Select Poetry.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 232, 19 February 1876, Page 3

Select Poetry.

THE PILLARS OF THE STATE. The following ode by the orator of the day, "Win. Halph Emmerson, was sung to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, at the triennial gathering of the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanic Association, at Downer's Landing, Hingham. What builds a nation's pillars high, And its foundation strong ? "What makes it mighty to defy The foes that round it throng ? It is not gold! its kingdoms grand Go down in battle's shock ; Its shafts are laid on.sinking sand, Not on abiding rock. Is it the sword ? Ask the red dust Of empires passed away ! The blood has turned their stones to rust, Their glory to decay. And is it pride ? Ah ! that bright crown Has seemed to nations sweet; But God has struck its lustre down In ashes at His feet. Not gold, but only men can make A. people great and strong ; Men who for truth and honor's sake Stand fast and suffer long. Brave men who work while others sleep ; Who dare while others fly ; They build a nation's pillars deep, And lift them to the sky. THREE SONNETS. Farewell to Poetry. In dreamy days of boyhood and of youth, Sweet Poesy whisper'd often in mine ear ; And I could then, with voice distinct and clear, Repeat her ditties; but of late, in sooth, The sterner mandates of unflattering Truth Have filled my hearing, making not less dear High strains of verse ; but hallowing with fear My thoughts, and keen remorse, and backward rath. , ~ Therefore farewell, ye pleasant melodies Of song, heroic, holy, or pastoral: Farewell, ye shades and voiceful forests all; No more along your sward-path dark with trees Shall wander he, who lightly skill'd to please, Could yet from leaf and rock poetic numbers call. Dean Alford. To My Book. The moments which we rescue and redeem From the bare desert and the waste of years, To fertilize, it may be with one's tears, - Yet so that for time after they shall teem With better than rank weeds, and wear a gleam Of visionary light, and on the wind Fling odours from the fields long left behind— These and their fruits to us can never seem Indifferent things ; and therefore do I look Not without gentle sadness upon thee, And liken thy outgoing. O my book, To the impatience of a little brook Which might with flowers have linger'd plea- • santly. Yet toils to perish in the mighty sea. — Archbishop Trench. TO A SiEEPIKG CHILO. Oh, 'tis a touching thing to make one weep— A tender infant with its curtain'd eye, Breathing as if 'twould neither live nor die— With that unchanging countenance of sleep ! As if its silent dream, serene and deep, Had lined its slumbers with a still blue sky, So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie, With no more life than roses—just to keep The blushes warm, and the mild, and odorous breath. O blossom boy ! so calm is thy repose, So sweet a compromise of life and death, 'Tis pity those fair buds should e'er unloose For memory to stain their inward leaf, Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief. — Tliomas Hood.