Verse Old and New

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLII, Issue 25, 23 June 1909, Page 71

Verse Old and New

The Music of Erin of Old. /qX WEET as the sound of far-away ML tells, J Ringing and chiming over the dells, Deep in the heart of memory dwells The music of Erin of old. A smile and a tear, a zephyr of June, An evening of love, a wreath and a rune, Soul of a song and life of a tune, Rose and shamrock, girdled in gold— The music of Erin of old! Strong as the roar of thundering seas, Soft as the rustle of leaves in the breeze, Light as the wind over blossoming leas— The music of Erin of old; Voice of a hero and prattle of child, Gentle and fierce as the wail of the wild, Flashing and crooning, caressing and mild, True and tender, pleading and bold— The music of Erin of old! © © © The Paragon. She’s as dear and as dainty a darling As ever delighted the view; Her hair is a glorious golden, Her eyes the most beautiful bluet Her features are simply perfection, Her skin is like peaches and creaa She’s so pretty and witty and winsome, The slangsters would dub her “a dream.” Her voice is the voice of an angel; She can play the piano, and cook; She lacks only one thing—existence— This girl that I found in a book.

Rondeau Redouble. I hate a dun. It makes me fairly sick, This letter asking me to “please remit.” If I could pay I’d do it mighty quick. I can't, however, so I wish they’d quit. They will not, though, let up a little bit, But threaten suit —a very shabby trick, Considering the suit was poor in -fit. I hate a dun. It fairly makes me sick. That is the worst of getting things on tick. I wish that I had waited for my kit. This curt reminder makes my conscience prick— This letter asking me to “please remit.” Credit is an invention of the pit, A thing devised for torment by Old Nick. I can’t grow calloused. I am tired of it. If I could pay I’d do it mighty quick. When I am broke, that is the time they pick To pester me, to threaten with a writ. To satisfy them I’d at nothing stick; I can’t, however, so I wish they’d quit. It seems as if they had but little wit. One can’t get blood from turnip, stone or brick. Well, with the statement I my pipe have lit, That ends it. I shall simply let ’em kick. I hate a dun.

The Foreloper. Ihe gull shall whistle iu his wake, the blind wave break in fire, lie shall fulfill God’s utmost will unknowing Ilia desire; And he ehall see old planets pass and alien stars arise, And give the gale hia reekless sail in shadow of new skies. Strong lust of gear shall drive him out and hunger arms his hand To wring his food from a desert nude, his foothold from the sand. His neighbour’s smoke shall vex his eyes, their voices break his rest, He shall go forth till South is North, sullen and dispossessed; And he shall desire loneliness, and his desire hall bring Hard on his heels a thousand wheels, a people, and a king; And he shall come back in his own track, and by his scarce, cool camp; There he shall meet the roaring etreet, the derrick, and the stamp; For he must blaze a nation’s ways with hatchet and with brand Till on his last won wilderness an Empire’s bulwarks stand. - —Rudyard Kipling. © © © An Old Violin. In far Cremona centuries ago This little sighing, singing thing was wrought, Of dreams ’tis fashioned and its tones are fraught With sweetness only centuries bestow; But give an artist hand the slender bow. And hark the tumult of impassioned thought— The Heaven we missed, the earth we vainly sought Within our shaken pulses ebb and flow. Innumerable voices through it rain The music of an unremembered past, Dim echoes of illusive joy and pain, In requiem sob or ringing trumpetblast, Are merged to one incomparative strain That holds the heart of every listener fast.

X Would Not Be the Housed Soul. I would not be the houstnl soul—not I— In the pale limit of one dwelling set, Having my treasures in a cabinet, And of these lovely lands —this dawn flung high—- ■ Tale copies done in oil hung- coldly by, Books in a careful row Jest I forget, In place of field romances dewy wet And that perpetual tender page— the sky. Not this, O god of the Open, god of the Sea, God of the Air, whose every breath is change! Let thy star-set, illimitable distance be My body's house; for my possessions all Thoughts, and one Dream forever great and strange; And for my feet one Path running ever out of call. © © © The Human Note. Through the harmonies of heaven stole a note of throbbing pain, •Touched with longing, tinging with sadness, seeming in its bitth; Seeming less the stainless music that is meet for such domain, Than the cry of some dazed mortal, yearning backward towards the earth. But it did not sound forever, this stray note so passionate; Soon the singer, now all angel, sang with others round the throne; “Glory, glory,” Past forgotten, life and love beyond ihe gate. That before had set his singing to a tragic undertone. Aet there vanished then a richness more than psaltery or lute Could outpour, though seraphs plucked them, worshipping the Lord anear; For within the vibrant grieving, now forever hushed and mute, Lay the pathos of endeavour, hope and heartbreak, love and fear; Yea, the wistful human groping, and the doubt that makes it dear. —-Richard Burton, in the “Outlook.”