WITH THE MUSE

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXVII, Issue 8355, 15 February 1913, Page 9

WITH THE MUSE

"And as imagination bodies forth > The lorms of tilings unknown, tbe poet a pen Turns them to shapes." THE BALLAD OF O’FARREL™ All that O’Farrell had Is slipping from lus hands— X'iio no mu unit was his of old. The tilled and the grass lauds. The bed where ho used to sleep. And the roof over his head; The heaven is now his root. And the road his bed. Once O’Farrell had wealth. Gold enougli and to spare; His were tne fattest sheep That came to the Callow fair; His was the finest house You’d seo in a three days’ ride; And his was the hardest heart In all the countryside. To O’Farroll’s • door one day A begg av woman came. Asking a bit and a sup In Gold’s holy Name: She had left the back of the hills Before the dawn ot the day Witii never a crust of bread To help her on her way. 0 Farrell looked at her dross And saw it'was - poor and worn; O’Farrell looked at her feet And saw they were sore and tom; O’larrell looked at her face And saw it was old and grey. “You may go to the devil." ho said, “For all you’ll get here this day.” .Then the woman heaft those words. She turned from O’Farrell’s door; .She said, “You have cursed me now “Because 1 am old and poor: “That you may be poor and old "And begging from place to place. “And that folk may drive you away “And slam their doors in your face.” O'Farrell has had no peace From that day, day or night; His wealth has vanished away Like mist in the sun’s light; Before the lambing time He has lost the half of his sheep; tlis crops have grown black in the field Before it was time to reap. All that O’Farrell had Is slipping from his hands— The home that was his of old. The tilled and the grass lands. The bed where he used to sleep. And the roof over his head; May the heaven ,be his only roof And tho road his bed ! —C. H. BEWLEY. “The Nation.” THE CALL Help lighten the load! Humanity stumbles ahead on its road; Urged on o'er the deserts, beset by the goad ; Men bend under burdens of hunger and care And women must suffer and toil and despair; f Yea, even the children astray in the strife. Are bowed by the weight till they weary of life. Hark! unto each soul that is hero, not slave. How clear sounds the call to arise and be brave. Help lighten the load! Help lighten the load I With all of the strength that the heart can command. With all of the power of brain and of hand. With wills set to sacrifice, struggle, and dare. With love that seeks, ever each burden to share. With unflagging endeavour that stops not to ask Tho length of tho journey, tho cost of the task. Come, sons of, the kingdom! Come, children of God! And along the dark path by .the world's anguish trod Help lighten the load! -PRISCILLA LEONARD. "Outlook.” THAT LITTLE LANE . A little lane 'mid shade and sun, ; Dewdrops among the shining grass, A song of April just begun By mating robins as 1 pass. The scent of hawthorn in the air. And then your shadow falling there. We loved too soon, we met too late. Wo jested when we came to part; But sometimes —is it love or hate?— Your shadow falls across my heart. And to that robin’s song again My feet run down that little lane. —ELLEN GLASGOW. “Harper’s." HIDE-AN-DSEEK In the sunshine and the shade Hide-and-seek we children played, 'Mid the fragrances of Spring, Where the birds were twittering. Oh, the sweet delightful places. Leafy screens for rosy faces; Oh. the joy to grope and look In each bushy, darksome nook! How we triumphed when we heard Smother’d laugh and whisper’d word! Merry tumbles, rush and shriek W ere the joys of hide-and-seek. Dearest, will you still deceive With the sports of make-believe? Do you dream that still we stay In the fields of childish play? Ah, those frolic days have left us; Years have passed us, and bereft us. See, the shadows fall around yon— Dearest, it is time I found you. —AKTHUR L. SALMON. “St. James's Budget.” THE LOST OCCASION Farewell, fair day and fading light! The ciay-boru here, with westward.'sight, Marks me huge sun now downward sva. Farewell! .Vv e twain shall meet no more. Farewell! I watch with bursting sight My late contemned occasion cue; 1 linger useless in my tent. Farewell, fair day, so foully spent 1 Farewell, fair day! If any God At all consider this poor clod. He who the fair occasion sent Prepared and placed the impediment. Let him diviner vengeance take — Give me to sleep, give me to wake Girded and shod, and bid me play The hero in the coming day! —ROBERT LOU 18 STEVENSON.