Maoriland Posy

I did not know—how could I know?— My own dear land, I'd loved you so, Until through English woods I went And vexed my heart with discontent, At seeing English bluebells blow; At seeing primrose stars appear Along the hedge-rows far and near, And lime-trees filling all the street With airs bewilderingly sweet, And blue flags blowing by the mere.

* * *

Then loitering in an English lane Dreaming my wistful dreams again; I saw as I had never seen, The bronze and green and richer green Of dark old forests” deeps and shades With sun-shot, shadowy colonnades, Where high above the feathering fern, The crimson crowns of rata burn, And climbing upward to the light With far-flung trails of green and white,

The clematis breaks through the bars, And floods the glades with streams of stars.

While o'er the blue seas' foamy drifts Old King Pohutukawa lifts His flaming torches to the light Like beacon fires along the height, And wind-swept ti-tree's sturdy maze Is white with myriad starry sprays. I saw the flax-spires' red-brown blooms,

The koromiko's purple plumes, And spilling incense to the breeze, Palm-lily heads in clouds of bees, And shy hoheria's ringlets pale, Trembling so exquisitely frail, And kowhai hung with tasselled gold, And ferns and mosses manifold, And lovely tendrilled, nameless weeds Gemmed all their length with coral beads.

Then gazing on those drifts of blue, At last I knew—too well I knew— (I had come far and far for this) The alien's pang of pain and bliss— That all my yearning heart should know My own dear land I love you so. —Isabel M. Peacocke.

Mount Egmont.

Egmont flung athwart the plain Impassive in the blue-black night. Gleaming-white in the dusk Towering supreme in magnificent height. Monument of peace brooding Silent sentinel of the ages; One of Nature's mightiest seers Inscrutable as the ancient sages. Egmont—where the fire-demons battled When Maoriland was very young; Witness of a thousand Maori battles And the triumphs of tribes unsung.

—N. F. Hoggard.

* * *

Summertime in Maoriland.

'Tis summertime in Maoriland—the land of greenery,
And tourists hasten here to see the world-famed scenery.
The plains are seas of burnished gold—'tis harvest-time again
The fields are hedged by golden gorse—to match the golden grain.
The broad Pacific gently leans against the Eastern shore
And whispers tales of warriors and ancient Maori lore.
While in its sunkissed, sparkling depths the bathers swim and play
Or bask in sultry summer sun each lovely summer day.
Afar up in the bush-clad hills, the air is fresh and clear.
Once more the joyous, rippling notes of feathered folk, I hear.
The snowy-throated tui, and the fan-tail small and shy,
The bellbird's silvery echoes, and the mountain parrot's cry.
The red and purple fuschia buds are falling all in showers.
And mingle with clematis white, and yellow kowhai flowers.
Away up in the green-leafed heights, entwined in fond embrace
The red pohutukawa bends in dainty, fairy grace.
And underneath, an ocean green is stretched for miles around
Of waist-high, gently-stirring ferns all draped along the ground.
Then, with a deep melodious roar, a waterfall leaps down
From dizzy heights of moss-grown rocks, and slippery limestone brown
And presently it ‘merges from its mad and headlong rush
Its voice is toned into a low and gently soothing hush.
The summer sun shines brightly down on snow-tipped mountains grand
And sends a call to come and see This lovely Maori land.

—Mae Bushell (aged 15 years).

* * *

The Passing of the Night Express

Out of the night it comes, faint, far away,
An ever growing, rhythnic song of power
A surging, swelling, sweeping song, that breaks
The tranquil stillness of this midnight hour.
I hear it throbbing nearer as I stand My eyes alight with long-lost eagerness
Recalling days of boyhood, when I loved
To watch the passing of the night express.
Ah! here she comes at last. Her searchlight's beam
Illuminates the track with ghostly light,
And shows the shining rails, with silver sheen,
Twisting like sinuous serpents through the night.
Before me now she passes, swift as thought,
As in the days of boyhood, just the same.
Like bold knight-errant faring forth to fight,
Beneath a smoke-white pennant, edged with flame.
On, on, she sweeps with unabated pace
And round the bend is quickly lost to sight,
But still I know she journeys ever on
Singing her song of power, into the night.

G. W. R. Watson.

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