Select Poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume 16, Issue 808, 28 July 1870, Page 3

Select Poetry.

IN MB MORI AM. BY THE LITERARY BOHEMIAN. Charles Dickens, died on the 9th June, 1870. What of the night, O, watchman ? Looking forth Into the hazy sky, across the sea, Tar to the Island in the distant North, Thy looks are strange —Watchman, what troubleth thee? Rest in thy seeking, seeker—ask not now to know The sorrow that, alas! the coming morn must show.

I heard a sigh come o'er the echoing sea, A city's poise stopped with convulsive throb, Men bowed their heads in grief's mute ecstasy, A nation's breast shook with a mighty sob. Rest kfthy seeking, seeker —rest until the mornin S> Let the night veil the grief that cometh with the I dawning.

Soon, ah! too soon, the morn will tell the tale That shall bring tears to eyes unused to weep, Shall fill the land with universal wail, Spread mourning through the world from deep to deep. A hero down ; in life's fierce battle he fell fighting; Fighting 'gainst wrong, fighting for right, and for wrong righting.

O, who shall tread the pathway he hath trod ? 0, who shall bear the banner he hath borne ? Who saute down vice with his unsparing rod ? Who wear the trenchant sword that he hath worn? He who, truth's champion, held np sin to execration, And trained the noble heart to nobler aspiration.

Taught us to know that in this war we wage A thousand enemies beset our track, And we must struggle on from youth to age In breasting the fierce foes that beat us back; Taught us in pain and gloom life's battle must be fought, And greatest victory is ever dearly bought.

He tore from off hypocrisy its mask, Showed to unwary youth the gilded snare, Denounced ill doing, and, still gentler task, Made poverty and wretchedness his care; A mind was his, that, like the ocean's ceaseless surge, Could know no rest, itself must ever onward urge—

Urge to great deeds, high thoughts, and holy aims, Urge to the placing guilt beneath a ban, Urge to the recognition of the claims That man has ever on his fellow msn; Urge to the tearing off the cloak of painted sin, And showing all the hideous rottenness within.

Not his the foot to falter in its course, Not his the hand to shove pure justice by, Not his the pen to slacken in its force, For proud indifference, or foul calumny; His line of duty stood out broad, and bright, and clear, Nor would he step aside from favor or from fear.

He was a monarch, though he wore no crown, Nor ruled, his subjects with a sceptred sway, Nor sought by empty pomp to gain renown — The vain renown that lasts but for a day; His was a crown all other earthly crowns above, His empire was the people's hearts, his diadem their love. Mark Lemon, died June, 1870. Hard hitter, quick smiter, strong wrestler, farewell ! Thou hast fought the good fight ever wisely and well, Through the heat of the day never fainting nor faltering, To the proud and the mighty ne'er truckling nor paltering; Uh well hast thou wielded thy swift sword, and keen In the battle against what was hateful and mean, For the right, Against might, Where thy fighting hath been. Wise jester, skilled teacher,deep thinker, farewell! Who bore to such purpose the bauble aud bell, That cant and hopocrisy trembled and paled, And political sham and dishonesty quailed; And the cloak that the charlatan wrapped in was torn, And the sneak and the humbug were held up to scorn In the bright Sinning light Of the glasß thou hast borue. Brave soldier, wise captain, stauuch leader, farewell! The sighs of the poor are thy funeral knell, And well so ; for ever was borne iu thy breast Chivalrous defence of the weak and oppressed, Undazed by the world's hollow glamour and glitter— Striking home to the heart, though thy word's may be bitter — Firm and sure For the poor— Farewell, good hard hitter. —Otago Daily Times.