SELECTED VERSE

Waikato Times, Volume 125, Issue 20953, 4 November 1939, Page 13 (Supplement)

SELECTED VERSE

BRITANNIA Mixt of mysterious earth that grows More wondrous with each age it knows, She lies triumphant in the seas, The last of the Hesperides. Last paradise of human hopes, The paths that mount her sea-bound slopes Are the sole escalades that rise To where the House of Freedom lies. Kingdoms fall down like hollow fires, Republics crumble into shires, Yet still her island-temple stands A light above the captive lands. But Liberty’s last Knight is God. The hundred tyrants who have, trod The lands they lusted—what are they ? A legend and a little clay. —Lewis Spence. FORESTS OP ASHES? The oft-repeated appeals to the public to help in safeguarding forests from fire are well supported by a poem which the Forest and Bird Protection Society has received from Miss Geraldine Baylis:— Smoke, thick and fast, From dry grass, Someone has dropped a match— Still lit— It is not seen, the flame Spreads a little, checks a little, Dancing on. Pretty thing, wicked thing, creeping through the leaves, Running here and there, gay little sorties, Crackle, crackle—a stick to burn, Soon devoured—too soon. What more? Grass and leaves, a fern frond, Dancing, darting; tongues of flame, Quicker, quicker, flicker, flicker, The first tree, lick its bark, Climb its trunk, find the branches, On to more. Then the roar of a fearful menace Comes with the billowing smoke, And all the forest trees and all the. forest birds Are helpless in its path. Fire, fire, terror of the ages, Sweeping to destroy. Puny man who started it Is powerless to retard. And all the years of Nature’s work Are murdered in an hour. The match, When quenched at last by rain, displays A blackened land laid bare.

A FAITHFUL GUIDE , Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege Through all the scenes of this one life to lead From joy to joy. —Wordsworth. GRATITUDE He is happiest who hath power To gather wisdom from every flower, And wake his heart in every hour To pleasant gratitude. —Wordsworth. IN A FIRST READER Here is a magic flute To call you down the lane, Through orchards bright with fruit And meadows sweet with rain. Here are the crystal springs Where you may kneel to drink When birds have splashed their wings In rainbows at the brink. Here is a gate of gold You open in the dawn For much the mind will hold, The heart will feast upon. —Glenn Ward Dresbach. KEEP SERVING “It’s whistle and hoe, and sing as you go,” So runs the adage, as most of us know; But, oh, when the brooks and the meadows call loud, And eyes dully serving to furrows are bowed, Then straighten your back, and poke out your chin, And don’t you let any old devil come in! If weeds aren’t all routed, the corn will not grow; So stick to your hoeing and finish the row. Ev’ning will bring its sweet freedom and rest, And strength for the morrow—and service is best. —L.G.G.