Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 24

These things are done, and are done with, lad, In far less time than your talker tells; The sward with their hoof-strokes shook like mad, And rang with their carbines and petronels; And they shouted, "Cross him and cut him off,"

"Surround him," "Seize him," "Capture the clown, Or kill him," "Shall he escape to scoff In your faces?" "Shoot him or cut him down."

And their bullets whistled on every side; Many were near us and more were wide.

Not a bullet told upon Britomarte; Suddenly snorting, she launched along; So the osprey dives where the seagulls dart, So the falcon swoops where the kestrels throng.

And full in my front one pistol flash'd, And right in my path their sergeant got.

How are jack-boots jarr'd, how are stirrups clash'd, While the mare like a meteor past him shot; But I clove his skull with a backstroke clean, For the glory of G.o.d and of Gwendoline.

And as one whom the fierce wind storms in the face, With spikes of hail and with splinters of rain, I, while we fled through St. Hubert's Chase, Bent till my cheek was amongst her mane.

To the north, full a league of the deer-park lay, Smooth, springy turf, and she fairly flew, And the sound of their hoof-strokes died away, And their far shots faint in the distance grew.

Loudly I laughed, having won the start, At the folly of following Britomarte.

They had posted a guard at the northern gate-- Some dozen of pikemen and musketeers.

To the tall park palings I turn'd her straight; She veer'd in her flight as the swallow veers.

And some blew matches and some drew swords, And one of them wildly hurl'd his pike, But she clear'd by inches the oaken boards, And she carried me yards beyond the d.y.k.e; Then gaily over the long green down We gallop'd, heading for Westbrooke town.

The green down slopes to the great grey moor, The grey moor sinks to the gleaming Skelt-- Sudden and sullen, and swift and sure, The whirling water was round my belt.

She breasted the bank with a savage snort, And a backward glance of her bloodshot eye, And "Our Lady of Andover's" flash'd like thought, And flitted St. Agatha's nunnery, And the firs at "The Ferngrove" fled on the right, And "Falconer's Tower" on the left took flight.

And over "The Ravenswold" we raced-- We rounded the hill by "The Hermit's Well"-- We burst on the Westbrooke Bridge--"What haste?

What errand?" shouted the sentinel.

"To Beelzebub with the Brewer's knave!"

"Carolus Rex and he of the Rhine!"

Galloping past him, I got and gave In the gallop pa.s.sword and countersign, All soak'd with water and soil'd with mud, With the sleeve of my jerkin half drench'd in blood.

Now, Heaven be praised that I found him there-- Lord Guy. He said, having heard my tale, "Leigh, let my own man look to your mare, Rest and recruit with our wine and ale; But first must our surgeon attend to you; You are somewhat shrewdly stricken, no doubt."

Then he s.n.a.t.c.hed a horn from the wall and blew, Making "Boot and Saddle" ring sharply out.

"Have I done good service this day?" quoth I.

"Then I will ride back in your troop, Lord Guy."

In the street I heard how the trumpets peal'd, And I caught the gleam of a morion From the window--then to the door I reel'd; I had lost more blood than I reckon'd upon; He eyed me calmly with keen grey eyes-- Stern grey eyes of a steel-blue grey-- Said, "The wilful man can never be wise, Nathless, the wilful must have his way,"

And he pour'd from a flagon some fiery wine; I drain'd it, and straightway strength was mine.

I was with them all the way on the brown-- "Guy to the rescue!" "G.o.d and the king!"

We were just in time, for the doors were down; And didn't our sword-blades rasp and ring, And didn't we hew and didn't we hack?

The sport scarce lasted minutes ten-- (Aye, those were the days when my beard was black; I like to remember them now and then).

Though they fought like fiends, we were four to one, And we captured those that refused to run.

We have not forgotten it, Cuthbert, boy!

That supper scene when the lamps were lit; How the women (some of them) sobb'd for joy, How the soldiers drank the deeper for it; How the dame did honours, and Gwendoline, How grandly she glided into the hall, How she stoop'd with the grace of a girlish queen, And kiss'd me gravely before them all; And the stern Lord Guy, how gaily he laugh'd, Till more of his cup was spilt than quaff'd.

Brown Britomarte lay dead in her straw Next morn--we buried her--brave old girl!

John Kerr, we tried him by martial law, And we twisted some hemp for the trait'rous churl; And she--I met her alone--said she, "You have risk'd your life, you have lost your mare, And what can I give in return, Ralph Leigh?"

I replied, "One braid of that bright brown hair."

And with that she bow'd her beautiful head, "You can take as much as you choose," she said.

And I took it--it may be, more than enough-- And I sh.o.r.e it rudely, close to the roots.

The wine or wounds may have made me rough, And men at the bottom are merely brutes.

Three weeks I slept at St. Hubert's Chase; When I woke from the fever of wounds and wine, I could scarce believe that the ghastly face That the gla.s.s reflected was really mine.

I sought the hall--where a wedding HAD BEEN-- The wedding of Guy and of Gwendoline.

The romance of a grizzled old trooper's life May make you laugh in your sleeves: laugh out, Lads; we have most of us seen some strife; We have all of us had some sport, no doubt.

I have won some honour and gain'd some gold, Now that our king returns to his own; If the pulses beat slow, if the blood runs cold, And if friends have faded and loves have flown, Then the greater reason is ours to drink, And the more we swallow the less we shall think.

At the battle of Naseby, Miles was slain, And Huntly sank from his wounds that week; We left young Clare upon Worcester plain-- How the "Ironside" gash'd his girlish cheek.

Aye, strut, and swagger, and ruffle anew, Gay gallants, now that the war is done!

They fought like fiends (give the fiend his due)-- We fought like fops, it was thus they won.

Holdsworth is living for aught I know, At least he was living two years ago,

And Guy--Lord Guy--so stately and stern, He is changed, I met him at Winchester; He has grown quite gloomy and taciturn.

Gwendoline!--why do you ask for her?

Died as her mother had died before-- Died giving birth to the baby Guy!

Did my voice shake? Then am I fool the more.

Sooner or later we all must die; But, at least, let us live while we live to-night.

The DAYS may be dark, but the LAMPS are bright.

For to me the sunlight seems worn and wan: The sun, he is losing his splendour now-- He can never s.h.i.+ne as of old he shone On her glorious hair and glittering brow.

Ah! those DAYS THAT WERE, when my beard was black, NOW I have only the NIGHTS THAT ARE.

What, landlord, ho! bring in haste burnt sack, And a flask of your fiercest usquebaugh.

You, Cuthbert! surely you know by heart The story of HER and of Britomarte.

Laudamus

The Lord shall slay or the Lord shall save!

He is righteous whether He save or slay-- Brother, give thanks for the gifts He gave, Though the gifts He gave He hath taken away.

Shall we strive for that which is nothing? Nay.

Shall we hate each other for that which fled?

She is but a marvel of modelled clay, And the smooth, clear white, and the soft, pure red, That we coveted, shall endure no day.

Was it wise or well that I hated you For the fruit that hung too high on the tree?

For the blossom out of our reach that grew, Was it well or wise that you hated me?-- My hate has flown, and your hate shall flee.

Let us veil our faces like children chid-- Can that violet orb we swore by see Through that violet-vein'd, transparent lid?-- Now the Lord forbid that this strife should be.

Would you knit the forehead or clench the fist, For the curls that never were well caress'd-- For the red that never was fairly kiss'd-- For the white that never was fondly press'd?

Shall we nourish wrath while she lies at rest Between us? Surely our wrath shall cease.

We would fain know better--the Lord knows best-- Is there peace between us? Yea, there is peace, In the soul's release she at least is blest.

Let us thank the Lord for His bounties all, For the brave old days of pleasure and pain, When the world for both of us seem'd too small-- Though the love was void and the hate was vain-- Though the word was bitter between us twain, And the bitter word was kin to the blow, For her gloss and ripple of rich gold rain, For her velvet crimson and satin snow-- Though we never shall know the old days again.

The Lord!--His mercy is great, men say; His wrath, men say, is a burning brand-- Let us praise Him whether He save or slay, And above her body let hand join hand.

We shall meet, my friend, in the spirit land-- Will our strife renew? Nay, I dare not trust, For the grim, great gulf that cannot be spann'd Will divide us from her. The Lord is just, She shall not be thrust where our spirits stand.