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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 9, Issue 3 (June 1, 1934.)

New Zealand Verse

page 31

New Zealand Verse

Wellington.

The high peaks are her warders,
The blue sky is her crown,
On Wellington's white borders
The long, blue seas bow down.
Beauteous, rare and gracious,
Wilful and yet serene,
By lands and waters spacious,
She rests, a captive queen.
Where else in all Earth's marches
Are cities set secure
Where never hot wind parches
Or tropic languors lure;
Where breezes, clean, go singing
And golden sunbeams glow,
And each brown dusk comes bringing
Sweet scents her wild hills know?
But though the mountains hoary
And wilderness and sea
Enshrine her in a glory,
Romantic, fair and free,
Within her sheltered places
Are gardens filled with flowers
Which lift their still, sweet faces
To quickening sun and showers.
When dawnlights limn the ridge
Across her harbour's tide,
By blue and golden bridges
The lights of morning ride,
To flash on windows gleaming
As though the Day's desire
From crest to sea-line streaming
Had set her sloops on fire.
The hills that are her gaolers
Are slaves to all her charms
On seas afar rough sailors
Dream of her curving arms.
In all Earth's far-flung marches
The loveliest city this,
Which stoops ‘neath Heaven'd bluarches
To meet the blue seas’ kiss.
Will Lawson.

To a Cricket Bat.

Old bat, you're done; nor oil nor binding now
Can make you fit to meet the shock of ball
Hurtling from bowler's hand—or ev'n the crawl
Of wily lobs; you've made your farewell bow
To the green field where gallant work enow
You did in days gone by; if total small
Often were mine, my mem'ry can recall
No cause to blame you, much to praise; for how
Your spring saved risky lifts! Farewell. But stay
Would you make one more venture at the game?
Come to the backyard, where the youngsters play,
And though we may not set the Thames aflame,
We'll let you die in harness—that's the way
First ball for six through the cucumber frame!
A. L. Rowe.

The Highbrow Herd.

London, December 7.

The experiment of giving music to milch cows is being tried at the Fat Stock Show to restore the loss of weight due to the excitemet of travelling.

Gramophone records, amplified by loud speakers, provided, not jazz, which experts feared would infuriate the bulls, but Bach's Fugues and Beethoven's Sonatas, to which the beasts chewed the cud peaceably.

Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast,
No more in fury boils the bovine blood,
And all the herd, their rhythmic sense released,
Chews an andante moderato cud.
To raise the butterfat, enrich the cream,
Who shall deny Beethoven is supreme?
O thou immortal sedative! Is there
A frown you cannot banish from its brow?
Or anything that earth can show more fair
Than Mendelssohn's effect upon a cow?
Turn in your grave, O Schubert, and embrace
Your devotees among the uddered race!
'Tis not for syncopation that they yearn;
These animals are of a cultured strain.
Play them a saxophone, and they will turn
And rend the stalls to pieces in their pain.
Of Hollywood's guitar pluck not the string—
A little jazz is quite a dangerous thing.
Full many a fugue of Bach is given birth
To waste its sweetness on the human ear.
How different are these creatures of the earth!
Appreciation is not wanting here.
With simple artistry their hearts are full—
You cannot wave red ragtime to a bull
R. G. P.

Nocturne. Castlecliff, Wanganui.

Hushed are the winds! Upon the sleeping sea
Descends the sable, soft-caressing night;
And yonder mountain peak gleams regally
In day's last flush of fiery sunset light.
The little wavelets run upon the sand
Faintly, reluctantly, as half afraid
Grey gulls wing homeward o'er the darkening land
To occupy their rocky palisade.
Lone evening's star, in solitude divine,
Shines like a lovely, scintillating gem,
A priceless jewel from an Eastern mine
Set in some swart Sultana's diadem.
Aloof, across the purple river mouth
Comes dipping in a stately merchantman
From San Francisco, heading for the south,
Or seeking rusty scrap-iron for Japan.
The myriad stars are kindled one by one,
The Southern Cross is in the Milky Way,
The moon peeps o'er the hills; the day is done,
And night again holds undisputed sway.
James G. Treadwell.

Reverie.

Love came unbidden, like a late red rose,
Enhancing with its sweetness autumn days.
Love bloomed despite us, and its fragrance blows
Like summer warmth across our wintry ways.
Ah! Love importuned goes—but our love stays.
S. O.

page 32