Poetry.

Waikato Times, Volume XXXIII, Issue 2719, 14 December 1889, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry.

BEFORE THE WEDDING. Come, fragrant dawn and tender For the bird* twitter low; Awakening sunbeam send lier, Who forth in bridal splendor At the high noon shall so. The day rim riseth slow, Tlio day when she shall render Her life for weal and woe Unto hor lover's keeping, Ah, dreatnlessly she's sleeping. While the bird's twitter low. Tho light comes stealing shyly Through the dim house of rest: An infant sunbeam slyly Creeps smiling to her breast, But being blessed too highly, Dies in that dainty nest. For mists with vapor pearly Blindfold the prying throng, And quell the joyous hurly Of the bird's matin song, Because the light is early And the day is long. —Punch. TWO YEARS. I.—LAST YEAR. They Btrolled on the bench by the bright summer sea, And they never paid any attention to mo, He and she. His air was superb, and to all that he said She modestly listened and hung down her head, While with swift flying blushes her fair tace grew red. Dear me! lI.—THIS TKAII. Again they are seen on the beach by the 869, .She and lie. That they're married this year you will quickly agree, She and he. In Bilence he stalks while she lays down the law, A man more submissive the world never saw, He's learned that a kitten lias claws in her paw. Dear me ! —Somervilla Journal. SICK IN THE CITY. Three feet by two of hazy blue, As near as the eye can measure, I can see of the sky from where I lie ; But oh ! the springs of pleasure That streak of azure can bring a man Who all the while is knowing, As a-bed he lies, that the azure skies And the summer days are going. This is all of the summer I'm like to know, This and the blithe canary Who sings for my cheer so brave and clear Oavotte3 and rondos airy. Such a masterly '• brio !"—such gay roulades Come throbbing thick and fast; What trills and shakes the little bird takes ! Fur the warm d*ys come at last. This is all the summer that's wafted down From sky and cloud to ine : While the folk are flocking out of town To mountain, loch, and sea, I am lying here, in the prime o' the year, And dreaming of uplands sweet, With the honey of heather blent together " With the smell of bog, myrtle and peat." I shall not hear this passingycar, The dithyramb song of the tide ; But I listen instead to the hollow tread Of the weariful street outside. The ceaseless beat of London's feet Comes dreamily up to nie, Not the long cool plunge of the western wave When the wind blows in from the sea. Ronwrr RicH.~- (8.A., Sydney).