Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/234

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198
The Wit.
Had known him, and had smiled on him ere he Had kinsfolk near, or leafy brethren nigh;The wild birds brought to him their minstrelsy; The singers knew that when the scene was rude,He grew and gave a shelter to their race. By him the wandering melodists were wooedTo trill and warble in that lonely place; A sanctuary in the solitudeHe gave to them. In him the birds could trace The forest’s king, and so from hills and plains They flew to him, and sang their sweetest strains.

Thomas Bracken.

CXXXVII.

The Wit.

While the dull talk idly streams,He sits upon the bank and dreams,Till some careless word that’s saidFinds a fellow in his head.—
He with one great bound is borneFrom Dent Blanche to Matterhorn;And his passage is so fastOver that abyss so vast,He has not seen how bluely shinesThe deep gulf in his pelt of pines,Nor heard the waste and watery voiceWherewith the wind-washed pines rejoice.
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