VERSES OLD AND NEW.

Dominion, Volume 5, Issue 1354, 3 February 1912, Page 9

VERSES OLD AND NEW.

A CHILD'S EPITAPH. Stranger, pause hero whersj rest his little i'tet 1 Who turned from his journey ere ho • tired; Whoso lip with dew honey still was sivcct, \ : \ Who found hero all that innocenoo desirod. A little fostering for his dusty flowers, A morsel for these birds of hi 3 delight: So • shall he pass, not unbeguiled, the hours Oi day, nor , wake unoomfortod at night. \ Hero lies an orphan whoso last bed is made Besido the road beneath this friendly pino That marks whore ■ from tho way his small feet strayed, Oh, traveller, to make room—mayhap— • for thine. —C. T. Rogers, in "Harper's Weekly." THE EVE OP AGINCOURT. Upon tho Evo of Agincourt I King Harry's men of might Grieved that no clerk, with warrant sure, Might shrive them ero the fight. Thoy languished that they might be fed With Body and Blood divine: Yea, hungered for the holy Bread, And thirsted for the Wine. Then cricd they like a rushing wind: "Pcccavi! Misericorde!" Noble and churl and knight and hind Face downward on the sward. They knelt thorn on tho grass-green sod To-morrow's blood should stain; t With a loud voice cried on their God, And boat their breasts amain. Oh, Thou Who wiliest tho loss of none, But shall these go unfed Out on the way, most bitter and lone, Without the Wino and Bread? i "They shall not!" There, ten thousand strong, Facc downwards as they laj, They have taken a blade of grass lon{r, A particle of clay. They have eaten a blade from the green sward, A little clay withal; Unto their faith is given the Lord Who sees a sparrow fall. Face downward on the grass-green sod, / With humblo hearts on fire, ' Ho hath given them of His Body and Blood Who knows all men's desire. For way-bread, viaticum, There, England's pride and boast. They kneel rind take tho grass, the loam, Desiro tho Sacred Host. For now He makes a new Supper, And they aro fain to sup, That thoy may feast on Royal Fare And drain the holiest Cup. Whene'er I see tho green grass-blade That springs for King and boor, I think how Harry's men were fed On tho Eye of Agincourt. —Katharine Tynan, in. the London '"Tablet."- . ! < "RENCONTRE.". Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late. That 1 am going out the door while yon come in the gate? For you the garden blooms galore, the castle is en fete; .Ton are the coming guest, my dear—for me the ihorses wait. I know the mansion well, my dear, its rooms so rich and wide; If you had only come before I might have been your guide, And hand in hand with you explore the treasures that they hide;' •• But you have come to stay, my dear, and I prepared to ride. Then walk with me an Eonr, my dear, and pluck the reddest rose Amid the white and crimson store with which your garden glows— A single rose—l ask no more of what your love bestows; It is enough to give, my dear a flower to him who goes.

The House of Life is yours, my d<ar, for many and many a day. But I irfust ride tho lonely shore, the Road to Far Away: Bo bring the stirrup-cup and pour a brimming draft, I pray,, Jlnd when you take .tho road, my dear, I'll meet you on the way. —Henry van Dyke. CHRISTMAS'EVE IN THE WORKHOUSE. Jf 3 Christmas Etc they tell me, bat in a Workhouse Ward . One day is like another an both 13 mortal of grand rejoicings could the like of us afford, .That's poor old pauper women who conlil never raise a song? Peace and goodwill th« angels sing To Christianable people. You'll hear the merry bells ring out From every Dublin steeple. There's paper decorations to hang upon the wall; ~.,n. i And scrubbin' and conthrivm — themselves is fearful clan*, . They're lettin' on it s Christmas Eve, but troth! I'd quit it all To walk tho dirty world outside and see the streets again. Peace and goodwill the angels sing To cverv living sinner. (On Christmas Day the Gnardians give Plum pudding for our dinner.) The quid one that's beside me she coughs will every breath, The one beyant, the villyam, her temper s fearful short; But it's in this place we're gathered, an like to bo till death, Amn't I praying every minyit to love them as I ought? Fcace and goodwill the angels sing And let you love your brother. But angels in a Workhouse Ward Would maybe hate each other. A tidy-living person I was when I was young, As tidy-living person as ever walked in shoes. But it's quaro and bad cli'racters I've got to live among, Wid some that's in it never had ch'racters • they could lose! Peace and goodwill the angels sing But here's a world of sorrow, (Och, Glory be! ourselves will dine On rale roast beef to-morrow.) —W. 11. Letts, in tho "Westminster Gazette."