Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 14, 6 October 1909, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

Waiting for the Bugle. AITING for the bugle; the /fl night-dews are cold, T* le limbs of the soldiers feel jaded and old; The field of our bivouac is windy and bare. There is lead in our joints, there is frost in our hair; The future is veiled and its fortunes unknown As we lie with hushed breath till the bugle is blown. At the sound of the bugle each comrade shall spring Eike an arrow released from the strain of the string; The courage, the impulse of youth shall come baek To banish the ehill of the drear bivouac; And sorrows and losses and cares fade away When that life-giving signal proclaims the new day. Though the bivouac of age may put iee in our veins, And no fibre of steel ni our sinew remains; Though the comrades of yesterday’s march are not here, And the sunlight seems pale and the branchare sere. Though the sound of our cheering dies down to a moan,— We shall find our lost youth when the bugle is blown. —T. W. Higginson. ® © © When Anna Sings. (By Little Willie, aetat two.) "When Anna sings her lullaby In tones soft and pathetic. Full soon in slumber deep I lie— They are so Anna-sthetic.

Then and Now. Then—her length was twenty inches, Now—her waist is just that girth; Then—the moon was her desire, Now —she simply wants the earth. Then— she grasped a small tin rattle, Now—she steers a limousine, Then —her dress a simple cotton, Now—it holds a dazzling sheen. Then—one ringlet crowned her forehead, Now—it’s piled with puffs, and plait, Then—a little cap of worsted, Now —a fifty dollar hat. Then—her words were few and lisping, Now—she doesn’t lisp—she spiels, Then—her little foot was soekless, Now—she wears Dußarry heels. Then—her drink was white and lukewarm. Now—its amber, and is cold. Then—it must be fresh—and sweetened, Now—it’s “dry” and very old. Then—-life’s pendulum swung slowly, Now.—it’s movin'? pretty fast. Then—-Mi Nina with a future — Now—Milady with a past.

Success. Success is the hand trained to do its work, The eye that sees that the lines run true. The ear that hears when the truth you shirk. The brain that conceives old truths anew. Success is the strife with the heart aglow, The effort we make for our fellowman, The pride that laughs at the outer show, The soul that fulfills iw highest plan.

Sonnets to Vittoria. Now on the one foot on the other now, ’Twixt vice and virtue balance below, Wearied and anxious in my troubled mind, Seeking where’er I may salvation find. Like one to whom the stars by clouds are crossed; Who, turn which way he will, errs, and is lost. Therefore take thou my heart’s unwritten page, And write thou on it what is wanted there; And hold before it, in life’s daily stage, The line of action which it craves in prayer. So that, amid the errors of my youth, My- own shortcomings may- not hide the truth: If humble sinners lower in heaven stood, Than the proud doers of superfluous good. Not all unworthy of the boundless grace Which thou, most noble lady, hast bestowed, I fain at first would pay the debt I owed. And some small gift for thy acceptance place. But soon I felt, ’tis not alone desire That opes the way to reach an aim so high; M'y rash pretensions their success deny, And I grow wise while failing to aspire. And well I see how false it were to think That any work, faded and frail, of mine, Could emulate the perfect grace of thine. Genius and art and daring backward shrink; A thousand works from mortals like to me Can ne’er repav what Heaven has given thee! When godlike art has. with superior thought, The limbs and motions in idea conceived, A simple form, in humble clay achieved, Is the first offering into being brought: Then stroke on stroke from out the living rock. Its promised work the practised ehisel brings. And into life a form so graceful springs, That none can fear for it time’s rudest shock.

Such was my birth; in humble mould* lay AT first; to be by thee, oh, lady high! Renewed, and to a work more perfect brought; Thou giv’st what lacking is, and filest away Afl roughness: yet what tortures lie, Ere my wild heart can be restrained and taught! —Michael Angelo, translation of J. A. Symonds.

The Call of the Hills. I hear the green hills calling, calling plaintively to me, As I toil where peace is not and strife is keen; I scent the fragrance blowing from a faroff orchard tree, Where no clouds of smoke obliterate the scene. I hear the green drills calling, and through fancy’s eyes I gaze Down a valley where a clear stream winds away, And I hear a bull calf bawling, where they’ve turned him out to graze, For the mother he was weaned from yesterday. I hear the green hills calling, calling: “Leave the noise and grime,” Calling, “Why remain to labour and to wait? Why stay to vainly struggle and waste valuable time, When you might be helping Johnny hunt for bait?” I hear the green hills calling, and I long to blithely roam Where the greatest greets the humblest when they meet Where I wouldn’t need to strap-hang daily as I travelled home With fat people grimly standing on my feet. I hear the green hills calling, calling plaintively to me: “Come out and win the freedom which you lack” And I’d go if I could fix it so that no one else would be Here holding down my job when I got back.