ORIGINAL POETRY.

Western Star, Issue 771, 29 August 1883, Page 4

ORIGINAL POETRY.

ELIZA COOK. Sweet music from the British bards Comes floating to us o’er the seas ; Their strains of mirth sublimely ring Among New Zealand’s smiling trees And while on Nature s works I gaze, Where pensive eyes are wont to looK, I see Fame twine her blooming hays Around her child, Eliza Cook.

The birds of fame, the sons of song, Wlm paint fair Nature’s smiling face, Are hurried by the winds along To charm each new and ioreign place ; But sweetly sounds one humble lyre, Whose music rings around each nook; The purest of poetic fire Is burning in Eliza Cook.

Her songs of peace and strains of love Would surely touch a heart of stoue, Or e’en the ruthless tyrant move, As he sits high upon his throne. The miser o’er his shining pile, May over the fields and forests look, And give a slave’s disdainful smile, As he pursues Eliza Cook.

When Spring with flow’rlng mantles rare Clad all the plants with leaves and flowers, And songbirds filled the fragrant air With music from the forest bower. The tui flapped her shining wings, As she her jungly haunts forsook, _ And perched on high, to loudly sing The praises of Eliza Cook.

The gentle breezes breathe her name, The skylark chants it from the sky, And* children at their guileless game Deck it with flowers standing by. And while I listen to the tone Of yonder clear and winding brook, I hear it rippling o’er the stones— The music of Eliza Cook.

Though living authors meet tho darts Of raging critics by the score, Which often pierce their feeling hearts, And lay them low to sing no more ; Old Spite attacks the rising bard, And Envy wields his poisioned hook ; But they have not been quite so hard With Nature’s child, Eliza Cook.

Now stop your maddened race for gold. Ye plunging, striving sons of earth, And cease to worship tyrants hold, Who trample Honor, Freedom, Worth ; And ye who feed that blood-hound Spite, Ann study Mammon’s battr’d book, _ Turn round and see the brilliant light Erected by Eliza Cook

Benjamin Waed, Groper’s Bush, August, 1883.