Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 21, 23 November 1910, Page 75

Verse Old and New.

Parting. HILL of Autumn tell us, dearest, i 7 That our summer dream is past; Days that to our hearts are nearest Were too sweet to longer last. Ocean’s grandeur, gloom, and beauty Tender trysts by moonlit shore, Banished by relentless duty, Pass to-night, return no more. {Vainly yearning to enfold you In my arms, can bring but pain. Some nice lad will gladly hold you While I make my peace with Jane! —Dewey Austin Cobb. © © © The Sorrows of Croesus. (“A genius should not be wealthy,” says Lord Rosebery, “or he is very likely to see his genius stifled by the fact.’’) Had I been shorn of wealth, when born, What heights I might have scaled! What deeds have done, what honours won, Had poverty prevailed! What laurels now would wreathe my brow. What coronets my crest! An M.V.0., for aught I know, Might decorate my chest! My fame might reach the highest pitch— If only I were not so rich! I should excel, I know it well, In each domain of Art ; For I could fill, with grace and skill, The great Caruso's part, Perforin like Tree (with one bent knee) In true Shakesperian faree, Or like Salome give a show In garments thin and sparse.

Yes, I could sing like Little Tich— If only I were not so rich! With camel-brush my oils I’d slush On canvas, inches thick; The daubs I’d paint, with such restraint, Would make poor Poynter sick. The public, awed, would loudly laud My quite colossal brains, And when I died the Abbey wide Would welcome my remains! My bust would fill some noble niche —• If only I were not so rich! On the battlefield I’d never yield, But die in the last diteh! In private life I’d spoil my wife, And win the Dumnow flitch! With magic pen my fellow-men, Like Caine, I would bewitch! I’d run Dorando to a stand, And never feel 1 stitch! My wagon to a star I’d hitch— If only I were not so rich! © © © A Man and His Shoes. How much a man is like his shoe: For instance, both have souls to lose; Both had been tanned, both been made tight, By cobblers; both get left and right, Both need a mate to be complete, And both are made to go on feet. They both need healing: oft are sold, And both in time will turn to mould. With shoes the last is first; with men, The first shall be the last; and when The shoes wear out, they’re mended new; When men wear out,’they’re men dead too. They both are trod upon, and both ■Will tread on others, nothing loth. Both have their ties, and both incline When polished, In the world to shine; And both peg out. How would you choose— To be a man, or be his shoes?

A»d Ma* la Fle.h and Mind and Spirit. I dread to look upon my many selves, The different natures dwelling in my soul: The ugly reptile reeking m his hole, Tile drained tiger chafing at control. And oh. the madcap band of cruel elves Mocking the lonely poet as he delves Amongst life's volumes, seeking on the shelves Of memory his heart’s tear-written scroll. A golden glory trembles on the air, The gleam of spirit-wings is over me, And to my ear a wondrous melody Whispers its benediction. May I dare To love -my Seraph Self until I share His God-like power, his deep serenity. —Ferdinand Earle. A fine and unselfish optimism animates the following sonnet, written likewise in the new form:— Eternal slumber of the dreamless dead, Thou are that drowsy paradise of peace We weary children enter when our lease Of school-time ends, and games and laughter cease, And we lie snugly wrapped within tliy bed Of clay: life’s shattered toys all scattered, fled The morning's playmates—when pale Love hath said Her last Good-night, we feel the dark increase! Our spirit’s only immortality Lies in the blossoms of a vital deed Whose waning flowers toss their winged seed Upon the winds of time. One act might be The wonder of a million Springs, and see Its fruithful harvests fill a world of need. —Ferdinand Earle.

Caledonian Cantion. My Flora is a canny Scot— Too canny, truth to tell— For though I’4 have her share my lot, She’ll not commit hersel’. 1 said: “Will you my sweetheart be?* She answered “Hoots! You men!” 1 pressed her: “Do you care for me?” She said: “I dinna ken.” What! Don’t you know your mind?” 1 cried. Spie said: “Its warm the day.” I asked her: “Will you be my bride?” She said: I eouldna say.” “Come, lastde, shall it Im* this spring?” She cried: “You’re verra free,” ‘‘Then tell me, may I buy the ring?” “Alan! Please yoursel’,” says she. Before the chancel steps we stood. St. Giles’s Kirk, until The parson asked me if I would— Of course I said “I will.’’ But when it came to Flo’s reply The nearest that she*’d go Was just to murmur cautiously: “1 wouldna say I’ll no.” © © © The Bitterness of Love. As I went through the rustling grasses Over the long low dune, I saw on the sands two lovers. And 1 saw the waves and the moon, And 1 heard the unaltering murmur Of the sea, and a wind that stirred; And 1 heard the lovers breathing Many a soft, sweet word. Ami because I too am a lover, And my Love is far from me, 1 hated the two on the sands there, And the moon ami the wind and th*' sea.

Shaemas O’Sheel.