Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIV, Issue 9, 2 March 1910, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

The Retort Courteous. ©H, husband, wake up!” cried the •wife in affright, “ I am sure there’s a burglar downstairs.” •Go down, then,” said the hubby; “you told me last night Not to meddle in household affairs.” © © © " Call Me Not Dead.” Call me not dead when I, indeed, have gone Into the company of the everliving High and most glorious poets! Let thanksgiving Rather be made. Say: “He at last hath won Rest and release, converse supreme and wise, Music and song and light of immortal faces; To-day, perhaps, wandering in starry places, He hath met Keats, and known him by his eyes. To-morrow (who can say?) Shakespeare may pass, And our lost friend just catch one syllable Of that three-centuried wit that kept so well; Or Milton; or Dante, looking on the grass Thinking of Beatrice, and listening still To chanted hymns that sound from the heavenly hill.” —Richard Watson Gilder. . © © © The Point of View. Because eac-h rose must have its thorn, The pessimist Fate’s plan opposes; The optimist, more gladly born, Is glad because the thorns have roses.

A Ballad of Blighted Being. He hies him to wardrobe and tremblingly looks Round at the raiment that’s hanging up there Takes down the garments from off the hooks, Studies them over with sedulous care, While runs there a burden most pensive and drear. (Oh, the suspense! will it do for this year?) He looks o’er his sureoat with wide, glaring eyes, He feels of its surface in that place and this. His face now expresses keen-anguished surprise; Anon it betokens the acme of bliss; While runs there a burden of hope and of fear, (Oh, the suspense! will it do for this year?) He holds his o’er coat in the shimmering light, He turns to the inside, then insideward out; He chatters with glee, anon faints with affright, He twists it and turns it and twirls it about. His eyelets are bloodshot and blearfully blear, (Oh, the suspense! will it do for this year?) A shriek on the echoes; a sob on the breeze; Two rows of teeth chatter, a pair of eyes glare; An anguish-crushed pilgrim who sinks to his knees And writhes his long fingers amid his long hair. A maniac he, one can see by his leer, (No more suspense—it won’t do for this year.)

The Happy Marriage. How blest has my time been, what joys have I known. Since wedlock’s soft bandage made Jessy my own! •So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, That freedom is tastless, and roving a pain. Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray, Around us our boys and girls frolic and play: How pleasing their sport is! The wanton ones see, And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen In revels all day with the nymphs on the green; Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles, And meets me at night with complacence and smiles. What though on her cheek the rose loses its hue, Her wit and good humour bloom all the year through; Time still, as it flies, adds increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare And cheat with false vows the too credulous fair, In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam! To hold it for life, you must find it at home. EDWARD MOORE. © © © I Don’t Want. I don’t think I want a king job, To sit on a lonesome throne, And think the thoughts of my counsellors And never a one of my own! To rule with a bauble sceptre And faint in my humble pride—To hear in the tramp of the horses’ feet, Treason, where my soldiers ride!

I don’t think I want a king job. To curse when business is slack. And to give up the ghost when a trusted friend Sticks his rapier in my back! A king is a sorry creature For all his purple and gold. And though be may smile w hen the plaudits ring, He’s weeping when the truth is told! And so you may keep your king job, Ye withered old scions of line, But the simple life of the simple man Is the ideal life for mine! I eat what I earn, and earning I spend what I will, or keep—And I’ll toil all day in my simple way, And when evening comes, by gosh, I’ll sleep! © © © The Inner Truth. ’Tis truly quite defensible that modern dress is sensible—simple charm. We doubt, indeed, if Phidias would make remarks invidious, Or view the line o-f beauty with s feeling of alarm. A lady to be fetching, seems no more a mass of stretching seams, But her appearance manifests a purpose that is sane; A rippling liquefaction is her clothing, not a fraction is Warped to a wasp-like waist-line that we always have called vain. Ah, no. Our observation goes—but not our information goes— To show us that a great reform affect, the mode of dress. The mystic style-producer makes th, dresses all of looser makes That gives the waist a clever sort of artless gracefulness. BUT! Don’t you be deceived thereby. The ladies aren’t relieved thereby. Don’t hug the fond delusion that they’re letting out the waist, The princess gowns may sheath it all but, hark you! underneath it all There is the old compresion; they arc just as tightly laced!