Select Poetry.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 318, 16 March 1878, Page 3

Select Poetry.

TIIE LOST RUNE. In Imitation of William Moiiris. (FROM THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.) Now soucrlit in the hoarder of words, where the dark wood closes them round, Where the square drawer pierces the table, and ther e it was not to be found, I looked in the pouch of the garment I wore when I handled it last, Where the coat buttons over the bosom when joy of the summer is past, And the wild storm roars from the north, and the fingers have ceased to feel. And winter grasps in his withered hand a dagger of icy steel. Then I looked in unlikely places, within and without and around, Searched in all the unlikeliest places where lost things are sure to be found, For joy finds its way to the grave, and pleasure is nurse of care, And this ye shall know of a sooth that the miser has most to spare. So where I should look for nothing. I had a great hope to find. But this is a wondrous matter, a tale of the sight of the blind, Of the sight of the blind who saw nothing, for nothing was there to see ; Though the rede was good it was rodeless, it brought no knowledge to me. Unknown as the way of the mole when it crumbles the dust of the earth, Unknown as the life of the clod that has given a daisy birth, Is the rune that I have and have not, the writing no more to be read. Why do I forget where I put it, and what lias become of my head ? But I wax very sure that I know how I carefully put it aside, And I think of the place where I put it, and thought, as I did so, with pride— I shall know where to find you again now, O thought that I wish to be mine Till for me tiie wind ceaseth to whisper, for me the sun ceaseth to shine ! As the sun when the banks of the rainclouds fill day with a murmur of rain, And the cold drops plash in the pools, and men rest from the reaping of grain ; As the moon when her thin worn-sickle is lost in the field of the sky, And the stars are all flashing with glory, for glory of hers gone by : lie is not to be seen now of me or of them that walk under the gloom ; She lias turned her face now from earth-dwellers and looks at the dealers of doom : So it is with this lam seeking, so it is with what I have lost, For the gods may all look down upon it, but labour of mortals is crost. By the will of the norns that crosses the strongest will of a man, For fate rides afield with the hunter, who can but do what lie can. Shall he struggle with fate and hope to go single in search of prey? Shall lie hope to have rule of the norns ? Shall he bid and shall they obey ? So I yield to the will that is strongest, I marvel and say, l.et it be : It may lie in the glitter of Ciirnli, the bright elf-liome of the free, Or be lost in the ffreheat of Muspil, or buried in vapour and frost. Where Nifllieim breeds the frost giants. This only I know, it is is lost. It is gone with the dews of the morning, is gone with the dreams of tho day, For i make little notes upon paper, and somebody takes them away.