Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 7

Rippling Water

The maiden sat by the river side (The rippling water murmurs by), And sadly into the clear blue tide The salt tear fell from her clear blue eye.

"'Tis fixed for better, for worse," she cried, "And to-morrow the bridegroom claims the bride.

Oh! wealth and power and rank and pride Can surely peace and happiness buy.

I was merry, nathless, in my girlhood's hours, 'Mid the waving gra.s.s when the bright sun shone, Shall I be as merry in Marmaduke's towers?"

(The rippling water murmurs on).

Stephen works for his daily bread (The rippling water murmurs low).

Through the crazy thatch that covers his head The rain-drops fall and the wind-gusts blow.

"I'll mend the old roof-tree," so he said, "And repair the cottage when we are wed."

And my pulses throbb'd, and my cheek grew red, When he kiss'd me--that was long ago.

Stephen and I, should we meet again, Not as we've met in days that are gone, Will my pulses throb with pleasure or pain?

(The rippling water murmurs on).

Old Giles, the gardener, strok'd my curls (The rippling water murmurs past), Quoth he, "In laces and silks and pearls My child will see her reflection cast; Now I trust in my heart that your lord will be Kinder to you than he was to me, When I lay in the gaol, and my children three, With their sickly mother, kept bitter fast."

With Marmaduke now my will is law, Marmaduke's will may be law anon; Does the sheath of velvet cover the claw?

(The rippling water murmurs on).

Dame Martha patted me on the cheek (The rippling water murmurs low), Saying, "There are words that I fain would speak-- Perhaps they were best unspoken though; I can't persuade you to change your mind, And useless warnings are scarcely kind, And I may be foolish as well as blind, But take my blessing whether or no."

Dame Martha's wise, though her hair is white, Her sense is good, though her sight is gone-- Can she really be gifted with second sight?

(The rippling water murmurs on).

Brian of Hawksmede came to our cot (The rippling water murmurs by), Scatter'd the sods of our garden plot, Riding his roan horse recklessly; Trinket and token and tress of hair, He flung them down at the door-step there, Said, "Elsie! ask your lord, if you dare, Who gave him the blow as well as the lie."

That evening I mentioned Brian's name, And Marmaduke's face grew white and wan, Am I pledged to one of a spirit so tame?

(The rippling water murmurs on).

Brian is headstrong, rash, and vain (The rippling water murmurs still), Stephen is somewhat duller of brain, Slower of speech, and milder of will; Stephen must toil a living to gain, Plough and harrow and gather the grain; Brian has little enough to maintain The station in life which he needs must fill; Both are fearless and kind and frank, But we can't win all gifts under the sun-- What have I won save riches and rank?

(The rippling water murmurs on).

Riches and rank, and what beside?

(The rippling water murmurs yet), The mansion is stately, the manor is wide, Their lord for a while may pamper and pet; Liveried lackeys may jeer aside, Though the peasant girl is their master's bride, At her shyness, mingled with awkward pride,-- 'Twere folly for trifles like these to fret; But the love of one that I cannot love, Will it last when the gloss of his toy is gone?

Is there naught beyond, below, or above?

(The rippling water murmurs on).

Cui Bono

Oh! wind that whistles o'er thorns and thistles, Of this fruitful earth like a goblin elf; Why should he labour to help his neighbour Who feels too reckless to help himself?

The wail of the breeze in the bending trees Is something between a laugh and a groan; And the hollow roar of the surf on the sh.o.r.e Is a dull, discordant monotone; I wish I could guess what sense they express, There's a meaning, doubtless, in every sound, Yet no one can tell, and it may be as well-- Whom would it profit?--The world goes round!

On this earth so rough we know quite enough, And, I sometimes fancy, a little too much; The sage may be wiser than clown or than kaiser, Is he more to be envied for being such?

Neither more nor less, in his idleness The sage is doom'd to vexation sure; The kaiser may rule, but the slippery stool, That he calls his throne, is no sinecure; And as for the clown, you may give him a crown, Maybe he'll thank you, and maybe not, And before you can wink he may spend it in drink-- To whom does it profit?--We ripe and rot!

Yet under the sun much work is done By clown and kaiser, by serf and sage; All sow and some reap, and few gather the heap Of the garner'd grain of a by-gone age.

By sea or by soil man is bound to toil, And the dreamer, waiting for time and tide, For awhile may s.h.i.+rk his share of the work, But he grows with his dream dissatisfied; He may climb to the edge of the beetling ledge, Where the loose crag topples and well-nigh reels 'Neath the las.h.i.+ng gale, but the tonic will fail-- What does it profit?--Wheels within wheels!

Aye! work we must, or with idlers rust, And eat we must our bodies to nurse; Some folk grow fatter--what does it matter?

I'm blest if I do--quite the reverse; 'Tis a weary round to which we are bound, The same thing over and over again; Much toil and trouble, and a glittering bubble, That rises and bursts, is the best we gain; And we murmur, and yet 'tis certain we get What good we deserve--can we hope for more?-- They are roaring, those waves, in their echoing caves-- To whom do they profit?--Let them roar!

Bellona

Thou art moulded in marble impa.s.sive, False G.o.ddess, fair statue of strife, Yet standest on pedestal ma.s.sive, A symbol and token of life.

Thou art still, not with stillness of languor, And calm, not with calm boding rest; For thine is all wrath and all anger That throbs far and near in the breast Of man, by thy presence possess'd.

With the brow of a fallen archangel, The lips of a beautiful fiend, And locks that are snake-like to strangle, And eyes from whose depths may be glean'd The presence of pa.s.sions, that tremble Unbidden, yet s.h.i.+ne as they may Through features too proud to dissemble, Too cold and too calm to betray Their secrets to creatures of clay.

Thy breath stirreth faction and party, Men rise, and no voice can avail To stay them--rose-tinted Astarte Herself at thy presence turns pale.

For deeper and richer the crimson That gathers behind thee throws forth A halo thy raiment and limbs on, And leaves a red track in the path That flows from thy wine-press of wrath.

For behind thee red rivulets trickle, Men fall by thy hands swift and lithe, As corn falleth down to the sickle, As gra.s.s falleth down to the scythe, Thine arm, strong and cruel, and shapely, Lifts high the sharp, pitiless lance, And rapine and ruin and rape lie Around thee. The Furies advance, And Ares awakes from his trance.

We, too, with our bodies thus weakly, With hearts hard and dangerous, thus We owe thee--the saints suffered meekly Their wrongs--it is not so with us.

Some share of thy strength thou hast given To mortals refusing in vain Thine aid. We have suffered and striven Till we have grown reckless of pain, Though feeble of heart and of brain.

Fair spirit, alluring if wicked, False deity, terribly real, Our senses are trapp'd, our souls tricked By thee and thy hollow ideal.

The soldier who falls in his harness, And strikes his last stroke with slack hand, On his dead face thy wrath and thy scorn is Imprinted. Oh! seeks he a land Where he shall escape thy command?

When the blood of thy victims lies red on That stricken field, fiercest and last, In the sunset that gilds Armageddon With battle-drift still overcast-- When the smoke of thy hot conflagrations O'ershadows the earth as with wings, Where nations have fought against nations, And kings have encounter'd with kings, When cometh the end of all things--

Then those who have patiently waited, And borne, unresisting, the pain Of thy vengeance unglutted, unsated, Shall they be rewarded again?

Then those who, enticed by thy laurels, Or urged by thy promptings unblest, Have striven and stricken in quarrels, Shall they, too, find pardon and rest?

We know not, yet hope for the best.

The Song of the Surf

White steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roar On the bar of ironstone steep, not a fathom's length from the sh.o.r.e, Is there never a seer nor sophist can interpret your wild refrain, When speech the harshest and roughest is seldom studied in vain?

My ears are constantly smitten by that dreary monotone, In a hieroglyphic 'tis written--'tis spoken in a tongue unknown; Gathering, growing, and swelling, and surging, and s.h.i.+vering, say!

What is the tale you are telling? What is the drift of your lay?

You come, and your crests are h.o.a.ry with the foam of your countless years; You break, with a rainbow of glory, through the spray of your glittering tears.

Is your song a song of gladness? a paean of joyous might?

Or a wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs you never can right?

For the empty seat by the ingle? for children 'reft of their sire?