Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 5

Prologue

Of borrow'd plumes I take the sin, My extracts will apply To some few silly songs which in These pages scatter'd lie.

The words are Edgar Allan Poe's, As any man may see, But what a POE-t wrote in prose, Shall make blank verse for me.

These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random the rounds of the Press. I am naturally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. * *

* * * * In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is inc.u.mbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself.

E. A. P.

(See Preface to Poe's Poetical Works.)

Epilogue

And now that my theft stands detected, The first of my extracts may call To some of the rhymes here collected Your notice, the second to all.

Ah! friend, you may shake your head sadly, Yet this much you'll say for my verse, I've written of old something badly, But written anew something worse.

Pastor c.u.m [Translation from Horace]

When he, that shepherd false, 'neath Phrygian sails, Carried his hostess Helen o'er the seas, In fitful slumber Nereus hush'd the gales, That he might sing their future destinies.

A curse to your ancestral home you take With her, whom Greece, with many a soldier bold Shall seek again, in concert sworn to break Your nuptial ties and Priam's kingdom old.

Alas! what sweat from man and horse must flow, What devastation to the Trojan realm You carry, even now doth Pallas show Her wrath, preparing buckler, car, and helm.

In vain, secure in Aphrodite's care, You comb your locks, and on the girlish lyre Select the strains most pleasant to the fair; In vain, on couch reclining, you desire To shun the darts that threaten, and the thrust Of Cretan lance, the battle's wild turmoil, And Ajax swift to follow--in the dust Condemned, though late, your wanton curls to soil.

Ah! see you not where (fatal to your race) Laertes' son comes with the Pylean sage; Fearless alike, with Teucer joins the chase Stenelaus, skill'd the fistic strife to wage, Nor less expert the fiery steeds to quell; And Meriones, you must know. Behold A warrior, than his sire more fierce and fell, To find you rages,--Diomed the bold, Whom like the stag that, far across the vale, The wolf being seen, no herbage can allure, So fly you, panting sorely, dastard pale!-- Not thus you boasted to your paramour.

Achilles' anger for a s.p.a.ce defers The day of wrath to Troy and Trojan dame; Inevitable glide the allotted years, And Dardan roofs must waste in Argive flame.

A Legend of Madrid

[Translated from the Spanish]

Francesca.

Crush'd and throng'd are all the places In our amphitheatre, 'Midst a sea of swarming faces I can yet distinguish her; Dost thou triumph, dark-brow'd Nina?

Is my secret known to thee?

On the sands of yon arena I shall yet my vengeance see.

Now through portals fast careering Picadors are disappearing; Now the barriers nimbly clearing Has the hindmost chulo flown.

Clots of dusky crimson streaking, Brindled flanks and haunches reeking, Wheels the wild bull, vengeance seeking, On the matador alone.

Features by sombrero shaded, Pale and pa.s.sionless and cold; Doublet richly laced and braided, Trunks of velvet slash'd with gold, Blood-red scarf, and bare Toledo,-- Mask more subtle, and disguise Far less shallow, thou dost need, oh, Traitor, to deceive my eyes.

Shouts of noisy acclamation, Breathing savage expectation, Greet him while he takes his station Leisurely, disdaining haste; Now he doffs his tall sombrero, Fools! applaud your butcher hero, Ye would idolise a Nero, Pandering to public taste.

From the restless Guadalquivir To my sire's estates he came, Woo'd and won me, how I s.h.i.+ver!

Though my temples burn with shame.

I, a proud and high-born lady, Daughter of an ancient race, 'Neath the vine and olive shade I Yielded to a churl's embrace.

To a churl my vows were plighted, Well my madness he requited, Since, by priestly ties, united To the muleteer's child; And my prayers are wafted o'er him, That the bull may crush and gore him, Since the love that once I bore him Has been changed to hatred wild.

Nina.

Save him! aid him! oh, Madonna!

Two are slain if he is slain; s.h.i.+eld his life, and guard his honour, Let me not entreat in vain.

Sullenly the brindled savage Tears and tosses up the sand; Horns that rend and hoofs that ravage, How shall man your shock withstand?

On the s.h.a.ggy neck and head lie Frothy flakes, the eyeb.a.l.l.s redly Flash, the horns so sharp and deadly Lower, short, and strong, and straight; Fast, and furious, and fearless, Now he charges;--virgin peerless, Lifting lids, all dry and tearless, At thy throne I supplicate.

Francesca.

Cool and calm, the perjured varlet Stands on strongly-planted heel, In his left a strip of scarlet, In his right a streak of steel; Ah! the monster topples over, Till his haunches strike the plain!-- Low-born clown and lying lover, Thou hast conquer'd once again.

Nina.

Sweet Madonna, maiden mother, Thou hast saved him, and no other; Now the tears I cannot smother, Tears of joy my vision blind; Where thou sittest I am gazing, These glad, misty eyes upraising, I have pray'd, and I am praising, Bless thee! bless thee! virgin kind.

Francesca.

While the crowd still sways and surges, Ere the applauding shouts have ceas'd, See, the second bull emerges-- 'Tis the famed Cordovan beast,-- By the picador ungoaded, Scathless of the chulo's dart.

Slay him, and with guerdon loaded, And with honours crown'd depart.

No vain brutish strife he wages, Never uselessly he rages, And his cunning, as he ages, With his hatred seems to grow; Though he stands amid the cheering, Sluggish to the eye appearing, Few will venture on the spearing Of so resolute a foe.

Nina.

Courage, there is little danger, Yonder dull-eyed craven seems Fitter far for stall and manger Than for scarf and blade that gleams; Shorter, and of frame less ma.s.sive, Than his comrade lying low, Tame, and cowardly, and pa.s.sive,-- He will prove a feebler foe.

I have done with doubt and anguish, Fears like dews in suns.h.i.+ne languish, Courage, husband, we shall vanquish, Thou art calm and so am I.

For the rush he has not waited, On he strides with step elated, And the steel with blood unsated, Leaps to end the butchery.

Francesca.

Tyro! mark the brands of battle On those shoulders dusk and dun, Such as he is are the cattle Skill'd tauridors gladly shun; Warier than the Andalusian, Swifter far, though not so large, Think'st thou, to his own confusion, He, like him, will blindly charge?

Inch by inch the brute advances, Stealthy yet vindictive glances, Horns as straight as levell'd lances, Crouching withers, stooping haunches;-- Closer yet, until the tightening Strains of rapt excitement height'ning Grows oppressive. Ha! like lightning On his enemy he launches.