fast? A triok more feeble than the last; Whilu this deceitful part you play, 1 cease to buzz, yet here I stay! No use tc. rise aud strike a light; I'd simply vanish out of sight. But when 'tis dark, once more I'd come, Singing my sweet fee-fo-fi-fum!