POETS’ CORNER.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 2769, 26 March 1910, Page 2 (Supplement)

POETS’ CORNER.

VERSES OLD AND NEW. COAIET AND EVENING STAR. The winds are laid and all the woous have rest, The storm-clouds vanish, skies are calm and clear, And burning like a jewel in the mere The Star of Love sinks downward to the west; But Britain heeds not; in her people’s breast Is war of cloudy faction far and near; The peace of brotherhood lias flown, I hear. Cries of the conqueror and the dipossess’t, Ah! would to God for longing eyes were given Some star of Jove that earthward would descend To follow sunshine down the silent stair; ■ And this wild comet-torch would ■wave despair To other worlds, nor fatefully portend The fall of princes and the wrath m Heaven. —H. D. ltavnsley, in the “Westminster Gazette.” THE BANSHEE. A voice came crying to me window In the wind and the rain, Like the voice of an old, old woman Who was crying in pain; And I knew that Michael (God rest him!) Would never spake again. 1 knew, but I didn’t let on I knew, For lear the childhern had heard: I had it ready on me tongue to’ say, It was'only a bird — ' • But tho voice cried mighty loud and close, And not one of the childhern stirred. •Not one of the childhern moved in their sleep —But the red -fire shone ; And out dliere in the wet blue of. the ■night The voice went on—• It was sad with the sorrows that are to come , And the griefs that are gone. For the heart of the creature was full of love She was longing to spake. God knows how far she had come in the dark, And aII for my sake— But her tongue (God help her!) was a heathen thing, Like the cry of a kittiwake.

I knew she had passed by the ship As it rose and fell; And looked at me Michael walking the deck. And him alive and well; And seen the body of him sewn in a sail

And sunk in the swell: And the c ulture (God help her!) Was sorry, and trying to tell. Tho trouble she must have seen I It was all her cry : The pain of the unborn lives And tlie lives gone by; And'she. keened for me Michael: and not one of .his fatherless childhern As much as opened an eye. M. Little, in tlie “Spectator.” LONDON. See, what a mass ot gems the city wears Upon her broad, live bosom! row on row, Rubies and emeralds and amethysts glow. See! that huge circle like a necklace, stares With thousands of bold eyes to heaven, and dares The golden stars to dim the lamps below, And in the mirror of the mire I know The moon has loft her image unawares.

That’s the great town at night; I see her breasts, Pricked out with lamps, they stand like huge; black towers; I think they move! I hear her panting breath. And that’s her head where the tiara rests. And in her brain, through lanes as dark as death. Men creep like thoughts . . . The lamps are like pale flowers. -L-ord Alfred Douglas, in “The Academy.” TO RUDYARD. 0 Rudyard, Rudyard, in our hours of ease (Before tlie war) you were not hard to please; , YjOif loved a regiment whether fore or aft, You loved a subaltern, however daft, You loved the verv dregs of barrack ■ life, The amorous colonel and the sergeant s wife. \~ou sang the land where dawn across the Bay . Comes up to waken queens iu Mandalay, v ’ The land where comrades sleep by Cabal ford And Valour brown and white, is Borderlord, The secret Jungle-life of child and beast, And all the magic of the dreamy East. These, these we loved with you, aud loved still more ■ ' The Seven Seas that break on Britain s shore, Tlie winds tlia know her labor and her pride, , And tlie long trail whereon our fathers died. ...nr. 1 —Henfy -Nowbolt. MASTER OF THYSELF. He best can drink’the Wine of Life, And sweetly crush the Grape of Fate,. Who shuts the Janus doors of strife. And binds an olive on liis'gato. Who- needs no victim to atone The record of his blameless hour;. Contentment is the corner-stone On which he builds his arch of power.

He best enjoys who can refrain, He least "is nimble Fort une’s fool, Who sees his honest duty plain, A scholar in her iron school. How idbxfnr a spurious fame To roll in thorn-beds of unrest; What matter whom the mob acclaim, If thOu art master of tliy breast? If sick thy soul with fear and doubt. And weary with the rabble din. If thou would’st scorn the herd without, _ . First make tho discord calm within. —Lord de Tabley.

KERMIT AND I ARE OUT. I - “The Roosevelt hunting-party is tired to death and ready to quit,” says a returned African traveller. “Roosevelt greatly regrets to hear of the stories of wanton slaughter of animals which have been given out.” The exPresident’s account of his expedition in “Scribner” and the “Telegraph” are decidedly “bluggy,” and the “Los Angeles Express” imagines Mr Roosevelt ejaculating thus .to his son Kermit : Pack up our trophies, Kermit, and.bale them good and sto-ut, Pm getting sick of the slaughter; it’s time wo were pulling out. Put in those lion peltries, the hides of the dig-dig, too, / The elephant tusks and snake-skins and .monkeys, and Birds we slew. And do not forget the records I ordered you to prepare, Lost someone declare us liars, and say we were never there. So, pack up our duffle, Kermit, and nothing of worth o’erloolc. For I’ve read of the fate of Peary and the doubters of Dr Cook. I regret all the criticisms America, makes so free. This gabble of “wanton slaughter” is getting too much for me. • Of course, ’tis the work of knockers denouncing my honored name, The papers are giving columns to Peary and Cook. I see, And Jeffries comes in for mention, but nary a word of me! I’m out of the headlines, Kermit, where once I was strictly “it,” And the fear that folks will forget me brings on a conniption fit! So, pack up our trophies, Kermit, and all of our baggage check, ’Tis time that the world discovered that Teddy is still on deck. As only a bloody butcher who delightsto deplete the game. I, who have- slain the lion and wrestled with cheetahs, too, And captured all sorts of critters to stock up the Yankee zoo! And detailed in thrilling stories how every combat occurred,

All featured in “Scribbler’s Monthly,” at only a plunk a word ! So, pack up our trophies. Kermit, and let us no longer roam ; I’m sick of the wav tlmy’re knocking, and long to be starting home. I DON’T WANT. I don’t think I want a king job, To sit on a lonesome throne, And think tlie thoughts of my counsel-, lors And never a one of my own ! To rule with a bauble sceptre And faint in my humble pride— To hear in the tramn of the horses’ feet, Treason, where my soldiers.ride !

I don’t think .1 want a king job, To curse when business is slack. And to give up the ghost when a trusted friend Sticks liis rapier in my hack! A king is a sorry creature For all his purple and gold, And though he may snule when the plaudits ring He’s weeping when the truth is told!

And so you may keep your king job. Ye withered old scions of line, But the simple life of the simple man Is the ideal life for mine! I eat what I earn, and earning I spend what I will, or keep— And I’ll toil all day in my simple way, And when evening comes, by gosh, I’ll sleep ! SOME VIEWS OF LIFE. “My views of life,” the burglar said, “I’ve now got ‘time’ to tell; I will just say, I often find That life is but a ‘cell.’ ” “I’m tired of life,” the barber said, “Don't ask the reason why; I’ve often had some narrow ‘shaves.’ So I’m not afraid to die.” Said tlie butcher as he killed a bull, “There’s nothing worries me : I may work hard,, but, you’ll admit, I take ‘life’ easily.” The baker looked quite “pi’’-ous. And slowly shook his head ; “I was ‘bred’ to work hard always, I ‘knead’ to live,” he said. The shoemaker was “last” ot “awl,” His views of life to give; Said he, “I often sell my ‘solo.’ But still we’ve got to live.” AUTUMN. Tlie rain drives hard across the mcoi. Shudder the sun-baked summer loaves; > The hollyhocks arc dead and gone, And grain is garnered irp in sheaves. Oh. many <the aching heart that grievesThat grieves the rose should fade so soon; Many the tear-dimmed eyes that see , 'Autumnal mists obscure tlie unoon. The lark showered gladness from the sky, Inspiring all the summer air, And summer winds went singing by, Kissing my lady’s dainty hair. . B'taunches the lark ids summer song: The wind's grow cold, the skies are weeping. And all the world seems growing old Because my lady’s sleeping! —•Arthur Coles Armstrong. St. James’ Budget. - THE KING OF DREAMS. Some must delve when tho dawn is •ii-i?h; Some must moil when the noonday beams; But when night comes and the soft winds sigh, Every, man is a King of Dreams! One must plod while another must ply At plow or loom till the sunsetstreams, But when night comes, and the moon rides' high., Every man is a King of Dreams! One is slave to. a- master's cry. But when night comes and the discords die, Every man is a King of Dreams!

This you may sell and that you may buy. And this you. may barter for gold that gleams. But there’s one domain that i s fixed for aye,— Every mail is a King of Dreams ! —Clinton Scollard. Lippinco-tt’s Magazine.