Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 16, 19 October 1910, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

Xa Meaaoriaau W” OE that was King an hour ago, Is King no more; and we < J that bend / Beside the bier too surely known We lose a Friend. His was no “blood-and iron” blend To write in tears a ruthless reign; Bather he strove to make an end Of strife and pain. Bather he strove to heal again The half-healed wound, to hide the sear, To purge away the lingering stain Or racial war. Thus 4 ho’ no trophies deck his ear Of captured guns or manners torn, Men hailed him as they hail a star That eomes with morn; A star of botherhood., not scorn A morn of loosing and release,— A fruitful time of oil and corn— An Age of Peace! Sleep then, O Dead beloved! and deep As one who, when his course is run, May yet, in slumber, memory keep Of duty dene; — Sleep then, our England’s King, as one Who knows the lofty aim and pure, Beyond all din of battles won. Must still endure. —Austin Dobson. © © © Jane Rapture. Green! What a world of green! My startled soul. Panting for beauty and so long denied, Leaps in a passion of high gratitude To meet the wild embraces of the wood;

Bushes and flings itself upon the whole Mad miracle of green, with senses wide; Clings to the glory, hugs and holds it fast. As one who finds a long-lost love at last. Billows of green, that break upon the eight In bounteous crescendos of delight! Wind-hurried verdure hastening up the hills To where the sun its highest rapture spills! Cascades of colour tumbling down the height In golden gushes of delicious light! God! Can I bear the beauty of this day. Or shall I be swept utterly away? Hush! Here are deeps of green where rapture stills, Sheathing itself in .veils of amber dusk. Breathing a silence suffocating, sweet. Wherein a million hidden pulses beat. Look! How the very air takes fire and thrills With hint of heaven pushing through her husk! Ah, joy’s not stopped! Tis only more intense Here where Creation’s ardors all condense: Here where I crush me to the radiant sod Close-folded to the very nerves of God. See now! I hold my heart against this tree: The life that thrills its trembling leaves thrills me. There's not a pleasure pulsing through its veins That does not sting me with ecstatic pains. No twig or tracery, however fine. Can bear a tale of joy exceeding mine.

Praised be the gods that made my spirit mad, Kept me aflame and.raw to beauty’s touch, -- — Lashed me and scourged me with the whip of fate, -- Gave me so often agony for mate. Tore from my heart the things that made . men glad. —. Praised be the gods! If I at last by such Relentless means may know the sacred bliss. The anguished rapture, of an hour like this. Smite me, O Life, and bruise me if thou must; Mock me and starve me with thy bitter crust: But keep me thus aquiver and awake. Enamoured of mv life, for living's sake! This were the tragedy— that I should pass. Dull and indifferent, through the •glowing grass. And this the reason I was born, I sav—• That I might know the passion of this day. —Angela Morgan. © © © Candle-light. Frail golden flowers that perish at a breath, Flickering points of honey-coloured flame, From sunset gardens of the moon you came, Pale flowers of passion . . delicate flowers of death. . . . Blossoms of opal fire that raised on high Upon a hundred silver stems are seen Above the brilliant dance, or set between The brimming wine-eups . . . flowers of revelry! Roses with amber petals that arise Out of the purple darkness of the night To deck the darkened house of Love, to light The laughing lips, the beautiful glad eyes.

Lalies with violet-eoloured hearts that break In shining clusters round the silent c dead, — A diadem of stars at feet and head. The glory dazzles ... but they do not wake. ... • 0 golden flowers the moon goes gathering In magic gulden of lier fairy-land. While splendid angels of the sunset stand Watching in flaming circles wing to wing . . . Frail golden flowers that perish at a breath, That wither in the hands of light, and die - -a i When bright dawn wakens in a silver sky, Pale flowers of passion .. . delicate flowers of death. —Olive Douglas ® ® ® Triumphatrix. As some great monarch in triumphal train Holds in his thrall a hundred captive kings, Guard thou the loves of all my vanished springs To wait as handmaids on thy sweet disdain. Yea. thou shalt wear their tresses like bright rings, For their defeat perpetuates thy reign. With thy imperious girlhood vie in vain The pallid hosts of all old poignant things. Place on thy brow the mystic diadem With women’s faces cunningly embossed, Whereon each memory glitters like a gem; But mark that mine were regal loves, that lost And loved like queens, nor haggled for the cost — And having conquered, oh be kind to them! —George Sylvester Viereek.