Verse Old and New

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIX, Issue 17, 26 October 1907, Page 34

Verse Old and New

The Editor’s Dilemma.

n evening, while reclining In my easy chair, repining O’er the lack of true religion and the dearth of common-sense, A tragic-looking lady, Who was surely on the shady Side of 30, entered proudly, and to crush me did commence. “I sent a poem here, sir”— She was clearly growing fiercer—- “ And the subject which I’d chosen, you remember, sir, was ‘Spring'; And although 1 ve scanned your paper, Sir, by sunlight, gas and taper, I’ve discovered of that poem not a solitary thing.” She was country-built and wiry, | With a temper sharp and fiery, And I had to pacify her or precipitately run ; So I told her ere her verses, Which were great, had come to—• “bless” us .We’d received just fifty-four on “Spring,” of which we'd printed one; And I added: “We’ve decided That they’d better be divided Among the years that follow—one to each succeeding Spring. So your work. I’m pleased to mention, Will receive our best attention, In the year nineteen-sixty, when the birds begin to sing.” —By Bella A. Pearce.

The Clean, Green Hills

The clean, green hills have call’d to me amid the city’s stress, “Come back to us, O wearied heart, and find thine old redress, The long-lost beauty of thy days, the vanish'd loneliness!

“Return to us and hear again the dreams lost long ago, .Whether the April grasses wake or whether the keen winds blow; Oh, find again the quiet hills, their healing secrets know!”

The clean, green hills, the silent hills, the ancient place of peace! I heard their voices calling me, and craved the old surcease. O clean, green hills, how long, how long before I find release! ■—Charles Hanson Towne.

The Pot’s Reply.

Once T saw a vessel rare. All inlaid, And commenced to wonder where It was made. “Whence came you,” I asked, “old chap? From Cathay? Or from Timbuctoo, mayhap, Far away? “Di<l some skilful South Sea chief, Bl'aek and queer. Beat you out upon his reef With a spear?” Then occurred a thing, I wot, Most unique. For I saw that ancient pot Wished to speak. (Quoth the pot. “It may, my son, Seem odd. but I was made in Bridgeport, ConNceticut.” — Philadelphia Bulletin,

The Horror of It.

I'm not a savage fisherman, I could never l»e so cruel; For I should hare to “strike a fish,” Or “whip” a shimmering pool. I shudder when I stop to think Of piscatorial slaughter; I weep to sec the line “reel in”— A fish might “break the water.” I could not “lash a crippled joint,” I could not “throw the flies,” Alas. I am no fisherman—--1 dare not tell the lies.

Brother Bartholomew.

Brother Bartholomew, working time, Would fall into musing and drop his tools; Brother Bartholomew cared for rhyme More than for theses, of the schools; For gain or losing, fo rweal or woe, God made him a poet, long ago.

At matins he sat, the book on his knees, And his thoughts were wandering far, I wis; The brotherhood chanted the litanies, While he had no praying to do but this: Watching through arched windows high The birds that sailed o’er the morning sky.

At complin hour, in the chapel dim, He went to his stall and Knelt with the rest; And oft, on the wings of the evening hymn, Would his soul float out to the night's fair breast. And every to him the starry host Flamed bright as the tongues at Pentecost. “A foolish rhymester and nothing more; The idlest fellow a eell could hold”; So judged the worthy Isidor, Prior of ancient Nithiswold; Yet somehow, with dispraise content, Signed not the culprit’s banishment. Meanwhile Bartholomew went his way, And patiently wrote in his sunny cell; His pen fast travelled from day to day; His books were covered, the walls as well. “He were better a pious monk instead Of a listless dawdler,” the Prior said. Bartholomew died, as mortals must; His spirit went free from the cowled throng; And after, they took from the dark and dust Of shelves and corners many a song, That cried from Britain to far Carthay How a bard had risen—and passed away. Wonderful verses! fair and fine, Full of the old Greek loveliness; The seer-like vision, half-divine; Pathos and merriment in excess; And every careful stanza told Of love and of labour manifold. The King came out and stood beside Bartholomew’s taper-ngnted bier, And turning to his lords, he sighed: “How worn and wearied doth he appear — . Our noble poet—now he is dead! “O tireless worker!” the Prior said. —Louise Imogen Gurney.

The Mother Tongue.

They say that the Gaelic is tough And' the Russian is better than snough But I’m putting my dough On the tongue that I knough Is the prize orthographical stough. A branch of a tree is a bough, But a bossy calf's mama, nough, Of course she can cough Her blooming head ough, But that wouldn't make her a cough. If you're down in Despondency's slough— The pony was never one-tough— Of course it is tough; But make a big blough; Don't let the world see you are blough. Turn the spelling around, and it's worse; A naughty man surely would corse. There’s no head to the stuff, And the tail is enuff To make a man order the horse. Of course when you leave you kow-tow; But in all sincerity, now, When the winter doth grieve Because the trees lieve, Do the trees give the winter a bow? And when you don't finish one-two In the race that I spoke of to ywo, You could pay all you owe If you just had the dowe, And then you would never lie bl wo. Maurice Smiley.