Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 27

Say! comrade mine, the forbidden fruit We'd have plucked, that I well believe, But I trust we'd rather have suffered mute Than have laid the blame upon Eve.

Maurice (yawning): Who knows? not I; I can hardly vouch For the truth of what little I see; And now, if you've any weed in your pouch, Just hand it over to me.

An Exile's Farewell

The ocean heaves around us still With long and measured swell, The autumn gales our canvas fill, Our s.h.i.+p rides smooth and well.

The broad Atlantic's bed of foam Still breaks against our prow; I shed no tears at quitting home, Nor will I shed them now!

Against the bulwarks on the p.o.o.p I lean, and watch the sun Behind the red horizon stoop-- His race is nearly run.

Those waves will never quench his light, O'er which they seem to close, To-morrow he will rise as bright As he this morning rose.

How brightly gleams the orb of day Across the trackless sea!

How lightly dance the waves that play Like dolphins in our lee!

The restless waters seem to say, In smothered tones to me, How many thousand miles away My native land must be!

Speak, Ocean! is my Home the same Now all is new to me?-- The tropic sky's resplendent flame, The vast expanse of sea?

Does all around her, yet unchanged, The well-known aspect wear?

Oh! can the leagues that I have ranged Have made no difference there?

How vivid Recollection's hand Recalls the scene once more!

I see the same tall poplars stand Beside the garden door; I see the bird-cage hanging still; And where my sister set The flowers in the window-sill-- Can they be living yet?

Let woman's nature cherish grief, I rarely heave a sigh Before emotion takes relief In listless apathy; While from my pipe the vapours curl Towards the evening sky, And 'neath my feet the billows whirl In dull monotony!

The sky still wears the crimson streak Of Sol's departing ray, Some briny drops are on my cheek, 'Tis but the salt sea spray!

Then let our barque the ocean roam, Our keel the billows plough; I shed no tears at quitting home, Nor will I shed them now!

"Early Adieux"

Adieu to kindred hearts and home, To pleasure, joy, and mirth, A fitter foot than mine to roam Could scarcely tread the earth; For they are now so few indeed (Not more than three in all), Who e'er will think of me or heed What fate may me befall.

For I through pleasure's paths have run My headlong goal to win, Nor pleasure's snares have cared to shun When pleasure sweetened sin.

Let those who will their failings mask, To mine I frankly own; But for them pardon will I ask Of none--save Heaven alone.

From carping friends I turn aside; At foes defiance frown; Yet time may tame my stubborn pride, And break my spirit down.

Still, if to error I incline, Truth whispers comfort strong, That never reckless act of mine E'er worked a comrade wrong.

My mother is a stately dame, Who oft would chide with me; She saith my riot bringeth shame, And stains my pedigree.

I'd reck not what my friends might know, Or what the world might say, Did I but think some tears would flow When I am far away.

Perchance my mother will recall My mem'ry with a sigh; My gentle sister's tears may fall, And dim her laughing eye; Perhaps a loving thought may gleam, And fringe its saddened ray, When, like a nightmare's troubled dream, I, outcast, pa.s.s away.

Then once again farewell to those Whoe'er for me have sighed; For pleasures melt away like snows, And hopes like shadows glide.

Adieu, my mother! if no more Thy son's face thou may'st see, At least those many cares are o'er So ofttimes caused by me.

My lot is fixed! The die is cast!

For me home hath no joy!

Oh, pardon then all follies past, And bless your wayward boy!

And thou, from whom for aye to part Grieves more than tongue can tell, May Heaven preserve thy guileless heart, Sweet sister, fare thee well!

Thou, too, whose loving-kindness makes My resolution less, While from the bitter past it takes One half its bitterness, If e'er you held my mem'ry dear, Grant this request, I pray-- Give to that mem'ry one bright tear, And let it pa.s.s away.

A Hunting Song

Here's a health to every sportsman, be he stableman or lord, If his heart be true, I care not what his pocket may afford; And may he ever pleasantly each gallant sport pursue, If he takes his liquor fairly, and his fences fairly, too.

He cares not for the bubbles of Fortune's fickle tide, Who like Bendigo can battle, and like Olliver can ride.

He laughs at those who caution, at those who chide he'll frown, As he clears a five-foot paling, or he knocks a peeler down.

The dull, cold world may blame us, boys! but what care we the while, If coral lips will cheer us, and bright eyes on us smile?

For beauty's fond caresses can most tenderly repay The weariness and trouble of many an anxious day.

Then fill your gla.s.s, and drain it, too, with all your heart and soul, To the best of sports--The Fox-hunt, The Fair Ones, and The Bowl, To a stout heart in adversity through every ill to steer, And when Fortune smiles a score of friends like those around us here.

To a Proud Beauty

"A Valentine"

Though I have loved you well, I ween, And you, too, fancied me, Your heart hath too divided been A constant heart to be.

And like the gay and youthful knight, Who loved and rode away, Your fleeting fancy takes a flight With every fleeting day.

So let it be as you propose, Tho' hard the struggle be; 'Tis fitter far--that goodness knows!-- Since we cannot agree.

Let's quarrel once for all, my sweet, Forget the past--and then I'll kiss each pretty girl I meet, While you'll flirt with the men.

Thick-headed Thoughts