Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 20, 17 November 1909, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

Te My Violin. In silvis viva silua; canora jam mortua, cano. (cjY YCAMORE that spread a shade, Where the blackbird, unafraid, £3J Singing in you, music macle; , - Pine that murmured of the breeze Where you leaned to summer seas, Wood that once was living tree, Let the dumb now speak through thee. Hidden things that know no way Out into the light of day, Captives watching for a ray, Dreamers by some temple gate Who for moving waters wait, Wonder-working wood, let me Touch your strings and set them free. Bound —you open wide the doors; Dumb —a voice they find in yours; Dry—through you the fountain pours; Inarticulate —they talk; Paralysed—they rise and walk. Wood of magic, haunted tree, Thus you lay your spells on me. Till, within a charmed ring, Half-created things shall spring Into being while you sing; Crowing in a countless throng, Crying with a new-found tongue. Wood of Orpheus, wood of Pan, Loud you sing the soul of man. —Marna Pease, in the London “Spectator.” © ® ® New Wine in Old Bottles. “ When all of the jokes are written And all the stories are told, What shall we do?” sighed Pessimist, . As tears from his eyelids rolled. “What shall we do?” grinned Optimist. Just what we’ve done before. We’ll change them around a little bit And grind them out onee more.”

A Part of “ The Story of Iris.” I pray thee by the soul of her that bore thee, By thine own sister's spirit I implore thee, Deal gently with the leaves that lie before thee! For Iris had no mother to infold her, Nor ever leaned upon a sister’s "shoulder, Telling the twilight thoughts that Nature told her. She had not learned the mystery of awaking Those ehorded keys that soothe a sorrow’s aching, Jiving the dumb heart voice, that else were breaking. fet lived, wrought, suffered. Lo, the pictured token! Why should her fleeting day dreams fade unspoken ? Like daffodils that die with sheaths unbroken ? She knew not love, yet lived in maiden fancies, — Walked, simply clad, a queen of high romances, And talked strange tongues with angels in her trances. Twin-souled she seemed, a two-fold nature wearing,— Sometimes a flashing falcon in her daring, Then a poor mateless dove that droops despairing. Questioning all things: Why her Lord had sent her? What were those torturing gifts, and wherefore lent her? Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor. And then, all tears and anguish:—Queen of Heaven, Sweet saints, and thou by mortal sorrows riven,

Save me! oh, save me! Shall I die forgiven?... And then—Ah, God! But nay, it little matters: Look at the wasted seeds that autihnn scatters, The myriad germs that Nature shapes and shatters! If she had Well She 'longed and knew not wherefore. Had the world nothing she might live to care for? No second self to say her evening prayer for? She knew the marble shapes that set men dreaming, Yet with her Moulders bare and tresses streaming Showed not unlovely to her simple seeming. Vain? Let it be so! Nature was her teacher. What if a lonely and unsistered creature Loved her own harmless gift of pleasing feature, Saying, unsaddened, —This shall soon be faded. And double hued the shining tresses braided, And all the sunlight of the morning shaded ? —This her poor book is full of saddest follies, Of tearful smiles and laughing melancholies, With summer roses twined and wintry hollies. In the strange crossing of uncertain chances, Somewhere, beneath some maiden's teardimmed glances, May fall her little book of dreams and fancies. Sweet sister! Iris, who shall never name thee, Trembling for fear her open heart may shame thee, Speaks from this vision-haunted page to claim thee. Spare her, I pray thee! If the maid is sleeping,

Peace with her; she has had her hour of weeping, No more! she leaf » her memory in thy keeping. Oliver Wendell Holmes. © © © Rest for the 'Weary. The Business Man was always so Terribly Tired, >. He wouldn’t see Shakespeare unless lie were hired; . - , And Fitch and Hank Ibsen are under the ban, So we’ll fix a show for the T. Business Man. The scenery: First comes the Cannibal Isle, with monarch in blackface and chorus in smile; Then Ba-oadway at Midnight, and June in Japan—(It’s bound to go great with the T. Business Man.) For songs: Seventeen of those lyrical flights, Which best are expressed by a whirlwind of tights; The rhymes will be awful, the metres won’t scan, Except in the brain of the T. Business Man. As byplay we’ll knock someone down with a bat. Or kick him (Right Centre), there's humour in that; A slam in the tummy is funnier than A garrulous jest to the T. Business Man. The plot: Hoity-Toity, and likewise What Rot! How dare you suggest such a thing as a plot! To putter with plots we should have to trepan The oakembound head of the T. Business Man. So bring up the slapsticks and bring up a van, Of curvulous broilers (see poster for plan)— A song that’s salacious! a catching cancan — And we’ll, sell out the house to the T. Business Man!