Poetry.

Waikato Times, Volume XXXII, Issue 2578, 19 January 1889, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry.

HOMliL'A' UOUNSIiL.

It isn't worth while to fret, dear, To walk as behind a hearse ; No matter how vexiiiß things may be, They easily might be worse ; And tin; time you spend complaining And Ki-oaiiinK about the load Would bettor b>s (,'iven to Ronton And pressing along the road.

I've trodden the lull myself, dear— Tis the ti-ijipiriff tongue can preach, l'.uc though silence is sometimes golden, child, As oft, thorp is grace in speech— And I ace, from my hisfher level, Tis less tlio p»th than the pace That wearies tin) back and diu.s the eyo And writes the lines on the face.

There are vexing cares enough, dear, And to spare, when all is told ; And love must mourn its liissr.-, And tho cheek's softbloom grow old ; But the spell of tho craven spirit Turns blessing into curse. While the bold'heart meets tlio trouble That easilv might he worse.

So smile at each disaster, That will presently pass away, And bylieve a bright to-morrow Will follow tho dark to-day. Thpro's nothing gained by fretting ; Gather your strength anew, And step by step f?o onward dear, Let tho skies bo trrey or blue. MaKCIARKT E. SANfibTER, Invoicargill. SIYA. " JIOIIS .lANIIA VIT.K." Wk (jive below the four first verses of Sir Alfred 0. Lyall's poem on Siva, third yod of the Triad, in tin; character of the avenger or destroyer, published in the INational Review, and regret that our space will not permit us to reproduce the entire poem.

I am the <!od of the sensuous fire That moulds all Nature in forms divine ; The symbols of death and of man's desire, The springs of change in the world are mine ; Tho organs of birth mid the circlet of bones, And tho light loves carved on the temple stones.

I am the lord of delights and pain, Of the pest that killcth, of fruitful joys ; I rule the currents of heart and vein ;

A touch gives passion, a 1-iok destroys; In the heat and cold of my lightest breatn Is tho might incarnate of Lust and Ueath.

If a thousand altars stream will) blood Of the victims slain by tho chanting priest, Of a great God lured by the. savoury food ? I reck nut of worship, or songs, or feast; But that millions rerish, each hour that flics, Is tho mystic sign of my sacrifice.

Ye may plead and pray for the millions born ; They come like dew on the morning grass ; Yonr vows and vigils I hold in scorn, The soul stays never, the stages pass ; All iife is the play of the power that stirs In the dance of my wanton worshippers.