Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 17, 26 October 1910, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

A tittle Boy's Lullaby. EITTLE groping hands that must learn the weight of labour, tittle eyes of wonder that must learn to weep—• Mother is thy’life now: that shall be tomorrow. Time enough for trouble —time enough for sorrow. Now—sleep! ' Little dumb lips that shall wake and make a woman, Little blind heart that shall know the worst and best— Mother is thy love now; that shall be hereafter. Time enough for joy, and time enough for laughter. Now—rest! Little rosy body, new-born of pain and beauty, Little lonely soul, new-risen from the deep—Mother is thy world now, whole and satisfying. Time enough for living—time enough for dying. Now—sleep! -—Brian Hooker. © © © Wanderers, Sweet is the high road when the skylarks call, When we and Lose go rambling through the land. But shall we still walk gaily, hand in hand, At the road’s turning and the twilight’s fall? Then darkness shall divide us like a wall, And uncouth evil nightbirds flap their wings;

The solitude of all created things Will creep upon us shuddering like a pall. This is the knowledge I have wrung from pain: We. yea, all lovers are not one, but twain, Each by 'strange wisps do strange abysses drawn; But through the black immensity of night • ' Love’s little lantern, like a glowworm’s bright, May lead our steps to some stupendous dawn. —George Sylvester Viereek. © © © To a City. Nine breathless summers I have seen the kill Of blood-beamed suns upon the stony street; Nine winters I have watched the wanton spill— The price of lives at Pleasure’s dancing feet; Nine years beheld man worship his own will — Pure Faith forgot and Truth made obsolete. And every staring face among the throng— Poor puny sons of greed-besotten men— Turned me with yearning to the calm the strong, The clear-browed people of my West again; And every roaring day but made me long For benign silence in some mountain glen. To-day I am returned from the clean ■wild,

Where only Storm’s deep organ preludes mar . The hushi- of wood-cathedrals, riveraisled ;■ ' .Where Earth's pure altars of communion are, ’Neath ceiling of the night, inlaid and tiled . ■ _ - With ivory of moonlight, pearl of star. I am returned unto the man-made hills— The windowed cliffs, whose crevices are homes— ■ > But a new light my startled being thrills! . - . . 'Here storm is slaved! The humai, river roams O’er bedded lightning, tamed to human wills, ’Mid thunder, through subaquean catacombs. I hear the tumult of the conquered seas That beat their vain rebellion ’gainst thy- wall; Eld Night illumed in burning harmonies Of lights that fashion morn from evenfall; Time, sound, the winds and the wide distances Are but the serfs and vassals of thy hall. And thou art now the master; I, the slave; But ’round my bondage is a glory thrown; I have found Peace upon thy echoing pave, Silence in throngs, beauty in builded stone— Where Nature yields, I dare not lift the glaive!

—Chester Firkins.

© © © The Happy Soldier. “A soldier of the Legion Lay dying in Algiers,” While a thousand weeping women Watched him through a flood of tears But he murmured, as his life-blood Ebbed at each convulsive throb: “Gee! I’m glad I left the army For this moving picture job!”

—P. F. Hornish.

To His City-bound Sweetheart. (Monday) Where you are, dear, the thirsty pave I know reeks with the bitter heat; 1 almost hate these tides that lake The beach and my impatient feet. The breezes—can I find them sweet. Or sing the skies that clear ajid blue yire. Knowing the woes of that retreat Where you are? (Wednesday) Where you are. dear, no'crooning wave Lulls dreamward with its rhythmic beat; . ~ v . Instead, alas, their, strident stave The boisterous - boulevards repeat. And while 1 trim a tugging sheet, Or seek pale flowers where pools of dew are. 1 My heart fares to that clamant street Where you are. (Friday) Where you are every’ man’s a knave Adept in every known deceit! Ah, worn and lonely one, be brave To know each eourtier for a cheat! My fair friends here are ehie, discreet, Ami some, no doubt, intensely true are, But none is pretty and petite As you are! (Saturday) I'm coming home! Life's incomplete Where dear delights so flat and few are; And, town or no, all good things meet Where you are! —Edward W. Barnard. © © © The New Rest Cure. If you want to be cured by the cure That's the latest and snappiest “stunt,” You must sit on a chair with your feet in the air, And your toes pointing well to the front. Yon must stretch out your museu’xr arms, - Your mouth like an “O” must be drawn;' Then throw your head back till your collar-studs crack, And yawn, yawn, yawn.