Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 17, 13 May 1925, Page 32

Selected Poetry

THOUGHTS IN NELSON CEMETERY. (For the N.Z. Tablet.) This silent slope is set aside for sleep, That men might bear each other here to rest - Forgiving; where the waters wash and weep Beside a white road winding to the west. A field of tablets gleaming o’er the deep Like still sails set against the green hill crest, And crooning pine trees where the salt winds sweep, Breathing a prayer upon each lowly guest. An hour of mourning—and the slow years creep Unto forgetfulness, Time’s weeds invest This little lot the dead alone- may keep, And rust the name upon the slab impressed; And here, how transient, how bitter cheap. The sordid things that hold our lives obsessed — Here lies Pride ! a mould’ring sunken heap, And o’er his tomb the truth of truths expressed ! And so a while to till, to sow, to reap, And man is folded unto Earth’s cold breast ; But Him who suffered knows the path is steep, And holds His portal open to the blest. —Harold Gallagher. Nelson. MY VACATION, AUGUST 1923 ’Twas only a flying visit, a matter of two short weeks; But my heart was filled with longing tho’ tears had wet my cheeks, For I thought of the kindly faces beloved of long ago, Who would gladly come to greet me at dear old Westland Row. But many of them were gathered to the Heavenly Father’s care, And we who are left must only hope some day we’ll join them there. For Ireland suffered sorely in the years that rolled between, And my heart was sad for the boys who died for wearing green. From Holyhead to Kingstown I. watched from dark till dawn, For 1 yearned to see ’Von, Ireland, at the morning’s coming on, To see your loved hills thro’ the mist the hedgerows veiled in dew, To hear the lark’s sweet song of hope and welcome hack to you. The boat has reached the harbor; thank God I’m home at last; This short trip will repay me now for the sorrows of the past., •—B. L. Growney, in the Irish World.

WORDS. Words, breathing words, full-murmuring syllables ! How you enrich the thoughts that dwell in you With far-bought perfume, that no meaning tells, Yet stirs the mind to flower in thoughts anew 1 Sometimes how lulling like the rain’s soft veil, Then vivid as the pressure of a hand, Now filled with fair surmises like a sail Against the blue coast of some foreign land. 0 words, you live, and therefore you can die, 111-yoked, imprisoned, tamed in a dull ■ task! So callous tongues may use you, but not I, Who for your grace, a. wooing lover, ask. Dead things may kill; and you being dead entomb The frozen thought that once you clothed in bloom. —Laurence Bin yon, in an exchange. tvA THE LAND WE LOVE. Land of the gentle and brave! Our love is as wide as thy woo; It deepens beside every grave Where the heart of a hero lies low. Land of the sunniest skies! Our love glows more for thy gloom ; Our hearts by the saddest of ties, Cling closest to thee in thy doom. Land where the desolate weep In a sorrow no voice may console! Our tears are but streams, making deep The ocean of love in our soul. Land where the victor’s flag waves, Where only the dead are the free! Each link of the chain that enslaves, But binds us to them and to thee. I Laud where the Sign of the Cross Its shadow hath everywhere shed ! We measure our love by thy loss, Thy loss by the graves of our Am ! j — (Father) Abram J. Ryan, in Forms. vl £3 p SONGS OF OUR LAND. j Songs of our land, ye are with us for ever; ; The power and the splendor of thrones pass away . " I But yours is the might of some far flowing 1 river, l Through summer’s bright roses, or autumn’s decay. s I • I Ye treasure each voice of the swift-passing ages, -j And truth, which time writeth on leaves or on sand; |

Ye bring us the bright thoughts of poets and | sages, And keep them among us, old songs of our-A land. • . ' ’ : I ■ the bards may go down to the place of their slumbers ; The lyre of the charmer be hushed in the grave; But far in the future the power of their numbers Shall kindle the hearts of our faithful and , brave. ■ It will waken an echo in souls deep and . lonely, Like voices of reeds by the summer breeze fanned ; It will call up a spirit of freedom, when only Her breathings are heard in the, songs of our land. For they keep a record of those, the truehearted, Who ell with the cause they had vowed to maintain They show us bright shadows of glory de- I parted, | Of the love that grew cold, and the hope I, that was vain. \ ! 'Hie page may be lost and the pen long | forsaken, \ And weeds may grow wild o’er the bravo 1 heart and hand; But ye are still left when all else hath been I taken, Like streams in the desert, sweet songs of. our land! . ... " ;i Songs cf our land! ye have followed the stranger AA ith power over ocean and desert afar, Ve have gone with our wand’rers through distance and danger, And gladdened their path like a homeguiding star ith the breath of our mountains in summers long vanished, And visions that passed like a wave from our strand; ; With hope for their country and joy from jl her banished, \\ . A e come to us ever, sweet songs of our t i land ! / I a The spring-time may come with the song of f ’ her glory, | a To bid the green heart of the forest | is| rejoice; | But the pine of the mountain, though j blasted and hoary, And rock in the desert can send forth a \ voice. It is thus in their triumphs for deep desola- . I tions, r. - *ll7l *1 | .1 While ocean waves roll, or the mountains \ shall stand, Js-. Still hearts that are bravest and best of tl j nations, fl Shall glory and live in the songs of our 1 j land. I A , I ft Frances Brown in Irish Minstrelsy. [