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The Spike: or, Victoria College Review, October 1908

Poetry

page 70

Poetry.

Sketch of man holding sheet of paper

The Cadi's Seat.

God has placed conscience within you to determine,—no like an Asiatic Cadi, according to the ebbs and flows of his own passions; but like a judge,—who makes no new law, but faithfully declares that glorious law which he finds already written.—Sterne.

The Cadi's seat of Mercy, carven stone.
The spider looped alooft, with death alone,
May marvel where is he that prizeth blood
As rich as doth a spider in a flood
Of recollections of dead flies. Perhaps
A spider can't remember every lapse
To murder. True—'tis his vocation. Stay!
It can't be wrong to follow Nature's way.

The Cadi's seat of justice. Oh, forlorn
To look for any grape on any thorn.
If Justice has abiding seat within
This portico, she never ventures in;
To shut her voluntary eyes that seal
More than a jurist ever can reveal.
The Cadi, and the Prophet—that is just!
Not any flaw, not any crack for dust
To mar the balance! Dreams, poor fellaheen,
Too subtle for the Cadi! You have seen
page 71 The right become the wrong, the innocent
More black in soul than ever soul was meant.
Your blood has spouted like a water-rose;
The Cadi has decided—and he goes.

There's a bird twittering in a bough. You think
He never has a thought but meat and drink,
Though Summer's calling to the world asleep
Save for the wind and its twin slave the deep.
But be has little recollections stored,
And fear is with them. Somewhere is a lord
To tear his entrails. Not a thing that dies
So loose but has uncounted agonies.
And there's your soul—the Cadi who directs
Your right and wrong, and warps too many texts
To fit your inclination. You have made,
So carelessly you could not be afraid,
A murder of a tender heart that went
Singing for you in loveliest content.
Oh, specious Cadi of the breast, to hold
Our wishes to be truth, to see the gold
In the debasing lead; to find a flaw
In reprobating Duty that would draw
Higher than any sunbeam! Too austere
For creeping minds God's silver atmosphere.

Ah, there is no appeal: when you decide
To touch the grossness goodness is defied.
What wickedness is made the precedent
For every dirty hour that you have spent!
"Thus others do, and no one marks the slur
Dimming the conscience. If I do prefer
The hard, bare line of Duty, will it be
Counted for profit in eternity?
Palabra! Let my spirit take her wings
Of uncontrollable delight in things,
No matter right or wrong?" Oh, barren judge,
Too wordy for the wisdom that doth grudge
More than the word appointed; you have made,
With your deceit and lying, Truth afraid.

What star shall shine for you if Earth allure?
The Cadi's seat within you—Is it pure?

Hubert Church.

page 72

The Leaf.

From thy tender stem snatched free,
Poor leaf in thy misery,
Where goest thou? Nought can I say:
The storm-wind bath broken in death
The oak which alone was my stay;
And now with his wavering breath
South wind or north blowing amain,
My way through the world harrieth,
From forest to meadow beneath,
From mountain to valley again.
I go where the wind listeth
With never a plaint, fearlessly—
I go with all things to a close,
Where goeth the leaf of the rose
And the leaf of the laurel tree.

Nena N. Newall.

Antipodean Horace.

Carmen IX.

See how the Tararuas stand
All glistening in their robes of snow,
Nor winter rules with iron hand,
And winds Antarctic bleakly blow.

Build high the fire and thaw the cold,
Of fuel there's an ample store;
Bring forth that jar of whisky old,
O Harcus, and we'll drink once more.

Leave all else to the gods, for they
The warring winds on seething seas
Have laid to sleep; no longer sway
In strife the venerable trees.

To-morrow's lot seek not to know,
But count it as a profit won,
What day soe'er the fates bestow,
Nor, what love offers, ever shun,

page 73

Nor ever spurn the dance, so long
As crabbed old age shall hold aloof,
And in thy veins the blood run strong
To put such pleasures to the proof.

Now to the gardens or the park
Return at the appointed hour
Of Dulcet whispers after dark,
When hidden in some secret bower.

A frolic laugh betrays the maid
Indulgent to the foolish boy,
Of stealing kisses half afraid
Though lips are but demurely coy.

Carmen XI.

Lucy, fond votaress of clairvoyance,
Thou shalt not know, in crystal though thou gaze,
What end the gods ordain of all my days
And thine, sweet witch; not all thy necromance
Can tell our destinies; whate'er bechance
'Twere best to bear; whether th' Almighty weights
Thee out more years, or this thy last, naught stays
The wave-like motion of the years' advance.
Wisdom accepts, be wise; thy longing hope
Trim to the straiter limits of thy sphere
Of homely duty, for what must be, must;
E'en now, while thou wouldst read my horoscope,
The jealous hour is sped; to-day is here,
Seize it and to the morrow little trust.

Arthur Chorlton.

Pro Patria.

Shure I've found a blissed counthry, an' I'm happy I was
born,
For there's meadows crammed wid cattle, and the
cattle crammed wid corn,
An' there's pockets full o'money, an' help for all forlorn
—But—m' heart is moithered sore for Ballyhony.

page 74

Faix! there's cabbage trees above me, and the emerald flax
below;
An' the trees are sweatin' blossoms ye'd niver think could
grow;
'Tis the land o' "Drames Come Thrue," machree, but ivery
drame may go,
Just to pluck a shamrock leaf in Ballyhony.

The moighty mountins thrill me as they circle round the
bay,
Wid their pearly-misted pinions for to mark the dyin' day.
But there's speak o' golder glory, and there's mists o' softer
gray,
On the Sperrin' tops o' dewy Ballyhony.

Och! the laugh is in the eye iv me, but the tear is in the
soul,
M' heart 'twill break wid longin' as the years they onward roll.
Bless Patrick an' his angles! an' whin I cross the goal,
Heaven grant that it may be in Ballyhony.

To B.A.

I.
Oh, charming beautiful B.A.
For years I've sought your favour,
I've toiled for you through night and day,
Till toil has lost its savour;
For though you are of low degree,
Your guardians are heartless,
And bachelor I long shall be,
A Bachelor that's Artless:
But Time his endless changes brings,
Not always shall I pine:
Ah, when the College gets its wings,
Ah, then thou wilt be mine.

page 75

II.
When Suffragettes no longer look
To capture what is man's;
When Richmond publishes his book
And Adamson his banns;
When Registrar's no longer rob,
Nor College windows rattle,
When Mr. Brook gives up his job,
To speculate in cattle;
When Hogben keeps his "jokes" at home,
And Hughie Mac. his kine,
When Papes are only found in Rome,
Ah, then thou wilt be mine.

III.
When Kirk eschews the softer parts
And casts away the dead bits,
When girls no longer lose their hearts
In Julius Knight or Zedlitz,
(That rhyme may seem a bit uncouth,
But still its rich and ringing)
When people rush to hear the truth
Or Archie Bogle singing;
When dresses are not "simply sweet"
Nor Clara Butt "divine,"
When merits with due justice meet,
Ah, then thou wilt be mine.

IV.
When nought on earth is deemed a bore,
Or Dr. Gibb a pagan,
When Auckland really wants no more,
Or Wellington O'Regan;
When Politicians e'er refuse
A favour, near elections,
When Auctioners or Agents lose
In selling City sections;
When anglers ever "lose a fish"
Or ever "break a line"
When men get everything they wish,
Ah, then thou wilt be mine.

page 76

V.
When Bertie pulls a fearsome face,
Or de la Mare a cork,
When Toogood wins a leading case,
Or Stocker lad the walk,
When paltry rhymsters cease to write
Such wretched stuff as this is,
When men who boast of deeds to might,
Dare disobey their Mrs;
When Age admits that joyous Youth
Knows anything; in fine
When truth is falsehood, falsehood truth,
Then, sweetheart, thou'lt be mine.

S.E.