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The Spike or Victoria College Review, June 1906
Poetry
Poetry.
"The swan, like the soul of the poet,
By the dull world, is ill understood."
—Heine.
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The Lady of the Hill
Devoid of classic heritage,
O Lad of the Hill,
Thou hast begun thy pilgrimage
With brimming goblet to assuage
The thirst for truth that age to age
Bequeaths unsated still.
Lo! By thy snowy breast I swear,
And by thy dawnward gaze,
That thou art pure as thou art fair,
Nor canst thou suffer bonds to wear;
But freely-born, shalt freely bear
In honour all thy days.
Thy head is high, thine arms are wide,
Imploring love and light.
Oh! never be thy prayer denied,
And ne'er in darkness turn aside
Thy seed; but constant be their guide
Thy starry eyes at night.
Deny that Honour e'er should sleep,
Or Folly ever wake;
Bid Love a mother-vigil keep
O'er infant Thought, until the peep
Of dawning Truth, let freedom leap
At sight of bonds to break.
Prepare thy children for the road
Or furrowed or untrod.
Nor bow them 'neath a needless load
By day, and see them safe bestowed
At eve in rich or poor abode
With them that seek for Goa.
Victoria! I see thee rise,
Who kiss thy garment's hem.
I give thee hail. Do not despise
The songs of lips, the looks of eyes
That tell thee all Zealandia's skies
Reflect thy diadem.
Geo. Rae Hutcheson.
Cook.
Sailor, that strove with cloud and wave and chance
To trace the pathless border of a sea,
The chanting vestal of eternity
Awakened from invulnerable trance
By thy devotion; thou that hadst the glance
To pierce the mocking veil of mystery
Over our waters, make our vision free
To catch the golden flame of circumstance,
To find in duty a greater than the hour
Of triumph, something that the mighty sun
Hath not in his dominion; bid us learn
Thy lesson, that the humblest hath the power,
From the poor world, his labour duly done,
With eyes of shining happiness to turn.
Hubert Church.
Beethoven.
A king came to his kingdom, which is fair
With pleasaunce, and the tireless speech of streams;
A land of fragrance, flowers, and of dreams,
With moon-long lotus-languor in the air;
But these beyond, for him whoso feet will dare,
Are summits that the full-fledged eagles haunt,
And caverns where the tongues of thunder vaunt,
And fire-veined crags where brilliant lightnings glare.
He caught the champaign glory as he clomb
With soul aglow for commerce with wild skies;
He won the peaks, looked in the world's wide eyes,
And heard float down the music-quivering dome
Symphonic themes of Time, and Space, and Life:
But no thing spake of nation, self, or strife.
Seaforth Mackenzie.
Chanson Triste.
O College, fit subject for eloquent praises,
In odes and in stanzas and rhetoric's mazes;
Just listen to us, your poor servants so humble,
We're part of your life, and we'll fall when you crumble.
Song of the Ventilators.
We are really quite the latest, most attractive up-to-datest Thing in modern ventilators.
There are many potent factors, why intelligent contractors,
And the Council Board have backed us;
For we're neat and ornamental, and our style is Oriental,
And the noise we make is gentle;
But we're really not prepared to, no we certainly don't care to
Condescend to let the air through.
Song of the Windows.
Sad is the song that we sing you, woeful the tale that we tell;
Hark to the story we bring you, mark you our misery well.
Cold are the rains that bedew us, savage the winds that are dashed,
Many strange faces look through us, few are the times that we're washed.
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And we're shakin', shakin', shakin', and our hearts are slowly breakin',
And we haven't any rest by day or night;
And the wind against us crashes, and we're shiverin' in our sashes,
For they haven't made the bloomin' things near tight.
Song of the Plaster.
Heigh Ho! I am the plaster, and
I'm made by some great master hand;
You surely will not doubt it.
And if you see a drop or two
Of dampness, use a mop or two,
And say no more about it.
What if I chip and crack a bit,
In beauty I don't lack a bit,
My colour is perfection.
There's nothing really mean in me,
If any one will lean on me,
I'll part with my complexion.
L'Envoi.
O College, fit subject for eloquent praises,
In odes and in stanzas and rhetoric's mazes.
Take heed of the tale of your servants so humble,
Who're part of your life, and who'll fall when you crumble.
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