Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIX, Issue 10, 5 March 1913, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

Thoughts on Beading Bartlett's. Familiar Quotations. IT was a friar of orders gray, By the nine gods he swore, “I chanced to see at break of day—” Said the farmer: “Say no more’’ Stay, lady, stay for mercy’s sake, Men were deceivers ever. And could I ever keep awake And let who will be clever? If this fair rose offend thy sight, I’d lay me down and dee, She was a Phantom of Delight— The boy—oh, where was he? In Xanadu did Kubla Khan Come peeping in at morn, The apparel oft proclaims the mail (Breast high amid the corn. I prithee send me back my heart, Half hidden from the eye. •Tis of man’s life a thing apart. Good-bye, my lover, good-bye. © © © The Far Country. There was no shining street of gold, But just a trail of green Where grasses ran across the mould Beside a brook serene. There were no amaranths of light, Nor fadeless asphodels, But just wee daisies shy and white And violets in the fells. There was no choiring cherubim, But just a raptured lark Made music on a nearby limb From morning until dark. There were no pearly gates ajar Nor throne from glory spun, But just the quiet evening star, And just the morning sun! ■ —'Ed. W. Mason, in “The Craftsman.”

Song—Mr Carnegie. A princelier Bon of Plutus never Did in this world exist; To nobody second I’m easily reckoned The boss philanthropist, It is my most inane endeavour To .rij myself of pelf tio every cent’ll Quite incidentally advertise myself. 'My object all sublL..e I shall achieve in time—■ To show that opulence is a crime, That opulence is a crime; And make each million spent Eternally represent A never-ending advertisement— An endless advertisement. I lie awake nights inventing plans To give my wealth away. I’ve libraries scattered And spattered and splattered All over the U. S. A. And every hour or so I start A "Fund” for this or that; But somehow or other, In one way or t’other, They fall extremely flat. 1 fling my gold like sightless Plutus, The mythological mint, And prattle with unction At every function To get my name in print. It is my daily and dear endeavour, My constant end and aim, To scatter my ducats In barrels and buckets, And advertise my name. © © © Left in the Motor's Trail. A buzz, a whirr, a cloud of dust, A wild, blood-curdling yell; A ghastly object flashing by, Then silence—and a smell.

Vergil and Tennyson. O skilled with all thy Vergil’s elder art, The magic of the Muses to impart; To sing of England as of Rome he Bang, With grand hexameter that rolled and rang. And able with a far instructed might, The Latin lamp of splendour to relight, Tho’ on a northern shore bv sullen foam, Recapture the dead melodies of Rome. Thou, too, didst feel the passion of the past, Things irretrievable and fading fast. And thou didst hear aright the human cry, The sea-like striving of mortality. Tho’ not to thee was his full utterance given, Born to a different tongue, and later heaven; Tongue that alone in .Milton could uphold, That lyre of thunder and the trump of gold But thou, still following with faithful feet, The charm of field and woodland couldet repeat; Repaint the faint vermilion of the morn, And all the colours wherewith day is born; And strangely sweet as unto him to thee, Of waking birds the mournful melody; Voices of kine, in dark uncomforted, In the dark hour, and ere the skies are red. And yet was thou content in mist, to be World-sundered by the billows of the tree, And from that Island eyrie to descry—'J?he widening march of England’s destiny, Like him thou didst the courtier’s pact rehearse, But never didst attain Mereellus’ verse Nor even the dread world beyond the tomb Didst thou expiore with Orpheus and the gloom Where armed Aeneas frighted half the shades, Coming in splendour on the dimmer glades. But this we feel, when thou hadst crossed the bar, The pilot of thy music was not far. —Stephen Phillips.

Christmas Gifts. She needed pots and a new floor broom, And window shades for the children’s room; Her sheets were down to the threadbare three And her table cloths were a sight to see. •She wanted scarfs and a towel rack And -a good, plain, useful dressing sack, Some kitehen spoons and a box for bread, A pair of scissors and sewing thread. She hoped some practical friend would stop And figure out that she’d like a mop. Or a bath-room rug or a lacquered tray Or a few plain plates for every day. She hoped and hoped and she wished a lot, But these, of course, were the things she got: A cut-class vase and a bonbonniere, A china thing for receiving hair, Some oyster forks, a manicure set, A chafing dish and a cellaret, A boudoir eap and a drawn-work mat, And a sterling this and a sterling that; A gilt-edged book on a lofty theme, And fancy bags till she longed to scream: Some curling tongs and a powder puff And a bunch of other useless stuff But though she inwardly raged she wrote To all of her friends the salf-same note. And said to each of the damfool host—- “ Just how did you guess what 1 needed most ?” © © © To-morrow’s Guerdon. Whatever stinging brambles have beset The day's hot lane, to wound our weary feet, Here, at Night’s river, let bur souls forget— The Bridge of Sleep is still, and dim, and sweet; And at its farther end the clear-eyed Morn Waits, with her silver rod, to point the way Where Hope’s rose-hearted blossoms, newly born. Replace the withered flowers of to-day.