Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 20, 16 November 1910, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

A Bathing Belle. HE dons a bathing suit of blue, ' And down the beach she goes, With little giggles of delight, To wet her dainty toes. She dabbles in the briny pools, She wades along the sand, She races with the merry waves, And vows it’s simply grand. She lets the ripples of the surf Around her, ankles play, And splashes in the pearly foam, And frolics with the spray: She counts the silver sails that pass Against the distant sky, And da.nces with the billows bright— But keeps her powder dry. <•><s><*> The Crucible. Hard ye may be in the tumult, Red to your battle hilts, Blow give for blow* in the foray, Cunningly ride in the tilts; But when the roaring is ended, Tenderly, unbeguiled, Turn to a woman a woman's Heart, and a child's to a child. Test of the man. if his worth be In accord with the ultimate plan. That he be not, to his marring, Always and utterly man; That he bring out of the tumult, Fitter and undeliled, To woman the heart of a woman, To children the heart of a child. Good when the bugles are ranting It is to be iron and fire; Good to be oak in the foray, Ice to a guilty desire. But when the battle is over (Marvel and wonder the while) Give to a woman a woman’s Heart, and a child’s to a child —O. Henry.

The Song of . the Tinker. I am the man of pot and pan, I am a lad of mettle; My tent I pitch by the wayside ditch To mend your ean and kettle; While town-bred folk bear a year-long yoke Among their feeible fellows, J clink and clank on the hedgerow bank, And blow' my snoring bellows. I loved a lass with hair like brass And eyes like a brazier glowing; But the female crew, what they will do, I swear is past all knowing! She flung her cap at a ploughman chap, And a fool I needs must think her, Who left for an oaf the mug and loaf, And the snug little tent of a tinker. But, clank and clang, let women go hang, And who shall eare a farden? With the solder strong of a laugh and a song My mind I’ll heal and harden. My ways I’ll wend, and the pots I’ll mend For gaffer and for gammer, And drive my cart with a careless heart, And sit by the road and hammer! —May Byron. 4 4 4 Duet. What ean a woman find in us, What has her wit divined in us?— The utmost and the least in us— The angel and the beast in us. What can a man descry in us And so allow the lie in us?— The serpent and the dove in us— And oh, the mother-love in us! —Witter Bynner.

Heart's Happyland. Upon the threshold of my heart I looked, and saw one stand Who knocked upon the crimson gate With loud and beating hand, And begged tfi enter in and walk Adown Heart's Happyland. “And who are thou, and who art thou Who seeks to enter in. And from my own Heart's Happyland A pleasuranee to win?” “I am the King of Great Delight, Whose other name is Sin.” “Knock not so loud, knock not so loud, Heart’s Happyland outside. It is no resting-place for Kings, Who know the world is wide. My heart hath had one great delight, But that delight hath died.” Upon the threshold of my heart I looked, and saw one rest M ith pallid hands, like weary doves, Afold upon his breast, And in his eyes the look of one Whom God sometime hath blest. “And who are thou, and who art thou, With saddened eyes, who nears Heart’s Happyland that Fate hath left A wilderness for years?” “I am the Lord of Love,” he cried “And am the Prince of Tears.” “Knock not so loud, knock -not so loud, Or peek thou not to stay. Heart’s Happyland had open gates For you but yesterday. Alas! how ean I till the flowers Your tears have washed away?” Upon the threshold of my heart I looked, and saw one tread The steps, and, weeping, knee] before The silent gates of red, And io! his face was as the face When Summertime lies dead. “And who are thou, and who art thou So shadowed with thy care? Is my Heart’s Happyland so sweet You fain would enter there?” “I am what onee was Hope,” he cried, “But now am called Despair.”

“Knock not so loud, knock not so loud. ’Twere beet that thou shouldst go. Twas thou that mad’st Heart's Happyland A barren waste of snow, And called the rose to blossom red Where roses should not blow.” Upon the threshold of my heart I heard one ehauntiiig sweet, And flung the scarlet gates apart The chorister to greet, To kneel with raptured eyes full low In worship at his feet. “And who are thou, and who art thou Whose song is sweet to me? Who ealls the waste Heart's Happyland To 'bud anil ecstasy?” "I am the one thou waitest for, Whose name is Memory.” “Come in, come in and bar the door, Dear Soul of Yesterday, And far across Heart’s Happyland Together we will stray. It was for you, it was for you 1 sent them all away.” —A.S. 4 4 4 The Storm. I thought the storm its might had spent That, deep as life tho’ love had grown, No more would sails be lashed and rent, The ship no more from harbour blown. I look on thee, and strive in vain To keep my course o’er calmer seas, For the resistless hurricane Breaks on the ocean's mysteries. 1 cannot find or peace or rest In storm or calm, by sun or star; Driven on this visionary quest I fly beyond the harbour bar. The eternal ocean stretcheth wide: No chart have I in this mad race; And yet the very storm may guide Unto the glory of thy face! —Ludwig Lewisohn.