The Easter Pilgrimage.

[We are glad to insert the following "Poem." Essays in the lyric and the dramatic art have appeared in our columns from time to time, and we have not been lacking in the Epigram and the Ballad. But hitherto the mighty Epic has been without a witness. No Vergil has followed our "heroes" in their wanderings, and sung their noble deeds in stately measure. Now all is changed. A poet, who desires the strictest anonymity but whose genius will at once be recognised by readers of "The Wellingtonian," has been raised up. Let Homer tremble.]

We started on our trip, a merry throng,
With voices lifted loud in joyous song;
But soon the wiles of Neptune, shoreman's foe,
Had busily engaged us down below.
Good Dixon for the nonce was then our boss,
But left us all at Port to mourn his loss;
For he just like the tender turtle-dove,
Was deep engross'd in idle thoughts of love.
(He said that he was seeing to the "fare,"
He was, but spelling differs I declare.)
All day we ate and talked and gambled deep,
Some cracked old jokes which sent us off to sleep:
But as we slowly neared the promised land,
Vice manager address'd our little band:
"Lets light upon a war-cry fierce and loud
With which to greet the eager waiting crowd;
Now scratch your heads and bid your wit to come,
I've scratched my own but no one is at home.
And yet, i' faith, methinks I've got one here,
Which will in all inspire deadly fear."
page 50 And so it did, that was its greatest use,
The people thought all Seacliffe had got loose.
Next day we hied us to the tennis court,
And there our life was very sweet but short.
But 'twas Miss Batham came unto our aid,
'Twas she with mien so portly and so staid,
In order that our spirits might not damp,
Gained for herself renown and ladies' champ.
That evening as it slowly drew near eight,
We all did gather round for the debate.
Toogood, with stately stride and flowing gown,
(Both had he borrow'd), and a solemn frown,
Came forth and said he'd not commit offence,
By wilful sacrifice of sound to sense:
His ancient friends, the Swiss, were happy quite,
They had the Referendum with the right
Of 'nitiative; and more, (with nasal twang),
The same had been adopted by Hung Chang,
And for us all, nay millions yet unborn,
'Twere good to take this bullock by the horn.
(Of course he did not take time to explain,
He'd learnt a book by heart on board the train,
Which dealt with Swiss, their customs and their ways,
And that he had not lived there all his days.)
Good Quartley also really spoke quite well
And he was only smother'd by the bell.
Next day were sports, and there we did not thrive;
While some scor'd fifty-two we scor'd but five.
One point of these was scored by De la Mare,
Whose long legs made him fast as any hare.
Seddon and Tud. between them got the rest,
And puff'd with pride, seemed nothing else but chest.
That night for dancing had been set apart,
And each one took the lady of his heart.
Long Robertson, who'd come for candlegrease,
And thought thereby his knowledge to increase,
On finding that he could not use the still,
Did not lament nor swear himself to kill.
Instead, he cast aside that learned role,
And with fair damsels did himself console.
And at this dance, upon this selfsame night,
He e'er preferr'd the darkness to the light.
When some great wag with foresight turned the switch,
And threw the room in darkness black as pitch,
You may be sure * * * *

We must leave our readers to "be sure" as best pleases them, for on consulting our legal adviser, Mr. Quartley, we discover that the succeeding page 51 words are libellous, and would expose us to heavy damages. Besides this, there are occasions on which a discreet epic bard might conveniently lose his spectacles.

Then with the moonlight picnic nought went wrong,
"Moonlight" to those with 'magination strong.
Next day there came the parting, fraught with pain,
This time was Dixon led forth by a chain,
All day aboard the train was song and fun,
A few had voices, more, I fear, had none.
George Prouse, with vigour great and strength of mind,
Sang plaintively "The girl he'd left behind."
John Brailsford's voice must better days have seen,
If one's to judge his bawling of "Chlorine."
And Loudon too, most splendid sailor he,
With pathos deep, sang "Ocean wave for me."
Good Quartley whistled well "Salut d'amour."
And one could see that he'd been there before.
S. Eichelbaum (what name to put in rhyme!)
Did nothing else but talk the live-long time.
George Dixon, who of tune was quite bereft,
Yet ventured on a song entitled "Left."
Great Toogood with a voice like thunder peal,
Discussed the stirring tale of "Hervé Riel."
We found the straits incensed by raging wind,
Which made those sorry who too well had dined;
And coming to the wharf, saw standing there,
One only to receive us, De la Mare.
Finis.

Wood B.