23 NOVEMBER 1895, Page 17

POETRY.

GROWTH.

BLOW, winds, your rage but shakes the tree And roots it surer in its place !

Scatter your rain, ye clouds, and free The buds that wait your frowning grace !

Roll down. 0 river, to the sea And widen in your onward race !

Peace through a sunny span may keep His garden in some quiet glen, Whilst others sow for him and reap And tend his flocks on moor and fen : The flowers of Peace are death and sleep ; The strife of living makes us men.

Ah, joy it is to win the goal By tireless work and dauntless will, Yet may the life rise orbed and whole From clouded hopes, and loss, and ill : Our baffled toils upbnild the soul, And failure so is victory still.

A. ST. JOHN ADCOCK.