VERSES OLD AND NEW.

Dominion, Volume 5, Issue 1407, 6 April 1912, Page 9

VERSES OLD AND NEW.

LINES ON THE DICKENS ANNIVERSAIII'. So there, whero frown the forts and battlcgear, And all the proud sea babbles Nelson's name, Into tho world this later hero came, Ho, too, a man that know all moods for fear, He, too, a fighter. Yet not his tho strife That leaves dark scars on the fair face of life. He did not fight to rend the world apart; lie fought to niako it ono in mind and heart; Building a broad and noble bridge to spau Tho icy chasm ,that sunders man from man. Wherever Wrong had fixed its bastions deep, Thero did his fierce yet cay assault surprise. Some fortress girt with lucre or with lies, lucre his light battery stormed some ponderous keep; There charged ho up tho eteop; A Knight on whom no palsying torpor fell, Keen to the last to break' a. lance with Hell. - And still undimmed his 'conquering weapons shine; On his bright sword no spot of TUst appears; / And still, across the years His soul goes forth to battle, and in the fuoo Of whatsoe'er is false, or cruel, or base, Hβ hurls his gage, and leaps among the spears, Being armed with pity and love and scorn divine, Immortal laughter and immortal fear. —William Watson. PILGRIMAGE. By day there Jnrk close ever haunting fears, ■ ' Bred of the mystery' that tho desert ; . hides,' , ..'" The toilsome road is blurred with bitter . tears ... . . ' A mocking voice, our stumbling feet derides. The sun's fierce rays, obliterate the clue,— .That.guiding footprint outlined ou the .'. ■ way, The- s«>:«mn plains our kindling hopes ' subdue, Shade-less from brilliant dawn to twilight grey. No Wells of Elim J mid the seventy palms Their crystal waters hiring on to rest,— Onlv the trackless desert's vague alarms The unquiet beats that stir the anxious breast. A nil, far ahead the moving pillaTed cloud, Whose mists tho secret thoughts of . God enshroud. At night tho moon, a elender curve of gold, . Takes a swift flight above the barren space, To tar off lands, where autumn nights grow cold, Though summer lingers on in fading gro.ee. No fields are here, with harvest promise white, ■ No violets scent the shifting wastes of ,' sand, ; i N" '••-.•lit/' of ros»s rich with dear delight, Adorn the pathway to the Promised Land. Only o'er wearied hearts night's brooding calm, Stilling the sorrows that . the day has borne, ".,:'' Forgetful ness of tears and creeping harm, In dreams that open doors to souls forlorn. : . And on the path'ahead that must be trod, ' ■ ' The pillared flame that hides the thoughts ofGod. - —Beatrice Allhusen, in the "Westminiter."

_ BALLADE OP DEAD CITIES. The dust and the dust o{'Babel on the desert wold, The loves of Corinth, and the lust, Orchomenos increased with gold; Tho town of Jnson,, over-bold, • And Cherson, smitten in her prime— • 'What arc they but n dream half-told? where are the cities of old time? In towns that were a kingdom's trust, In dim Atlantic forests' fold, Tho marble wasteth to a crust, / The granite crumbles into mould; O'er these—left nameless from of old— As over Shiuar's brick and slime, ; One vast forgetfiilness is roll'tl— Vi'hero are the cities of old time? The lapse of ages, and the rust, The fire, the frost, the waters cold, lill'ace the evil and the just; . From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold, To drown Caer-Is,-whose sweet bells toll'd Beneath tho wavo a,dreimy chime That echo'd from the mountain-hold— "Where are the cities of old time?" • Envoy. Prince, nil thy towns and cities must Decay as these, till,all their crime, And mirth, and w>alth, and toil are thrust Where are the cities of old timo. —Andrew Lang ("Ballades and Rhymes"). THE PATIENT AND THE ARTIST. "A Grandee—lCs2"; And that is all wo know of you, Save you looked thus in your pride iv hen the humble painter, tried To lend a gracious, kindly air To your cold, repellent stare. But fruitlessly. That hawk-beak grim Shows the truth iu spito of him; And the keen, predaceous eyes Burn their greed through pigment lies; in vain the artist's flattering task— The soul escapes the painted mask.

The sins men do their sons forgive; Good work and true shall ever live. A scullion's portrait or a Aliko may be most precious things: The- artist counts—a fig for you, 0 "Grandce-1652"! —Tudor Jenks ia Nβ .v York "Outlook."