1 JUNE 1907, Page 14

POETRY.

AN APPRECIATION.

iVe who lay bare our little gifts of rhyme Upon the altar of grim, smiling Time, Who to the immortal Pew would fain belong,

And rack the very heavens for a snug; What are our vaunted doings, light or grave,

To those of one who, never singing, gave Life's dearest peace to help, to mend, to save, To draw fresh promise from the wasted years, Order from chaos, hope from craven fears ?

Acclaimed, denounced, he takes alike his way.

Heedleea of what all foes, most friends, may say; Making the world to some few eyes appear A place less sordid by his presence here, Man's truth a dower easier to believe, His very native air more pure to breethe.

feat—'tis curious somehow to conceive— Which we, dear brother bards, will scarce acidev0 I