——Teneas tuis Te.

“They who in Quarrels interpose,
Must often wipe a bloody Nose.”
A Maxim this from honest Gay ,
And yet we find how far astray,
Blind Mortals wander ev'ry Day.
But little did I think Friend P** E ,
(You see I've hitch'd you in a Line)
Would so forget himself, and Bard,
For whom he had profess'd Regard,
As to neglect this golden Rule,
And thus display, the meddling Fool;
Impertinent , officious, wrong—
(Much better he had held his Tongue)
For let your Brother Artist know,

Evening is coming, the sun waxes red,
Radiant colors from heaven are beaming
Life's lustrous longings in infinite streaming; —
Glory in death o'er the mountains is spread.
Cupolas burn, but the fog in far masses
Over the bluish-black fields softly passes,
Rolling as whilom oblivion pale;
Hid is yon valley 'neath thousand years' veil.
Evening so red and warm
Glows as the people swarm,
Notes of the cornet flare,
Flowers and brown eyes fair.
Great men of old stand in marble erected,
Waiting, scarce known and neglected.

Her mouth is like a dewy rose
That blows, but will not open quite;
Like flame turned down, her long hair glows
In thin, curled currents softly bright;
Her breasts and throat are marble-white.

Her lips will not have any kiss;
They draw away, they flash a smile, —
Half bashfulness, half scorn it is,
A silent ripple.... All the while
She meditates some charming wile.

Her feet below her drapery shine
Like roses under clinging sprays,
When, late in summer, lolls the vine; —
Like flag-leaves in long August days,

The princess looked down from her bower high,
The youth blew his horn as he lingered thereby.
" Be quiet, O youth, will forever you blow?
It hinders my thoughts, that would far away go,
Now, when sets the sun. "

The princess looked down from her bower high,
The youth ceased his blowing, his horn he laid by.
Why are you so quiet? Now more shall you blow,
It lifts all my thoughts, that would far away go,
Now, when sets the sun. "

The princess looked down from her bower high,
The youth blew again, as he lingered thereby.

In vanished days of want and sin
The Lone Hand was the Bulletin ,
And, far and wide throughout the land,
The Bulletin was a lone hand.
The lone hand in the days of old,
He worked alone in search of gold;
The lone hand in the days of youth,
He worked alone in search of truth;
The lone hand in the days of might,
He strikes alone to shield the right;
And countless scores in high command
Through all their lives play the lone hand.
O men and women, lined of brow!
And boys and girls who play it now!

Those (Sir) who eye your truest worthines ,
Hardly do know it at the full t' expresse;
O in Arithmetick 'tis a great summe ,
May then the ignorant sort overcome,
According to the Rules which they ne're knew,
Sum up the worth in you, that shineth nue .

Well may they stand, and at your worth admire,
Entring to suns it up they'l quickly tyre;
Nue now it is what will be th' imitation,
That groweth now beyond all admiration.
VVorth , nothing else, no doubt, there is in you:
O send that nue worth then though it be new ;

Have ever you heard of the Land of Beyond,
That dreams at the gates of the day?
Alluring it lies at the skirts of the skies,
And ever so far away;
Alluring it calls: O ye the yoke galls,
And ye of the trail overfond,
With saddle and pack, by paddle and track,
Let's go to the Land of Beyond!

Have ever you stood where the silences brood,
And vast the horizons begin,
At the dawn of the day to behold far away
The goal you would strive for and win?
Yet ah! in the night when you gain to the height,

A MORNING GHOST STORY

The Lone Hand asked me for a song
To publish when the year is old,
And so I puzzled all night long
For something set in green and gold —
Or blue and gold — yet smart and bright,
The very best that I can do;
But not the stuff I used to write
In Ninety-one and Ninety-two.

I sought no sad house by the sea,
No lone grave in the afterglow;
I sought no " dead girl's memory " —

I worship thee, O Will of God,
And all thy ways adore,
And every day I live I seem
To love thee more and more.

When obstacles and trials seem
Like prison-walls to be,
I do the little I can do,
And leave the rest to thee.

I have no cares, O blessed Will,
For all my cares are thine;
I live in triumph, Lord, for thou,
Hast made thy triumphs mine!

He always wins who sides with God;
To him no chance is lost;
God's will is sweetest to him when
It triumphs at his cost.

Ride on, ride on triumphantly,

Anti-Soldier, Anti-All,
Politicians every one;
There are things they can't recall,
For they never saw them done.
There are thoughts that come about,
When the Digger's dad reflec's —
'Tis the troopship goin' out,
And the mist on Granny's spec's.

Things the smug cold-footer missed,
Just because he wouldn't see —
'Tis the Casualty List
In the old home after tea.
Dad is walkin' to and fro
In the moonlight by the shed;
Mum is sobbing soft and low,
Granny's hand is on her head.

To the wharf again they come,