BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

Dominion, Volume 4, Issue 1073, 11 March 1911, Page 9

BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

VERSES OLD AND NEW. THE TORN LETTER, I tore your letter into strips No bigger than the tiny leathers That (tucks preen out in changing weathers Upon the shifting ripple-tips. / Thereafter on my bed alone I seemed to sen you in a vision And he:;r you say: "\vhy this derision Oi one drawn to you, though unknown h" Yea, eve's quick mood had run its course, The night hud cooled my hasty madness ; I suffered a regretful sadness Which deepened into real remorse. I thought what pensive, patient days A soul must know of grain so lender; How much of good must graco tho sender . , 'Of such sweet words in such bright phrase. , Uprising then, as things unpriced 1 sought each fragment, patched ana mended; , Tho midnight faded ere I had ended And gathered words I had sacrificed. But some, alas, of thoso X threw, Were past my search, destroyed iorever; They wero your namo and place; and never Did I regain thoso clews to you. And having missed, by rash unheed, My first, last, only means to know you, It dawned on me I must forego yuu, And at the sense;-I ached indeed. That ache for you, got long ago, Comes, back; I. never could outgrow it. What a revenge, did you but know it? But that you will not, cannot know. —Thomas Hardy in tho "English Review."

THE MOTHER'S PRATER. The good Lord gave, tho Lord has taken from me, Blessed-bo His name, His holy will be done. The mourners all have gone, all save I, his mother, The' little grave lies lonely in the sun. Kay! I w'ould not follow, though they did beseech me, For tho angels come now waiting for niy dead. ' Heaven's door is open, so my whispers

soar there, While the gentle angels "lift him from his bed.

Oh Lord, when Thou gavest he was weak and helpless, > Could not riso nor wander from my shielding arm; Lovely, is ho now and strong with four sweet summers, Laughing, running, tumbling, hard to keep from harm;

If sorao mother, whoso babe on earth is living, Takes his littlo' hand, to guide his stranger feet 'Mid the countless hosts that cross the lioor. of heaven, Thou wilt not reprove her for Thy pity sweet. ■

If upon her breast sho holds his baby beauty, ' All his golden hair will fall about her hand, Laughing let her fingers pull it into ringlets— Lon» and lovely ringlets. Sho will understand.

Wilful are his ways and full of merry mischief; If he prove unruly, lay the blame on me. Never did I chide him for his noiso or . riot, : Smiled upon his folly, glad, his joy to see. JEaoh eve shall I come besiievhis''b'e'(i sci ■ lowly; "Hush-a-by,. my baby," softly shall I sing,So, if. he be frightened, full of sleep and ■anger, The song ho loved shall reach him and sure comfort bring.

Lord, if in. my praying, Thou shonld'st hear me weeping, Ever was I wayward, always full of tears, Take no heed of this grief. Sweet tho Rift Thou gavest All tho cherished treasure of thoso golden years.

Do . not, therefore, hold me to Thy will ungrateful: Soon I shall stand upright, ■ smiling, strong, and brave. With a son in heaven the sad earth forgetting, But 'tis lonely, yet, Lord, by the littlo grave. Oh, 'tis lonely, lonely, by tho little grave!, —Dora Sigerson Shorter, in "The Nation."

THE MESSAGE OF AGE. I come to you to sing of happiness, AVhich many years I sought for in my soul As though it ■ were some philosophic goal: I found it not, but only emptiness. And then I sought for pleasure in the

press Of those delights no creeds or thoughts control, The beat of cymbals, and the foaming bowl, And, living madly, knew content still less. Yet happiness was here at hand for me. Tn cool and even contours of my room— With light just flowing from the sober north— And on the wharves where solemn steamers loom, In all their mystery of going forth To taste the sullen splendour of the sea. —Fredegond llaitland.

THE GRAY XORNS. What do you bring in your sacks, Gray Girls? "Sea-saud awl sorrow." Wliafc is that mist that behind you whirls? "Tho souls of to-morrow."

What are those shapes on the windy coasts ? "Tho dead souls going." Aud what are those loads, on tho backs of ghosts? "The seed'of their sowing!" —Edwin ilarkham, in "Vcdanta Jlaga'.iue."