Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 10

Talk about better and wiser, Wiser and worse are one, The sophist is the despiser Of all things under the sun; Is nothing real but confusion?

Is nothing certain but death?

Is nothing fair save illusion?

Is nothing good that has breath?

Some sprite, malignant and elfish, Seems present whispering close, "All motives of life are selfish, All instincts of life are gross; And the song that the poet fas.h.i.+ons, And the love-bird's musical strain, Are jumbles of animal pa.s.sions, Refined by animal pain."

The restless throbbings and burnings That hope unsatisfied brings, The weary longings and yearnings For the mystical better things, Are the sands on which is reflected The pitiless moving lake, Where the wanderer falls dejected, By a thirst he never can slake.

A child blows bubbles that glitter, He s.n.a.t.c.hes them, they disperse; Yet childhood's folly is better, And manhood's folly is worse; Gilt baubles we grasp at blindly Would turn in our hands to dross; 'Tis a fate less cruel than kindly Denies the gain and the loss.

And as one who pursues a shadow, As one who hunts in a dream, As the child who crosses the meadow, Enticed by the rainbow's gleam, I--knowing the course was foolish, And guessing the goal was pain, Stupid, and stubborn, and mulish-- Followed and follow again.

The sun over Gideon halted, Holding aloof the night, When Joshua's arm was exalted, Yet never retraced his flight; Nor will he turn back, nor can he, He chases the future fast; The future is blank--oh, Annie!

I fain would recall the past.

There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine-- They are weary, yet uncomplaining-- I know it, yet I repine; I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret.

You are no false ideal, Something is left of you, Present, perceptible, real, Palpable, tangible, true; One shred of your broken necklace, One tress of your pale, gold hair, And a heart so utterly reckless, That the worst it would gladly dare.

There is little pleasure, if any, In waking the past anew; My days and nights have been many; Lost chances many I rue-- My days and nights have been many; Now I pray that they be few, When I think on the hill-side, Annie, Where I dreamt that the skies were blue.

Ars Longa

[A Song of Pilgrimage]

Our hopes are wild imaginings, Our schemes are airy castles, Yet these, on earth, are lords and kings, And we their slaves and va.s.sals; Your dream, forsooth, of buoyant youth, Most ready to deceive is; But age will own the bitter truth, "Ars longa, vita brevis."

The hill of life with eager feet We climbed in merry morning, But on the downward track we meet The shades of twilight warning; The shadows gaunt they fall aslant, And those who scaled Ben Nevis, Against the mole-hills toil and pant, "Ars longa, vita brevis."

The obstacles that barr'd our path We seldom quail'd to dash on In youth, for youth one motto hath, "The will, the way must fas.h.i.+on."

Those words, I wot, blood thick and hot, Too ready to believe is, But thin and cold our blood hath got, "Ars longa, vita brevis."

And "art is long", and "life is short", And man is slow at learning; And yet by divers dealings taught, For divers follies yearning, He owns at last, with grief downcast (For man disposed to grieve is)-- One adage old stands true and fast, "Ars longa, vita brevis."

We journey, manhood, youth, and age, The matron, and the maiden, Like pilgrims on a pilgrimage, Loins girded, heavy laden:-- Each pilgrim strong, who joins our throng, Most eager to achieve is, Foredoom'd ere long to swell the song, "Ars longa, vita brevis."

At morn, with staff and sandal-shoon, We travel brisk and cheery, But some have laid them down ere noon, And all at eve are weary; The noontide glows with no repose, And bitter chill the eve is, The gra.s.shopper a burden grows, "Ars longa, vita brevis."

The staff is snapp'd, the sandal fray'd, The flint-stone galls and blisters, Our brother's steps we cannot aid, Ah me! nor aid our sister's: The pit prepares its hidden snares, The rock prepared to cleave is, We cry, in falling unawares, "Ars longa, vita brevis."

Oh! Wisdom, which we sought to win!

Oh! Strength, in which we trusted!

Oh! Glory, which we gloried in!

Oh! puppets we adjusted!

On barren land our seed is sand, And torn the web we weave is, The bruised reed hath pierced the hand, "Ars longa, vita brevis."

We, too, "Job's comforters" have met, With steps, like ours, unsteady, They could not help themselves, and yet To judge us they were ready; Life's path is trod at last, and G.o.d More ready to reprieve is, They know who rest beneath the sod, "Mors gratum, vita brevis."

The Last Leap

All is over! fleet career, Dash of greyhound slipping thongs, Flight of falcon, bound of deer, Mad hoof-thunder in our rear, Cold air rus.h.i.+ng up our lungs, Din of many tongues.

Once again, one struggle good, One vain effort;--he must dwell Near the s.h.i.+fted post, that stood Where the splinters of the wood, Lying in the torn tracks, tell How he struck and fell.

Crest where cold drops beaded cling, Small ear drooping, nostril full, Glazing to a scarlet ring, Flanks and haunches quivering, Sinews stiff'ning, void and null, Dumb eyes sorrowful.

Satin coat that seems to s.h.i.+ne Duller now, black braided tress, That a softer hand than mine Far away was wont to twine, That in meadows far from this Softer lips might kiss.

All is over! this is death, And I stand to watch thee die, Brave old horse! with 'bated breath Hardly drawn through tight-clenched teeth, Lip indented deep, but eye Only dull and dry.

Musing on the husk and chaff Gather'd where life's tares are sown, Thus I speak, and force a laugh That is half a sneer and half An involuntary groan, In a stifled tone--

"Rest, old friend! thy day, though rife With its toil, hath ended soon; We have had our share of strife, Tumblers in the mask of life, In the pantomime of noon Clown and pantaloon.

"With the flash that ends thy pain Respite and oblivion blest Come to greet thee. I in vain Fall: I rise to fall again: Thou hast fallen to thy rest-- And thy fall is best!"

Quare Fatigasti

Two years ago I was thinking On the changes that years bring forth; Now I stand where I then stood drinking The gust and the salt sea froth; And the shuddering wave strikes, linking With the waves subsiding and sinking, And clots the coast herbage, shrinking, With the hue of the white cere-cloth.

Is there aught worth losing or keeping?

The bitters or sweets men quaff?

The sowing or the doubtful reaping?

The harvest of grain or chaff?

Or squandering days or heaping, Or waking seasons or sleeping, The laughter that dries the weeping, Or the weeping that drowns the laugh?

For joys wax dim and woes deaden, We forget the sorrowful biers, And the garlands glad that have fled in The merciful march of years; And the sunny skies, and the leaden, And the faces that pale or redden, And the smiles that lovers are wed in Who are born and buried in tears.

And the myrtle bloom turns h.o.a.ry, And the blush of the rose decays, And sodden with sweat and gory Are the hard won laurels and bays; We are neither joyous nor sorry When time has ended our story, And blotted out grief and glory, And pain, and pleasure, and praise.

Weigh justly, throw good and bad in The scales, will the balance veer With the joys or the sorrows had in The sum of a life's career?

In the end, spite of dreams that sadden The sad or the sanguine madden, There is nothing to grieve or gladden, There is nothing to hope or fear.

"Thou hast gone astray," quoth the preacher, "In the gall of thy bitterness,"