Verse Old and New

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 4, 28 July 1909, Page 71

Verse Old and New

An Ode to Sky Climbers. sky-men, climb above the / / lessening world With all the city’s million roofs below, And catch the red-hot rivets, deftly hurled, And drive them home with hammers, blow on blow; jid, to the under-whistle’s tiny scream, Kide, as upon some huge ungainly steed, Into the sky the cable-lifted beam Which quivers in the wind as doth a reed. Heroes you are who need no drums to urge, Heroes who ask no laurel, should you die Balanced aloft where tempests beat and surge, Half-vanished in the great blue-doming sky! For (more heroic than the battle-rage Which animates the olden poet’s lay) There in a task Homeric you engage Without the strut and tinsel of a play!

Playing Checker*. Sometimes at night my father’ll say, •‘Get out your checkers, Ned; We’ll try a rubber, you and I, Before you go to bed.” And then we’ll play, and if he beats. Why, father’ll kind of smile And say, “Now set your wits to work, This little game’s worth while.” But if I beat the first two games He’ll yawn, and then he’ll say To mother, “It’s a foolish game, But sonny likes to play.”

The Ballad of Bitter Fruit. In the wood with its wide arms overspread, Where the wan morn strives with the waning night, The dim shapes strung like a chaplet dread Shudder and sway to the left, the right; The soft rays touch them with fingers white, As they swing in the leaves of the oak-tree browned, Fruits that the Turk or the Moor would fright— This is King Lewis his orchard ground. All these poor folk, stark and sped, Dreaming (who knows?) of what dead despight, In the freshening breeze by the morning fed, Twirl and spin to the mad wind’s might; Over them wavers the warm sun bright:' Look on them, look on them, skies profound! Look how they danee in the morning light!— This is King Lewis his orchard ground. Dead, these dead, in a language dead, Cry to their fellows in evil plight; Day meanwhile thro’ the lift o’erhead Dazzles and flames in the blue vault’s height; Into the air the dews take flight; Havens and crows with a jubilant sound Over them, over them, hover and light; This is King Lewis his orchard ground. En roi. Prince, we wot of no sorrier sight Under the whispering leafage found; Bodies that hang like a hideous blight— This is King Lewis his orchard ground. —From the French of Theodore de Barrville, by Austin Dobson.

The Dance of the Dead. The sexton looked forth, at the mid hour of night, O’er the tombs where the dead were reclining; The moon, at its full, gave a great, ghostly light, And the churchyard as day was shining. First one, then another—oh, terrible sight! — Each grave opened wide, and, in gowns long and white, The dead all arose from their sleeping, Round the tombs grimly dancing and leaping. In a skeleton ring, then, together they hung, While they danced as the waves of the ocean— The poor and the rich, and the old and the young— But their grave-clothes hindered their motion; And, as here no modesty held its broad sway, They all shook them off, and around them there lay Their winding-sheets, here and there scattered. And they naked —but that little mattered. In a frenzy of joy then they swung their long shanks. Their fingers in unison snapping, And they clicked and clacked as they played wild pranks, As though timber on timber were clapping. Then the sexton laughed loudly again and agais, And mischief gave slyly the thought to his brain: “Now quickly—’tis joking not thieving— Steal a winding-sheet! None are perceiving.” It was done; and then swiftly he fled in affright Behind the great door of the tower, While the dance still continued, the moonbeams bright O’er the weird scene still holding their power.

At last it was o’er, and the skeleton crowd. One after another, each slipped on it* shroud; Then into their cold graves they glided] And silence onee more presided. But one—’tis the last—’trips and stumbles along, And eager each tombstone it scratches; But none of its comrades have done it this wrong. For the scent in the air now it catches. The chuich gate it rattled, but backward was pressed; To the joy of the sexton, the door had been blessed— W’ith crosses of iron ’twas covered, And angels’ wings over it hovered. Its shroud it must have, else it rests not again, For scon its last hour will be chiming; The columns it grasps the high tow’r to attain From summit to summit still climbing. Oh, sad for the sexton, for swifter it glides, And onward it rushes in wonderful strides! O mischief! ’tis thou hast undone him; Heaver, help him! ’tis almost upon him. The sexton grew pale, in his horror he shook. And the shroud would have yielded W’ith gladness; Near, nearer it came, then its last leap it took In a frenzy of rage and of madness. For an instant, the moon no longer shone; “One!” thundered the clock in a terrible tone; Its limbs through the air wildly dashing, Down—down—fell the skeleton, crashing! —From the German of Goethe.

Fashion Note. By wearing a sheath gown instead of a skirt A woman not only doth court Attention from all, but provideth withal A visible means of support.