POETRY.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 466, 26 April 1890, Page 6

POETRY.

THE DEATH OF GENIUS. Often the sun of Genius seems o’erclouded Wiih sombre mists of passion low and base, Which hang around her, till, by them enshrouded, She veils the awful beauty of her face. Yet is the gloom but transient. Soon the shadow Pales ’neath a glory which it cannot hide; Her splendour flashoth, as o’er hill and meadow The golden sunbeams glitter far and wide. Passion is powerless to hurt God’s darling. Dowered with the lofty gifts of heart and brain; Her bonds, by lower men found all-enthralling. When worn by Genius are but worn in vain. But Genius dies where Envy dwells leanLooking askance at what of joy or truth Another’s life may harbour, God-imparted, Or won by thought, as manhood shadows youth. She dies where foul deceit, or false pretension, The charlatan’s fine-woven web of lies. Involves her in its meshes, till declension Issues, and in corruption Genius dies. Or where the taint of self with gnawing canker Corrodes, till busy ruin wrecks the cells Wherein, like some frail fairy bark at anchor, The subtle presence of sweet Genius dwells. Then Genius dies self-smitten, all her glory Faded, whilst where she dwelt the fiery sword Alone remaineth, as to tell her story Of Eden lost, and angels there on ward. Earth hath her ruins where fair fane or tower Stood in old days, but none so sad or fair As where, the phantom of a vanished hour, Dead Genius her ruin doth uprear. From broken arch and shattered pile there A lesson voiceful with the bygone years; But Genius ruined to the heart appealeth With words that win the watcher’s soul to tears. O lofty gift! man’s highest, noblest guerdon, Be ours to foster thine ethereal gleam, Seeking thy darlings not to overburden Because to us their life appears a dream. A dream it may be, yet all inspiration Dreamlike in its out-working aye appears; And Genius, pathing out her true vocation, Derives from dreamland the sky robe she wears. The visions of the artist or the seer Arise we know not whence—we know not how; We only know, as awestruck we draw near, A halo resteth on the favoured brow. There let it rest, life’s symbol, ever cherished Through passion’s mist or what may here befall, , . , . Till 'mid the wreck of fancies lost and perished, The light of Genius forms her coronal. E. H. Gulliver.

THE MASSACRE OF THE AMORITES. “And they destroyed all, men and women, young and old, as the Lord commanded.”— Joshua. By his palace gate, deluged in blood. The king stood like a brave at bay ! Whilst clinging to his wounded knees Were helpless, sinless babes that day They cry to him—their loving sire—--4‘ O! father, save, protect us. guard.” Alas ! what fruitless words are these To stay 44 the vengeance of the Lord ?” I saw them slain, wee helpless babes, Whose gaping wounds, with mute surprise Looked up to God, as if to crave Some mercy from the weeping skies But shame ! Alas ! My heart is sad, I dare not write another word— Yet fools will dare —Oh ! God they dare Say, 41 ’Twas the vengeance of the Lord They say that 44 Thou didst tear their limbs, And turned unmoved when weakness sighed.” They say that "Thou did’st burn and slay The unborn babo ’’—but they have lied ! Thou art no fiend, hut kind and true, But men are false and cold and vile ; Thou art but what a God must be — The Great, the Everlasting Smile ! O, God! that men should be so base To speak, or dare to think, of THE As one who hates. What can they Of Tby Great Heart? Thou Deity! For Thou a loving Father art. And gentle as a nursing dove, Thou art Compassion’s only King— The Monarch of Eternal Love ! W. R. Wills.