Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIX, Issue 23, 4 June 1913, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

The Gentle Suffragette (London, 1913). YiX HE gentle suffragette stool up ||| Amid a crowd, man driven; 1 Her eyes were eager for the fray. No quarter asked or given; She had three billies on her arm An,] the stones in her hand were seven. Her robe, wrought of some sojnbre stuff, No ’broideries did adorn, But "\ otes for women” at her breast Was pinned securely on; Her corn gold hair was tumbling down, It made her look forlorn. Her seemed she had not been for long One of those roisterers; All sweetness was not yet quite gone From those blue eyes of hers; Yet to the ‘‘Cause” her soul was pledged For this and all the years. »She raised her little hand, and then A stone went hurtling by; It missed a man by half an inch But in another’s eye It lodgment found. He gave a yell That reached to heaven high! And then she took her billy up Ami laid about her well; Her seemed a very’ lusty maid, •For heads began to swell; The uproar most terrific was, •She was raising merry ! And ''Ladies, ladies!” criedi the men, "Desist —this fray, we fear, (May damage do to life and limb, And one to death is near!” The suffragette she heeded not— She sneered (I saw her sneer). —New York Times.

Port of Holy Peter. The blue laguna rocks and quivers, Dull gurgling eddies twist and spin, The climate does for people’s livers, It’s a nasty place to anchor in Is Spanish port, Fever port, * Tort of Holy Peter. The town begins on the sea-beaches, And the town’s mad with the stinging flies. The drinking water's mostly leeches, It's a far remove from Paradise Is Spanish port, Fever port. Port of Holy Peter. There's sand-bagging and throat-slitting, And quiet graves in the sea slime, •Stabbing, of course, and rum-hitting, Dirt, and drink, and stink, and crime, In Spanish port, Fever port, Port of Holy Peter. All the day the wind’s blowing From the sick swamp below the hills, All the night the plague's growing, And the dawn brings the fever chills, In Spanish port, Fever port. Port of Holy Peter. You get a thirst there's no slaking, You get the chills and fever-shakes, Tongue yellow and head aching, And then the sleep that never wakes. And all the year the heat's baking, The sea rots and the earth quakes, In Spanish port, Fever port, " Port of Holy Peter. —From “The Story of a Round-House, and other poems,” by John Masefield.

Sweet ContentArt thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd? O punishment.' Dcst thou' laugh to See how fools are vex’d To add to golden numbers golden numbers? O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny hey nonny nonny! Caret drink the waters of the crisped spring? O sweet content! Swim’st thou tn wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears? - O punishment! Then he that patiently want’s burden bears, No burden beans, but is a king, a king! O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny—hey nonny nonny! —From “Patient Grissell” (Thomas Dekker). © © © Flowers. I will not have the ma<J t'lytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly quean, / Whom, therefore I will shun; The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun; But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one. The pea is but a wanton witch, In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand; The wolfqbane I should dread; Nor will I dreary rosemarye, That always mourns the dead; But I will woo- the dainty rose, With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is ail in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me. And the daisy’s cheeks is tipp'd with a blush, >She is of sueh low degree; Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, And the broom's betroth'd to the bee; But I wijf plight with the dainty rose, For the fairest of all is she. —Thomas Jfood. © © © Spring Sweetness. I stood tiptoe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their'scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lest their starry diadems Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn. And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crejrt A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; For not the faintest motion could ba seen Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. There was wide wandering for the greediest eye, To peer about upon variety. Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, I And trace the dwindling edgings of its brim; To picture out the quaint ami curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending: Or by the bowery eleifite, and leafy, shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. To where the hurrying freshnesses ayo preach A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds. —From “Dedication” (John Keats).