VERSES NEW AND OLD.

Dominion, Volume 2, Issue 467, 27 March 1909, Page 9

VERSES NEW AND OLD.

IN THE DESERT. In that forgotten land from which I 'camo, Life must have prospered in a World of Streams, _ For when I win in sleep a happy hour, The sound of running water haunts my dreams. Awake, Grief dominates again my soul And kills the echo of that jocund sound, That murmuring thread—a ceaseless silver flow, . Dividing silence from a calm profound. The arid land meets me on every side, Lost is tho memory of that Long Ago, Only remains a longing for the _ place Where in my dreams tho running waters flow. —Beatrice Allhusen, in the "Westminster Gazette." TO MY VIOLIN. fin silvis viva silui; canora jam mortna cano."] Sycamore that spread a shade, Where the blackbird, unafraid, Singing in you, music- made. Pino that murmured of the breeze Where you leaned to summer seas. Wood, that once was living tree, ,• Let the dumb now speak through thee. , Hidden things that know no way' Out into tho light of day, Captives watohing for a ray, Dreamers by some temple gato Who for moving waters wait. Wonder-working wood, let me Touch your strings and set them free. Bound—yon open wide the doors, Dumb—a voice'they find in yours, Dry—through you the fountain pours, Inarticulate—they talk, .. Paralysed—they rise and walk. Wood of magic, haunted tree, Thus you lay your spells on me. Till, 'within a charmed ring Half-created things shall spring . Into being while you sing, Crowding in a countless throng, ' Crying with a new-found tongue. Wood of Orpheus, wood of Pan, Loud you sing the soul of man. * —Mama Pease, in the "Spectator." PRAISE THE GOOD DAT AT THE END OF IT. Across the sky red petals of the dawn i As'rose leaves blown from east to west are drifting; On the' rain-silvered copse, and dew-white lawn The shadows in the sunrise shafts are shifting. . Praise the good day!— Alas, those cloudlands fliti' Praise the good day, but—at the end of it.

'Above tho fields a gentian sky uhtinged By any haze its noontide blue outstretches,' The radiant green of fresh-sprung corn is .fringed i With yellow birdsfoot and wild crimson .vetches. Praise the good day'!— grass-scented and sunlit. . Praise the good day, but—at the end of it. The twilight gathers in the'dark heechwbod, The full moon's ring is stained with tawny umber. The dusk has brought, her grey moth-sister-hood .''..' Of dreams and silence and the mist of slumber. .. • ,' Praise the good day!— Alack.! why blame or praise ? Our day is dead 'mid 'myriads of dead days.. . ...._. ■ ■ Una Artovelde Taylor.