VERSES NEW AND OLD.

Dominion, Volume 2, Issue 461, 20 March 1909, Page 9

VERSES NEW AND OLD.

■ j ■ , ' THE SEER. . "Churches are best for prayer that have, ■ ■ least light." I. Brother Andreas in the convcnt dwelt, As (lesh may dwell among the souls set free. For thore the stately I'rior in zeal must melt, The dullest novice had the eyes that see. And, when the choir with mystic light would Or, near as touch, the blessed forms .would glide,— "Seest thou not now?" his neighbours whispered low; "Prfjy for me! Tray!" his weary voice re- • plied. -• ■ 1L ' , What timo they gathered faggots in'the brake, He guessed wjiat visions led them through the trees, ■ And, when they cast their nets upon the lake, What unseen Presence sent them to their knees. Tet /grieve not, Brother, for thy lack of grace! ■ God for a little from thee hides His smile!" Andreas answered, with averted face:— "I know,'indeed, 'tis but a little while!" 111. . - ,So, to the last, they held ;him deaf and dumb, Whose soul 'was sated with the Mystic: Flume, Who sought, ere death, to hido among his kind " The Light ■ from> which those vagrant , slia- . do'ws came. ... . God's seer must claim one twilit holiday That faith may win her spurs and find her , wings! ' ' ■ ■<' Now. sleeps his clay upon- thekindreil clay; . -And.'all the Brethren dream' -of. common tilings/-. 1 •; 6. Ml Hort, in "The Nation." V '• SONG. ; Winter.rain,' winter-rain,iwhy ire you weepiiiij. Whv have you care for the deep of the year? Inr. the white hedge-side the-jbuds are all sleeping. Why does the North' wind go crying of fear ? We have good, cause for our wailing and crying, All the white roses- down-tram pled tiro lying, ' Men have dispeopled the-last year's nes.t, Our master Love lieth wounded to dying In the'white-house"where they mado hlm ! a guest. ;'i , ■

Summer wind, summer wind,, why are*, you •singing,' " - -' Have you left weeping your old sorrow yet? What of the fair love too wounded for . wing- . / ing, / ■ ■' ; ■■'' ~ Hoses and ruined nests—do you forget? . There aro new nests 'in. the green garden-closes, June is/fulfilled- of its' passion... of vosej, New love laughs out . in the wiiito house again, v-, . ■ , .' And the light song of the wind as. it blows is All' is forgotten, forgotten, forgotten—nothing remembers the last year's, pain. .' Ethel iTalbot,-in the "Westminster Gazette."JOURNALISM AND LITERATURE. At tho Author's Club recently, Mr. J. St. Loe . Strachey claimed that journalism and literature are .not incompatible,, ljut lie doubted whether any'considerable amount of journalism reaches tho level-of literature. ■ Much (says the. ''Westminster Gazette" in comment) depends .on what limits we assign to literature itself. Probably Mr. Strachey's own definition, if we could him to. fraine it, would exclude a vast number of the ephemeral publications which masquerade as part of the year's, literary output in the catalogues of the booksellers.' The deludes of novels which are thrown, aside when once reajl to bo thought,of no mor.e; the 'books about art that , have neither information nor. logical theory to impart;, .the half-digested philosophy,and the superfluous biography—all thesq Would be cut out', when literature was under discussion. They .have'no niore claim tJo consideration as lit-erature, than tho hotchpotch of the news of the day which fills the greater part of the columns; ( of thfl papers. If we. accept-Mr:.'Strachey's ; 'tesl, of style tb 4M.idihE;^liat^';li6^^^-Bii4r^ at - ;, ' s < outSido the' circle','"iiHen' mucnojf what is

written in the newspapers-may be, <\fknowledged better literature than a" large proportion. of . that ; .which appears 'betweencloth covers.. Suclra'test removes, all'sharp lines of demarcation between journalism and literature—the pne. merges imperceptibly into the other with much overlapping in places. , But the journalist is not delucled, even while he cives. the world of his best; and tries to interest a public larger than that which is commanded by any but the most popular novelist. Ho knows that his work is for the day, and that only hero a scrap and there a scrap is capable of resurrection. He treats of passing events and ephemeral subjects. His finest effort is buried amid such a sur- , rounding mass of words: that even the British Museum hesitates to'i;ive it house .rtiomr A few hours, and what ,ho has written is on its way to oblivion. Journalism may be, and frequently is, literaturffo if it bo judged by; the exact adaptation Mf style to the thing to be said, Gut if.-literature, without any qualifying adjective, is to mean writing that has not only ckact ' expression but enduring quality, then, with, regret,' but not without thoughts that are 1 a compensation, the journalist must find himself shut without the fold. .. . |