Miscellaneous.

Waikato Times, Volume XXIII, Issue 1890, 16 August 1884, Page 2 (Supplement)

Miscellaneous.

A Shadow. My Lady paces up the broad oak stair; Men smile to see her face so soft and fair. " Look up 1 • She's worth a glance 1" does one declare; " My Lady there." Tender and fine, from 'neath a cloud of lace Crowning her hair, gleams forth her clear-cut

face, Its eyes alight, upon its lips the grace Of smiles so rare And gay, that those who pass her feel their

light Warm their own smiles until they grow more bright. " She looks her best," they aay—" her best-to-night, My Lady there." The music pulses in the rooms below; Outside, the moon falls on the soft, deep

snow; Inside, the dancer's rhythm seems to flow Through all the air. My lady pace 3 up the broad oak stair, The smile still on her lips so red, so rare. " Look up 1" she hears, " and smile then an you dare, * My, Lady there 1" The music pulses in-tho room below, The dancers to its pulsing come and go: Out from her face is blanched all light and glow-r-It fronts her there t .

"I am thy Grief 1 lam thy Grief 1" it ories, " The Grief that darkens for thee all thy skies, That blights thy bright life for thee as it flies! And dost thou dare. " To smile and wear thy mask and play thy part As though thy white broast held no broken

heart— As though it bled not 'neath ray stab's fierce smart ? When did I spare? " I am thy passionate grief, thy bitter pain. Turn on the world thy light, sweet, cold dis-

dain, But not on me 1 Here stand I—here again 1

Thy fierce Despair 1 " She smiles—her smile more sad, but not less

sweet (She hears the music swell, and throb, and

beat.) " I know thee 1" Bhe says, gently. " Strong and fleet, Thou dost not spare 1 " Lead me, and I will follow to the last: Or follow me— until the light be past. May I not pray this from a friend so fast ? 'Tis all my prayer. " Once in the darkness, lying at thy feet, With lips to bitter dust as it is meet, Before thine eyes and breast shall bleed and beat, Throbbing and bare. "But here, leave me my mask, my smile, my play; Thou art my friend by night, my shame by day; With fiercer pang for all thou grant'st I pay— I speak the fair ;" "Pass onl" the shadow answers. "Wear thy mask; Thus do I grant the boon that thou dost ask. ' To wear it be thy weary bitter task, Thy ceaseless care." Onward my Lady passes—all the light Aglow and trembling in her jewels bright. " She looks her best," 'tis said, " her best tonight, My Lady there." The music throbs and surges soft and low ; Amid the dancers threads she to and fro, And, following close, and dark, and sure, and slow, Her Grief is there 1 ******* My Lady lies upon her dying bed—"So bright and fair I " her friends have, weeping, said, " With all youth's flowers upon her golden head Crowning her hair ! " My Lady meets dark Death with patient grace ; There's a little smile upon her face— Within her-eyes of fear or pain no trace, No touch of care. Before her gaze pass shadows moving slow. "And'you are Youth," she says, "but you may go ! And you are Life—and Hope. Pass by also Though you were fair ! " But you, dark Shadow, standing at my feet, Leave me not lonely now ; it is not meet; Though you were bitter you were true and sweet. Nearer—not there 1 " Clasp close my hand—lay head upon my breast ; My Grief and I—we bore the bitter tost 1 Let thy sad lips upon my sad ones rest,

And this too share ! "I love you better than my joys," she said, " Better than all my summer skies ! " she said ; And, with her sad smile on her lips, lay dead— My Lady there. Fbancis Hodgson Burnett, in the Gentury. Tlic Whirlpool. A So> T o. I. In the shado of the headland, a span from the shore, The whirlpool lies eoiled in a sleep— Who could guess that that slumbering brow ever bore A frown that is crafty and deep ? Yet 'tis here in the blast of the hurricane's breath That the soul-laden ships find a doom ; To the musical moan of this circle of death Do they pass to their fathomless tomb. Youth in its bloom, Age in its gloom, Mother and Father, the Maid and her Mate, Master and Slave Finding a grave In this mad magic circle, the Whirlpool of Fate!

In the heart of the City, in turmoil and din, The -whirlpool doth fearlessly ride ; In its merciless torrent are virtue and sin, The parson and thief side by side ; Here the hand of the peasant is gripped by the glove Of the gallant who lives but to lie; And the maiden to-day who is learning to love, On the morrow has learnt ho-w to die! Vice with its paint, Crime -with its taint, Cradle and Coffin, the Lowly and Great; Billows of blood Cresting the flood Of this mad magic circle, the Whirlpool of Fate! Arthur W. Pinero, In the Theatre The Battle Flag at Shenandoah. The tented field wore a wrinkled frown, And the emptied church from the hill looked down On the emptied road and the emptied town That summer Sunday morning.

And here was the blue,-and there was the gray; And a wide green valley rolled away Between where the battling armies lay, That sacred Sunday morning. Young Custer sat, with impatient will, His restless steed, 'mid his troopers still, As he watched with glass from the oak-set hill That silent; Sunday morning. Then fast he began to chafe and fret; - " There's a battle flag on a bayonet, Too close to my own true soldiers set, For peace this Sunday morning I " Eide over, some one," he haughtily said, " And bring it to me I Why, in bars blood red And in stars I will stain it, and overhead Will flaunt it this Sunday ! " Then a West-born lad, pale-faced and slim, Eode out, and touching his cap to him, Swept down, as swift as the swallows swim, That anxious Sunday morning . Oh 1 never rode man in the world so well From hill of heaven to valley of hell; And foeman and friends, as in a spell, Stood still that Sunday morning.

On, on through the valley I up, up anywhere 1 That pale-faced lad like a bird through the

air Kept on till he climbed to the banner there, That bravest Sunday morning 1

And he caught up the flag and around his

waist He it tight, and he fled in haste, And swift his perilous route retraced That daring Sunday morning! All honor and praise to the trusty steed Ah, boy and banner, and all God speed I God's pity for you in your hour of need This deadly Sunday morning 1 Oh, deadly shot I and oh, shower of lead I Oh, iron rain on the brave, bare head ! Why, even the leaves from the kees fall dead This dreadful Sunday morning 1

But he gains the oaks. Men cheer in their might „ Brave Custer is weeping in his delight I Why, heis.embracing the boy outright This glorious Sunday morning I

But, soft 1 Not a word has the pale boy said; He unwinds the flag.~ It is starred, striped, red I With his heart's beslf blood; and he falls down dead

In God's still Sunday morning 1 So, wrap his flag to his soldier's breast; Into stars and stripes it is stained and blest; And under the oaks let him rest and rest In God's own Sunday morning! —Joaquin Miller, in Celtic Magazine. The Apweallt© Harold.* Harol Harol Judge now betwixt this woman and me, Haro! She leaves me bound, who found me free. Of love and hope she hath drained me dry— Yea, barren as a drought-struck sky ; She hath not left me tears for weeping, Nor Avill my eyelids close in sleeping. l I have gathered all my life's-blood up— Harol She hath drunk and thrown aside the cup. Shall she not give me back my days ? Haro 1 I made them perfect for her praise. There was no flower in all the brake I found not fairer for her sake; There was no sweet thought I did not fashion For aid and servant to my passion. Labor and learning worthless were, Haro 1 Save that I made them gifts for her. Shall she not give me back my nights ? Haro I Give me sweet sleep for brief delights ? ■ Lo 1 in the night's wan mid I lie, And ghosts of hours that are dead go by: Hours of a love that died unshriven ; Of a love in change for my honor given : She caressed and slew my soul's white truth, • Haro 1 Shall she not give me back my youth ? Haro I Haro ! Tell thou me not of a greater judge, Haro 1 It is he who hath my sin in grudge. Yea, from God I appeal to thee; God hath not part or place for me. Thou who hast sinned, judge thou my sinning ; I have staked my life for a woman's winning. She hath stripped me of all save remembering—

Haro I Right thou me, right thou me, Harold the King! —II. C. Bunner the Manhattan.

* The right of appeal to Harold of Normandy was liko the Roman citizen's right of appeal to Ccesar. The cry of " Haro !" was the invocation that called him to protect or to avenge the wronged. The Picture of Sappho. Tiiou! whose impassioned face The painter loves to trace, Theme of the sculptor's art and poet's story, How many a wandering thought Thy loveliness hath brought, Warming the heart with its imagined glory 1 Didst thou indeed sit there, In languid love despair, Thy harp neglected by thee idly lying; Thy soft and earnest gaze Watching the lingering rays In the far west, whose summer sun was dying ; While, with low rustling wings Among the quivering strings, The murmuring breeze faint melody was making, As though it wooed thy hand To strike with soft command, Or mourn'd with thee because thy heart was breaking ? Didst thou, as day by day Boiled heavily away, And left thee anxious, nerveless and dejected, Wandering through bowers beloved— Eoving where he had roved— Yearn for his presence, as one expected ? Didst thou, with fond, wild eye 3 Fixed on the starry skies, Wait feverishly for each new day to waken — Trusting some glorious morn Might witness his return, Unwilling to believe thyself forsaken ? And when conviction came, Chilling that heart of flame, Didst thou, 0 saddest of earth's grieving daughters, From the Leucadi'an steep Dash, with a desperate leap, And hide thyself within the whelming waterß? Such is the tale they tell I Vain was thy beauty's spell— Vain all the praise thy song could still inspire, Though many a happy band Eung with less skillful hand The borrowed love-notes of thy echoing lyre. Fame to thy breaking heart No comfort could impart; In vain thy brow the laurel wreath was

wearing; One grief, and one alone, Could bow thy bright head down— Thou wert a woman, and wert left despairing 1 — Hon. Mrs. Norton.