Poetry.

Waikato Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 2346, 23 July 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry.

OUU SAILORS. lo7lh Psalm, third verso. Down to the sea in ships Onr willing Bailors go, Deep waters cannot queneli their zeal, Nor fear nor dread they know ; What time the Storm ariseth in its might, Think of them in the watches of the night ! Think of the deep profound The waves all mountains high, The crashing mast, the cruel blast— Think of the dying cry Of many a gallant soul whoso long last sleep Shall find no pillow but the ruthless deep 1 Think of them when yon meet In Hod’s own House of Prayer, Lift up an earnest cry for those Who cannot worship there. Say, e’er yon sent them to that fearful strife What armour gave you from the Lord of Life ! Saviour, to Thee we look ! The Sailor’s Friend art Thou, Treading the billows, as of old. Oh come Thun to ns now 1 May every ship Thy message glad recoi ve. And every Sailor in Thy love believe. —H. K. Carrington.

HOPE.

(Original.) Though Time marches on but slowly, yet ho never turns aside— Never stops and never falters, but keeps on

with oven stride ; And we oft his pace would hasten for some fancied joy to come, Though the journey’s but a short one from

the cradle to the tomb. Hope is brightest in life’s morning: youth knows neither doubt nor fear, But the tempest comes with noonday, and the storm clouds gather near, And life’s battle tries the courage and endurance of the best; For the strife is never over till the sun sinks in the west. We look forward to the future to supply all present needs : Fruits and flowers lie before us, all around seems rank with weeds ; But, as ice streams from the mountain in the valley melt away, So the bright hopes of to-morrow fade and vanish in to-day. Wo through life pursue a phantom, and are eager in the race : Happiness is still before us: all the plea-

sure’s iu the chase; They can best endure life’s troubles, and its many trials brave. Who have hopes life does not limit: hopes that roacli beyond the grave.

BYGONES.

You sec it is all placed neatly, though yellow and worn with age, And a tear has fallen on the cover, as I open the well-worn page ; Here lies a curl ol golden, once cut from a boyish head ; And here is the gift of poems which they so often read. Don’t open that faded letter, though the ink is worn and pale. It tells such a weary story, such a dreary, sorrowful tale ; But glance at this faded rosebud, mark’d by the dew of tears, Or at the tender record of a maiden’s hopes and fears. You may trace in this face some shadow of kindnosssor vain regret, But he was all for pleasure, and our darling grew cold from neglect; But she loved him, and that is the reason I still can cherish here, A letter, photo, and rosebud, with a lock of golden hair, —Mia Castin.