Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 4

We have no wish to exaggerate The worth of the sports we prize, Some toil for their Church, and some for their State, And some for their merchandise; Some traffic and trade in the city's mart, Some travel by land and sea, Some follow science, some cleave to art, And some to scandal and tea;

And some for their country and their queen Would fight, if the chance they had, Good sooth, 'twere a sorry world, I ween, If we all went galloping mad; Yet if once we efface the joys of the chase From the land, and outroot the Stud, GOOD-BYE TO THE ANGLO-SAXON RACE!

FAREWELL TO THE NORMAN BLOOD!

Where the burn runs down to the uplands brown, From the heights of the snow-clad range, What anodyne drawn from the stifling town Can be reckon'd a fair exchange For the stalker's stride, on the mountain side, In the bracing northern weather, To the slopes where couch, in their antler'd pride, The deer on the perfum'd heather?

Oh! the vigour with which the air is rife!

The spirit of joyous motion; The fever, the fulness of animal life, Can be drain'd from no earthly potion!

The lungs with the living gas grow light, And the limbs feel the strength of ten, While the chest expands with its madd'ning might, G.o.d'S GLORIOUS OXYGEN.

Thus the measur'd stroke, on elastic sward, Of the steed three parts extended, Hard held, the breath of his nostrils broad, With the golden ether blended; Then the leap, the rise from the springy turf, The rush through the buoyant air, And the light shock landing--the veriest serf Is an emperor then and there!

Such scenes! sensation and sound and sight!

To some undiscover'd sh.o.r.e On the current of Time's remorseless flight Have they swept to return no more?

While, like phantoms bright of the fever'd night, That have vex'd our slumbers of yore, You follow us still in your ghostly might, Dead days that have gone before.

Vain dreams, again and again re-told, Must you crowd on the weary brain, Till the fingers are cold that entwin'd of old Round foil and trigger and rein, Till stay'd for aye are the roving feet, Till the restless hands are quiet, Till the stubborn heart has forgotten to beat, Till the hot blood has ceas'd to riot?

In Exeter Hall the saint may chide, The sinner may scoff outright, The Baccha.n.a.l steep'd in the flagon's tide, Or the sensual Sybarite; But NOLAN'S name will flourish in fame, When our galloping days are past, When we go to the place from whence we came, Perchance to find rest at last.

Thy riddles grow dark, oh! drifting cloud, And thy misty shapes grow drear, Thou hang'st in the air like a shadowy shroud, But I am of lighter cheer; Though our future lot is a sable blot, Though the wise ones of earth will blame us, Though our saddles will rot, and our rides be forgot, "DUM VIVIMUS, VIVAMUS!"

Fytte VIII Finis Exoptatus [A Metaphysical Song]

"There's something in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by-and-bye."--Tennyson.

Boot and saddle, see, the slanting Rays begin to fall, Flinging lights and colours flaunting Through the shadows tall.

Onward! onward! must we travel?

When will come the goal?

Riddle I may not unravel, Cease to vex my soul.

Harshly break those peals of laughter From the jays aloft, Can we guess what they cry after?

We have heard them oft; Perhaps some strain of rude thanksgiving Mingles in their song, Are they glad that they are living?

Are they right or wrong?

Right, 'tis joy that makes them call so, Why should they be sad?

Certes! we are living also, Shall not we be glad?

Onward! onward! must we travel?

Is the goal more near?

Riddle we may not unravel, Why so dark and drear?

Yon small bird his hymn outpouring, On the branch close by, Recks not for the kestrel soaring In the nether sky, Though the hawk with wings extended Poises over head, Motionless as though suspended By a viewless thread.

See, he stoops, nay, shooting forward With the arrow's flight, Swift and straight away to nor'ward Sails he out of sight.

Onward! onward! thus we travel, Comes the goal more nigh?

Riddle we may not unravel, Who shall make reply?

Ha! Friend Ephraim, saint or sinner, Tell me if you can-- Tho' we may not judge the inner, By the outer man, Yet by girth of broadcloth ample, And by cheeks that s.h.i.+ne, Surely you set no example In the fasting line--

Could you, like yon bird, discov'ring, Fate as close at hand, As the kestrel o'er him hov'ring, Still, as he did, stand?

Trusting grandly, singing gaily, Confident and calm, Not one false note in your daily Hymn or weekly psalm?

Oft your oily tones are heard in Chapel, where you preach, This the everlasting burden Of the tale you teach: "We are d----d, our sins are deadly, You alone are heal'd"-- 'Twas not thus their gospel redly Saints and martyrs seal'd.

You had seem'd more like a martyr, Than you seem to us, To the beasts that caught a Tartar Once at Ephesus; Rather than the stout apostle Of the Gentiles, who, Pagan-like, could cuff and wrestle, They'd have chosen you.

Yet, I ween, on such occasion, Your dissenting voice Would have been, in mild persuasion, Raised against their choice; Man of peace, and man of merit, Pompous, wise, and grave, Ephraim! is it flesh or spirit You strive most to save?

Vain is half this care and caution O'er the earthly sh.e.l.l, We can neither baffle nor shun Dark plumed Azrael.

Onward! onward! still we wander, Nearer draws the goal; Half the riddle's read, we ponder Vainly on the whole.

Eastward! in the pink horizon, Fleecy hillocks shame This dim range dull earth that lies on, Tinged with rosy flame.

Westward! as a stricken giant Stoops his b.l.o.o.d.y crest, And tho' vanquished, frowns defiant, Sinks the sun to rest.

Distant, yet approaching quickly, From the shades that lurk, Like a black pall gathers thickly, Night, when none may work.

Soon our restless occupation Shall have ceas'd to be; Units! in G.o.d's vast creation, Ciphers! what are we?

Onward! onward! oh! faint-hearted; Nearer and more near Has the goal drawn since we started, Be of better cheer.

Preacher! all forbearance ask, for All are worthless found, Man must aye take man to task for Faults while earth goes round.

On this dank soil thistles muster, Thorns are broadcast sown; Seek not figs where thistles cl.u.s.ter, Grapes where thorns have grown.

Sun and rain and dew from heaven, Light and shade and air, Heat and moisture freely given, Thorns and thistles share.

Vegetation rank and rotten Feels the cheering ray; Not uncared for, unforgotten, We, too, have our day.

Unforgotten! though we c.u.mber Earth we work His will.

Shall we sleep through night's long slumber Unforgotten still?

Onward! onward! toiling ever, Weary steps and slow, Doubting oft, despairing never, To the goal we go!

Hark! the bells on distant cattle Waft across the range; Through the golden-tufted wattle, Music low and strange; Like the marriage peal of fairies Comes the tinkling sound, Or like chimes of sweet St. Mary's On far English ground.

How my courser champs the snaffle, And with nostril spread, Snorts and scarcely seems to ruffle Fern leaves with his tread; Cool and pleasant on his haunches Blows the evening breeze, Through the overhanging branches Of the wattle trees: Onward! to the Southern Ocean, Glides the breath of Spring.

Onward! with a dreary motion, I, too, glide and sing-- Forward! forward! still we wander-- Tinted hills that lie In the red horizon yonder-- Is the goal so nigh?

Whisper, spring-wind, softly singing, Whisper in my ear; Respite and nepenthe bringing, Can the goal be near?

Laden with the dew of vespers, From the fragrant sky, In my ear the wind that whispers Seems to make reply--

"Question not, but live and labour Till yon goal be won, Helping every feeble neighbour, Seeking help from none; Life is mostly froth and bubble, Two things stand like stone, KINDNESS in another's trouble, COURAGE in your own."

Courage, comrades, this is certain, All is for the best-- There are lights behind the curtain-- Gentiles, let us rest.

As the smoke-rack veers to seaward, From "the ancient clay", With its moral drifting leeward, Ends the wanderer's lay.

Borrow'd Plumes

[A Preface and a Piracy]