Select Poetry.

New Zealander, Volume 4, Issue 212, 10 June 1848, Page 4

Select Poetry.

01 A f.IUm THAT AITHAIU'I) TO THE EDITOR. The toils of day lmJ passed nwiiy, Our proofs haJ feOiio to press, All weary on our couch we lay, In virgin loneliness ; We lintl henrd the chimco of ranish'd times Ring in our fancy's cvr — And the lonely i'ncll of the passing bell Which toll'd lor the dying year. Wp thought of the broath — now quench'd in death — That wclcom'd the last year in ; Of the garland chnneYi to the cypress wreath, And of souls that hud per.shtd m sin ; We thought on tlu> joy we had felt as a boy, In lollipops, feathers and frill , : And we thought with a quake nnd a dubious shake Of our usnal quarteily hills 1 Oh! terrible sight ; a ghastly spiife VVidi n face that snokc of the tomb ; Array'd from the top to ihe bottom in white — Appenr'd in tbo chamber's gloom. With awful nrnnzc we maik'd its gsi7e, For remorse to its features clung— And woful and sore the expiession they wore. Like a thief coming out to he hung We Bhivcr'd all o'er, and from every pore Trickled ihe dews of fear — And we u tered betwixt a groan and n roar, 41 Why, what arc you up to here ?-— Of muider fell hnve you come to tell > I'll print your confession, don't doubt : Oi if gold you havehk', wherever you bid, I'll oblige you by finding it out." In a dismal whine " Thai's all very fine," The sorrowful ghost replied : 41 1 would'nt mind standing a dozen of wine, If I had so happily died. But murder is fun to the deeds I have done : I've fed on tho brains of my kind— I've assisted the slave tv his premature grave. And have pilfered the fruiti of his mind: " Because in my heart pity bore not a pait, Now wictched for aye m tny shade " " Your'e a Yankee perhaps. " we replied with a start, " And follow the bookielling tiadr ?" 41 Ah, would that no moie could be laid at my door !— Your journal I took for a year — And nicely your nick'd, for the bucket I've kick'd, Three quarters at least in arrear." Like a bullet that's sped, we sprung out of bed, But the spirit made oft" at the door ; Our ponderous ledger we flunu at his head, And he sank in the ground with tx roar. The chamber we cleai 'd, in the pressroom appear'd With horror and rage in our brain ; And contrived to get in this confession of sin, Asa warning to those who remain. Douglas Jeirold.