Poetry

Waikato Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 2298, 2 April 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry

GOD'S ACRE.

Tread softly here ! the grassy mounds Are all around. Until the Day Break are these bones For ever bound. Tread softly ! all have loved ones here, With res erence tread — Here resting, lie the bodies of The holy dead. How bright the flowers ! fit emblem of The life of man. A little while to bloom on earth, One briefest span, Then like the flowers just now so bright, That soo decay Their life has blossomed for a while, Then died away. Yet nor in sorrow that is steeped In hopeless woe. Tread you this garden of God's own On earth below. The eye may gaze on each loved grave, The tear-stained sod. Yet far away it sees the soul at Home with God. Tread softly ! even those with whom Death has not been. In thankfulness, subdued with thoughts Of those unseen. Tread softly ! think of all these souls Both good and brave, And reverence each resting-place, Each well-loved grave. -M.E. AT HOME. The coast guard turns his faithful glaas To mark the home-bound vessels pass; But one lone ship he cannot see, Tho' near the shore, that comes to me From voyage long—returning late — Slow drifting with its heavy freight. How buoyantly it sped away, With flapping sail and pennon gay, Full laden ; for my all I gave One suffering soul perchance to save; It's treasured store at last might reach Some outcast on a far-off beach. Better the storm and gale to dare Than idly rock in moorings fair ; Or lie—the sullen canvas fanned By fickle breezes—on the strand. And so it sailed the waters o'er To anchor close at every shore. But all the world was well content, It needed not the gifts I sent; It needed not my love and thought, It only asked if gold were brougfit. And thus my ship comes home again, Its weary mission all in vain. Oh ! shattered bark, with bending mast, How welcome at your home at last; For Iμ ! the port you left demands The cargo meant for distant lands. And all your comfort and your cheer Dear kindred souls now wait for here. — Carry Cathcart Day, in January ■ Bivouac. THE WOMEN'S JUBILEE OFFERING, ■-1887. (By the Countess of Cork.) Just fifty years ago, the Land With wonder not unmixed with awe, On maiden brow—in maiden hand, Both Crown and Regal Sceptre saw. Was charge so sacred e're before On youthful maiden spirit laid ? Has burden solemn—almost sore — Upon such fragile shoulders weigh'd ? Those fifty years with steady force And progress sure, if seeming slow, Have followed their resistless course, Unchecked by joy, unstayed by woe. Their records now to Time belong ; — So, too, in hist'ry shall be seen, How we all meet with gift and song Our widowed—once our maiden —Queen ! How women flock from ev'ry part, Impetuous, eager, loyal, true, And token bear, with faithful heart, Of reverence so justly due ; And how, through these long chequered years, The People's watchword still has been, In weal or woe, mid hope and fears, Through life to death—God save the Queen! SUNRISE. Silence profound ; then faintly Low throbbings in the air, A presence holy, saintly, Hushed voices breathing prayer. A wavering light uncertain, A soft glow spreading wide, A dusky, somber curtain Drawn silently aside. Pale rays of rare completeness Far down the sky's dim lawn, A sudden burst of rapture From bird-thmats swelling long, Which echoe elves recapture, And flood the earth with song. A richer colour showing A flush across the gray, A deeper carmine glowing, Night shadows rolled away. A gleam of polished silver, A glow of burnished gold, A liquid mass of splendour, A glory manifold. A royal car suspended, Hung swaying in the blue, The grand coronation's ended. And rose tints fade from uiew. Oh, human heart, grown tender With thought beyond all speech, This sunrise scene of splendour No human heart can reach : Revives hope's blessed story, Bids faith ascend on high And view eternal glory, Were rose tints never die. —Rose H. Thorpe, Brook, Mag.