Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 9, 11 March 1925, Page 32

Selected Poetry

SWEET BREEZE. Sweet breeze that sets the summer buds aswaying, Dear lambs amid the primrose meadows playing, Let me not think ! 0 floods, upon whose brink The merry birds arc maying, Dream, softly dream! 0 blessed mother, lead me Unsevered from thy girdle-lead me! feed me ! 1 have no will but thine; I need not but the juice of elemental wine Perish remoter use strength reserved for conflict yet to come! Let me be dumb. As long as I may feel thy hand — This, this is alldo ye not understand How the great .Mother mixes all our bloods? O breeze! 0 swaying buds! 0 lambs, 0 primroses, 0 floods! —T. E. Browx, in An Anthology of Modern Verse. HIS PILGRIMAGE. Give me my scallop-shell of quiet My staff of faith to walk upon, My script of joy, immortal diet. My bottle of salvation. My gown of glory, hope’s true gage, And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage. Blood must be my body’s balmcr; No other balm will there be given; Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of heaven, Over the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains. There ill I kiss The bowl of bliss; And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every mi Ikon hill. My soul will be a-dry before; But, after, it will thirst no more. — Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618). THE MOORLAND ROAD. Where there’s scent of blossomed heather, far from city’s dingy mart, A grey, lone road goes wending like a snake across the bog. There’s little traffic on it save a country horse and cart, Or the lithesome feet of fairies on their way to Tir-na-n-og. I can picture it now winding through the heather and the mist; The brooding hills beyond it silhouetted ’gainst the sky, As the blushing hues of sunset fade to gold and amethyst While across the quiet bog-lands sounds a startled curlew's cry. , A-witiding through the heather, by many a dark loch’s edge, That old hog road’s still waiting there, to * feel my feet again

Where scented winds are sighing through the ceanaban and sedge, And neighbors wait to welcome me hack to my native glen. Patrick Doherty in the Irish World. asi ELEGY. They are so sure of you now, The loving and cruel and blind. Yon are so frail and small Since the light dimmed out of your .face. Death’s ultimate commonplace Has given you back to them all: Now they can comprehend And afford to be kind. You are so plastic now; So submissive and still. Your slender, rebellious hands Have been folded and hidden away. You, who were too brave to pray When your soul was scarred by the bands That they forged through the years On your youth, and your dream, and your will. They can be generous now, They who never have given. When they gave you a shaft Complacently branded “At Pest,” 1 think that you paused in your quest Worlds away, while you laughed Your old dauntless laugh Through your startled new Heaven. Dubose Heyward in the London Mercury. c*jr* DREAM GHOST. Hark! A creaking tread Across the ceiling overhead. I hold my quickened breath, And keep myself as still as death. The wall-clock loudly ticks, The bedroom handle clicks. Slowly, from stair to stair, the stealthy stride Carry me, helpless limbs; where shall I hide! No, no! You cannot move; stand taut, Erect, and stiffen; throttle thought. Nownow—it’s at the open door; Now ... A figure, eyes upon the floor, Sable-silvered, hunched and arms athwart. In flowing robe of red, as lost in thought, Glides slowly past, and leaves me rooted there. You say you don’t believe it; stand with me. Listen and watch the open door; you’ll see. “J dare do all that may become a man.'” Hush! What was that? A creaking tread Across the ceiling overhead. I take my riding whip Within ray steeled grip; We hold our quickened breath, And keep ourselves as still as death. The wall-clock loudly ticks, The bedroom handle clicks. Slowly, from stair to stair, the stealthy glide. Carry us, helpless limbs; where shall we hide? No, no; you cannot move;’stand taut, Erect, and stiffen; throttle thought.

Now —now —it reaches now the open door, Now ... waken, waken your limbs and will, « Will that you strike it, will and kill. £ Smash goes the whip; I strike the air, Jf Recover, strike again, strike there and there. ' ’ But still the figure, hunched, with arms athwart, Passes in gown of red, as lost in thought, And you stand still; now what say you? “You do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence.” Breath comes; limbs relax: I wake to sense. ■—• H. Abbott in the Xcw Statesman. FROM THE HILLS. . 1. ARTISTRY. To bring this loveliness to he Even lor an hour, the Builder must Have mined in the laboratory Of many a star for its sweet dust. Oh, to make possible that heart And that gay breath so lightly sighed: What agony was in the art! How many gods were crucified! • 2. A SACRED PLACE. Be still: be still: nor dare Unpack what you have brought, Nor loosen on this air Red gnomes of your thought. „ F * Uncover: bend the head And let the feet bo bare. This air that thou breathest Is holy air. Sin not against the Breath, Using ethereal fire To make seem as faery A wanton desire. Know that this granite height Can be a judgment throne. • \ Dread thou the unmovable will, The wrath of stone. , 3. ABUNDANCE. Like grey mastodon Upon the mountain side Rocks lay as if to guard Its austere pride. All stone unto the eye: Yet is the heart at rest As children happed in cradle i Or on the breast. ik 11 All that earth is, ' ■ Mountain or solitude, Was born out of pity And is milk for her brood. — M in the Irish Statesman.

Leader 33. Notes 34. Topics PP. 22-23. Complete Story, p. 11. Story of St. Patrick, p. 17. Church in New Zealand, p. 19. Notes of Travel (by J.K.), p. 25. Invercargill’s Great Performance, p. 31. Vatican Missionary Exposition, p. 49. Sunday Afternoon Headings, p. 51. Historian of the Diocese of Ossory, p. 57. MESSAGE OF POPE LEO XIII TO THE “ N.Z. TABLET.” Pergant Director es et Rcriptores New Zealand Tablet , Apostolica Benedictione confortati, Beligionis et Justitice causam promovere per vias Veritatis et Pads. LEO XIII, PM. Pie 4 Aprilis, 1900. Translation. —Fortified by the Apostolic Blessing, let the Directors and Writers of the New Zealand Tablet continue to promote the cause of Religion and Justice by the ways of Truth and Peace. April 4, 1900. LEO XIII., Pope.