Poetry.

Waikato Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 2400, 26 November 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry.

A SABBATH SONNET.

Not in the dim cathedral s crowded nave Un wings of incense, would my soul Tin’s holy day with holy tilings to blend ; lint in some forest aisle where grasses There countless banners, and one hears the faint Sweet angel voices of the myriad trees ; The very oracles of (rod are these To him that listens. Where soft lichens paint The rocks with glory 1 would love to pray : Finding my soul a Sabbath c-ilin to-day, Where the pale primrose smiles and orchids breathe Their woodland fancies—path remote, untrue), Learning tins text tlie sylvan spirits wreathe: t “Nearer to Nature, nearer thou to God.” Mautma T. Tvi.bu. Sau Francisco, September 2-1, IS(S7.

AN OH WEAN BOHN,

I am a lone, unfathered cluck, Of artificial hatching; A pilgrim in a desert wild, By happier mothered chicks reviled, From all relationships exiled, To do my own lone hatching. Fair Science smiled upon my birth Cue raw and gusty morning, And now the sound of barnyard mirth To lonely me have little worth ; I am alone in all the earth— An orphan without horning. Seek Imy mother ? 1. would find A heartless peisnnator: A tiling brass hided, man designed, With steampipe arteries iiiteniiinod And pulseless cotton halting lined— A patent Incubator. It wearies me to think, you see— Death would ho better, rather — Should children e’er be horn to mo, ily fate’s most pitiless decree My little ones, alas, would bo With never a grandfather. And when to earth I bid adieu, To seek a greater, I will do as others do, Who go to join the ancestral crew, For [ will just bo gathered to My Incubator.

I BIDE MY TIME

I biilo my time. Whenever shadows darken Along my path, £ do but lift mine eye-*, And faith reveals fair .shores beyond the skies, And Uirongh earth's harsh, discordant sounds i. hearken And hear divinost music from afar, •Sweet sounds from lands whore half my loved ones are. 1 hide—f bide my time. I hide my time. Whatever woes assail me £ know the strife is only for a day ; A friend waits for mo farther on the way— A friend too faithful and too true to fail mo Who will bid all life's jarring turmoil cease, And lead mo on the realms of perfect peace. I bide—l bide my time. I hide my time. This conflict and resistance, This drop of rapture in a cup of pain, This wear and tear of body and of brain. But tits my spirit for the new existence Which wails me in the happy by-and-by. So come what may, I’ll lift my eyes and c “ 1 bide—£ bide my time.” Ella Wheeler Wilcox.