Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 15, 13 October 1909, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

Lals. IS the flame but of shame that dances and dies i- - \ In the pleading deeps of thy childish eyes?— Are the serpents of sin but asleep in the lair Thou hast twined for them here in thy radiant hair?— Is it blood of thy victims that ripples and drips Through roses of ruin, to laugh on thy lips ? What strange, sweet presence of evil is thine, Thus dainty and deadly, oh, sister of mine? While our virtues but reign among virtues dethroned, And the rod forborne, and the crime condoned, And the sin, and the tear, and the rain, and the flowers But make up the sum of this being of ours. What terrors have seized thee —what ills beyond prayer Oh, Priestess of Sorrow, of raiment so rare —• That naught may atone for this sweet sin of thine, Though bitter the penance be, sister of mine ? Thou wert artless through storms of hot pulses to shun, Where Love and her sister embraced and were one; And the woman of Thessaly, casting her stone, Wears the scorn of thy guilt as a screen for her own; Yet thy kiss-betrayed womanhood sharneth its foe In the erust thou hast shared with the sister in woe—

In the pearls of sweet-pity and patience ■that shine Through the wreck of thy purity, sister of mine. Lo, a bud may be bruised, yet the spring is not done, And the day does not die for a spot on the sun, And the penitent prayer and the chastening tear Are but frozen to hate by the ceaseless sneer! Oh! the pity of wine into hemlock turned, And of ill that is born when the good is spurned, For the deeps of my being are mirrored in thine, Thou art near to me, kin to me, sister of mine. -—Sidney Fairfax. © ® ® The Transfiguration of Beauty. Nay! Prithee tell me, Love! when I behold My Lady, do mine eyes her beauty see In truth, or dwells that loveliness in me Which multiplies her grace a thousandfold? Thou needs must know, —for thou with her of old Comest to stir my soul’s tranquility; Yet would I not seek one sigh less, or be By loss of that loved flame more simply cold. “The beauty that diseernest is all hers; But grows in radiance as it soars on high Through mortal eyes unto the soul above: ’Tis there transfigured,—for the soul confers, On what she holds, her own divinity: And this transfigured beauty wins thy love.” —Michael Angelo, translation of J. A. Symonds.

On the Way Home. ••Didn’t you like the party, dear, tonight?" (Silence. She turns her head the other way.) •What have I done? Isn’t my tie on right ?” (No answer —but her eyes have things to say.) “Is it because I danced with Mrs. Chatt? Her husband made me, really.” (She is dumb.) “Surely you can’t be jealous that I sat Out with the silly Grimes girl?” (She is mum.) “I know I talked too much of me and mine— Was that the reason?” (Perfect stillness reigns.) “But I was proud—you simply looked divine! Can’t you forgive me?” (Speechless she remains.) “Was it because I stumbled in that waltz? I always do some fool thing.” (Not a word.) “I didn’t mean to lose your smelling salts.” (’T would seem the protestation were unheard.) “Oh, Mrs. Gad then told you that I said Her dress should have the prize?” (Hark! ’Tis the wind.) “Or was it that I cut Ned Killer dead? He’s a mere rake. Look at me, dear.” (She’s blind.) “Well, I confess, I ought to be accursed For talking shop at dinner.” (She is mute.) “I’m sorry that I used the wrong fork first.” (Her hush and nature’s hush are absolute.) “Oh, very well, then, since, you’re bound to sneer. I can fight, too, if quarrelling's such fun.” She speaks! She smiles! “Why, I’m not angry, dear, I merely wished to know what you had done.”

Sonnet on the Death of Vittoria. When she, the aim of every hope aad prayer, Was called by death lo yon celestial spheres " » Nature, who ne’er had fashioned aught so fair, Stood there ashamed, and all who saw shed tears. O cruel fate, quenched the dreams of love! O empty hopes! O spirit rare and blest! W’here art thou now? On earth thy fair limbs rest:TKy holy thoughts have found their home above. Yet let -us think not cruel death could e’er Have stilled the sound of all thy virtuous ways: Lethe’s oblivion could extinguish nought; For, robbed of thee, a thousand records fair Speak of thee yet; and death from heaven conveys Thy powers divine, and thy immortr* thought. —Michael Angelo, translation of J. Symonds.

Rules for Nations Do you chance to be the nation That is richest on the earth? What’s the civilised proceeding To proclaim your money’s worth! Build a Dreadnought. Would you fain impress your neigh hour What a peaceful chap you are! Let this method of procedure Be at once your guiding star: Build a Dreadnought. Do you chance to be a nation Where grim poverty holds sway,—• What’s the proper application Of what cash may come your way? Build a Dreadnought. Would you have the sister nations Think you have a warlike taste, —• What’s of course the only measure You should execute with haste! Build a Dreadnought.