Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume L, Issue 28, 19 July 1923, Page 28

Selected Poetry

_> "My Old Dhudeen" (For the N.Z. Tablet.) I am sitting here and dreaming of the days now long gone •by j ■ I am sitting here and dreaming of memories that never die, Of memories sweet and pleasant that are thrown upon the screen, In the picture, in the smoke cloud as I smoke my old dhudeen. I could see my sainted mother standing at the cabin door, I could see my playmates playing down beside the Shannon's shore, My father, and my brothers too, and my sister, sweet colleen, / In the picture inxthe smoke cloud as I smoked my old dhudeen. "God is good," Thus said my mother, and what she said was ever true, As you roam around this world, my boy, we will ever be with you, '■The times may be hard, the roads be long as you move from scene to scene, "But, picture us in the smoke cloud as you smoke your old dhudeen." The years have rolled and rolled since then and my loved ones are no more, But I can see them, yes, I can see them all dovn by the Shannon's shore, I would gladly give all the wealth I have and all the joys that I have seen, To be in that smoke cloud picture as I smoke my old dhudeen. You are 'but a simple bit of clay but such a true, true friend, And like the Master of all Masters you give but never lend, So gaps are bridged, so times'effaced, ah! many changes have we seen, \ But the smoke cloud picture still remains—" God bless you" my old Dhudeen. —James Sexton, Remuera, Auckland. «? ' The Robber in England I am a robber from over the seas; I have come stealing things like these-: . The slant of the hills toward Parracombe? Town, The look of the sea from Porloek down, The patchwork of fields with hedges between Dividing the new-ploughed red from green Like a magical quilt-stitch set to bind tf Fields itpon hills around and behind. " 4 I have come,stealing the tilt of the thatehes '',, Where villages doze among the green patches, Where each little house as the road winds round • Seems to have grown from a root in the ground, For almost as natural as trees are they V , ' With the dull brown thatch above the stone's old gray, • Or ancient plaster firm and mellow In quiet tones of cream or yellow. „".. When I go home I shall carry away ■ Deep-drawn fragrance of Devon hay, The teasing turn of a path like a dream • And the soothing flavor of Devonshire cream, • The fiery glance of poppies in corn, The blessed light on a holy book Through colored windows reverently ' borne ; While overhead the sweet bells shook For somebody married, somebody dead, '; '* ■■■••' Or another hour of the ages sped. ';-... »; Into my treasury I shall thrust -; ■:.,. ";•

Heather-plunder or bracken-rust,' ,v'>; ; ' : . & :"\:.X ';. i( : - Thorn of holly and ivy-bud V< '.' :, . . • And songs of all the singing brood, ', ~['.', With English voices cheery and sweet And the patient look of English feet . Clumsily shod and moving slow - Wherever the paths of the good land go, Or on streets of London that twist and wind Like the whimsical humor of the English mind. These and/ the angels weeping stone tears In Westminster Abbey forever and ever, .. * And the knights that sound the hours with spears In Wells Cathedral prompt and clever, The combs the Romans used at Bath, The Cheshire Cheese where Johnson made merry, The Bloody Tower with its scenes of wrath And the old Cathedral of Canterbury— " '. These I have stolen, stolen away To make them mine till my dying day; . And neither the King in Buckingham Palace • " : ""'***. Nor the gracious Queen with her crown of gold -■ &. /" Will take them from me, for all without malice What I have taken I mean to hold. j —Marguerite Wilkinson, in The Great Dream.. • «? Dublin as the Poet Sees It When I behold those wistful eyes of Thine Brimmed with sad laughter and triumphant tears, I think the pageant of Thy crowded years Stirs in their deeps, now shadow, now sunshine. A queen Thou art, though of Thy queenliness Nought but the mournful vestiges remain; The stately glories of Thine ancient reign Are still reflected in Thy faded grace. Nature has clothed Thee with sovereignty, Robed Thee with purple of the heather hills, Yellow of gorse, silver of mountain rills, And for Thy footstool made the emerald sea. Thou Sleeping Beauty of old cities, rise '■From hopeless dreams of_hope too-long denied; The hundred years are passed, and to Thy side Young Freedom hastens with a glad surprise. Beauty and Love and Hope are in his train, And Health and Plenty for the coming time; Soon on Thy throne, as in the golden prime, Over Thy children thou shalt grandly reign. —Hugh A. MacCartax,- in Little White Roads and Other Poems. <? Offering What shall I offer God? What shall I set apart * Out of my body and blood, . ' * Out of my mind and heart, To be His and His alone? Give Him the costly thing Never given for gold. For fear, or love, or hate, ' <■ -, . To any soul' you have known, The thing he bade you hold ~ '% From the cradle to the tomb, The thing dearer than fate That cannot be taken away < By any crowned king, The .thing no wage can pay, ~ ,■ '" By no p?aise beguiled, The thing dedper than doom That you could not yield, your child ;> For a holy wedding gift '_• \v> Were she a sweet, white bride- , This thing of'terrible thrift .. ' ; 'i Offer God—your pride. ; \:. - . —rMarguerite Wilkinson, in Current Opinion,