Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon

(In the red streak of rail not the ghost of a gap); She shortened her long stroke, she pricked her sharp ears, She flung it behind her with hardly a rap-- I saw the post quiver where Bolingbroke struck, And guessed that the pace we had come the last mile Had blown him a bit (he could jump like a buck). We galloped more steadily then for a while. The heath was soon pass'd, in the dim distance lay The mountain. The sun was just clearing the tips Of the ranges to eastward. The mare--could she stay? She was bred very nearly as clean as Eclipse; She led, and as oft as he came to her side, She took the bit free and untiring as yet; Her neck was arched double, her nostrils were wide, And the tips of her tapering ears nearly met-- "You're lighter than I am," said Alec at last; "The horse is dead beat and the mare isn't blown. She must be a good one--ride on and ride fast, You know your way now." So I rode on alone. Still galloping forward we pass'd the two flocks At M'Intyre's hut and M'Allister's hill-- She was galloping strong at the Warrigal Rocks-- On the Wallaby Range she was galloping still-- And over the wasteland and under the wood, By down and by dale, and by fell and by flat, She gallop'd, and here in the stirrups I stood To ease her, and there in the saddle I sat To steer her. We suddenly struck the red loam Of the track near the troughs--then she reeled on the rise-- From her crest to her croup covered over with foam, And blood-red her nostrils, and bloodshot her eyes, A dip in the dell where the wattle fire bloomed-- A bend round a bank that had shut out the view-- Large framed in the mild light the mountain had loomed, With a tall, purple peak bursting out from the blue. I pull'd her together, I press'd her, and she Shot down the decline to the Company's yard, And on by the paddocks, yet under my knee I could feel her heart thumping the saddle-flaps hard. Yet a mile and another, and now we were near The goal, and the fields and the farms flitted past; And 'twixt the two fences I turned with a cheer, For a green grass-fed mare 'twas a far thing and fast; And labourers, roused by her galloping hoofs, Saw bare-headed rider and foam-sheeted steed; And shone the white walls and the slate-coloured roofs Of the township. I steadied her then--I had need-- Where stood the old chapel (where stands the new church-- Since chapels to churches have changed in that town). A short, sidelong stagger, a long, forward lurch, A slight, choking sob, and the mare had gone down. I slipp'd off the bridle, I slacken'd the girth, I ran on and left her and told them my news; I saw her soon afterwards. What was she worth? How much for her hide? She had never worn shoes. No Name "A stone upon her heart and head, But no name written on that stone; Sweet neighbours whisper low instead, This sinner was a loving one."--Mrs. Browning. 'Tis a nameless stone that stands at your head-- The gusts in the gloomy gorges whirl Brown leaves and red till they cover your bed-- Now I trust that your sleep is a sound one, girl! I said in my wrath, when his shadow cross'd From your garden gate to your cottage door, "What does it matter for one soul lost? Millions of souls have been lost before." Yet I warn'd you--ah! but my words came true-- "Perhaps some day you will find him out." He who was not worthy to loosen your shoe, Does his conscience therefore prick him? I doubt. You laughed and were deaf to my warning voice-- Blush'd and were blind to his cloven hoof-- You have had your chance, you have taken your choice How could I help you, standing aloof? He has prosper'd well with the world--he says I am mad--if so, and if he be sane, I, at least, give God thanksgiving and praise That there lies between us one difference plain. * * * * * You in your beauty above me bent In the pause of a wild west country ball-- Spoke to me--touched me without intent-- Made me your servant for once and all. Light laughter rippled your rose-red lip, And you swept my cheek with a shining curl, That stray'd from your shoulder's snowy tip-- Now I pray that your sleep is a sound one, girl! From a long way off to look at your charms Made my blood run redder in every vein, And he--he has held you long in his arms, And has kiss'd you over and over again. Is it well that he keeps well out of my way? If we met, he and I--we alone--we two-- Would I give him one moment's grace to pray? Not I, for the sake of the soul he slew. A life like a shuttlecock may be toss'd With the hand of fate for a battledore; But it matters much for your sweet soul lost, As much as a million souls and more. And I know that if, here or there, alone, I found him, fairly and face to face, Having slain his body, I would slay my own, That my soul to Satan his soul might chase. He hardens his heart in the public way-- Who am I? I am but a nameless churl; But God will put all things straight some day-- Till then may your sleep be a sound one, girl! Wolf and Hound "The hills like giants at a hunting lay Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay."--Browning. You'll take my tale with a little salt, But it needs none, nevertheless, I was foil'd completely, fairly at fault, Dishearten'd, too, I confess. At the splitters' tent I had seen the track Of horse-hoofs fresh on the sward, And though Darby Lynch and Donovan Jack (Who could swear through a ten-inch board) Solemnly swore he had not been there, I was just as sure that they lied, For to Darby all that is foul was fair, And Jack for his life was tried. We had run him for seven miles and more As hard as our nags could split; At the start they were all too weary and sore, And his was quite fresh and fit. Young Marsden's pony had had enough On the plain, where the chase was hot; We breasted the swell of the Bittern's Bluff, And Mark couldn't raise a trot; When the sea, like a splendid silver shield, To the south-west suddenly lay; On the brow of the Beetle the chestnut reel'd, And I bid good-bye to M'Crea-- And I was alone when the mare fell lame, With a pointed flint in her shoe, On the Stony Flats: I had lost the game, And what was a man to do? I turned away with no fixed intent And headed for Hawthorndell; I could neither eat in the splitters' tent, Nor drink at the splitters' well; I knew that they gloried in my mishap, And I cursed them between my teeth-- A blood-red sunset through Brayton's Gap Flung a lurid fire on the heath. Could I reach the Dell? I had little reck, And with scarce a choice of my own I threw the reins on Miladi's neck-- I had freed her foot from the stone. That season most of the swamps were dry, And after so hard a burst, In the sultry noon of so hot a sky, She was keen to appease her thirst-- Or by instinct urged or impelled by fate-- I care not to solve these things-- Certain it is that she took me straight To the Warrigal water springs. I can shut my eyes and recall the ground As though it were yesterday-- With a shelf of the low, grey rocks girt round, The springs in their basin lay; Woods to the east and wolds to the north In the sundown sullenly bloom'd; Dead black on a curtain of crimson cloth Large peaks to the westward loomed. I led Miladi through weed and sedge, She leisurely drank her fill; There was something close to the water's edge, And my heart with one leap stood still, For a horse's shoe and a rider's boot Had left clean prints on the clay; Someone had watered his beast on foot. 'Twas he--he had gone. Which way? Then the mouth of the cavern faced me fair, As I turned and fronted the rocks; So, at last, I had pressed the wolf to his lair, I had run to his earth the fox. I thought so. Perhaps he was resting. Perhaps He was waiting, watching for me. I examined all my revolver caps, I hitched my mare to a tree-- I had sworn to have him, alive or dead, And to give him a chance was loth. He knew his life had been forfeited-- He had even heard of my oath. In my stocking soles to the shelf I crept, I crawl'd safe into the cave-- All silent--if he was there he slept Not there. All dark as the grave. Through the crack I could hear the leaden hiss! See the livid face through the flame! How strange it seems that a man should miss When his life depends on his aim! There couldn't have been a better light For him, nor a worse for me. We were coop'd up, caged like beasts for a fight, And dumb as dumb beasts were we. Flash! flash! bang! bang! and we blazed away, And the grey roof reddened and rang; Flash! flash! and I felt his bullet flay The tip of my ear. Flash! bang! Bang! flash! and my pistol arm fell broke; I struck with my left hand then-- Struck at a corpse through a cloud of smoke-- I had shot him dead in his den! De Te A burning glass of burnished brass, The calm sea caught the noontide rays, And sunny slopes of golden grass And wastes of weed-flower seem to blaze. Beyond the shining silver-greys, Beyond the shades of denser bloom, The sky-line girt with glowing haze The farthest, faintest forest gloom, And the everlasting hills that loom. We heard the hound beneath the mound, We scared the swamp hawk hovering nigh-- We had not sought for that we found-- He lay as dead men only lie, With wan cheek whitening in the sky, Through the wild heath flowers, white and red, The dumb brute that had seen him die, Close crouching, howl'd beside the head, Brute burial service o'er the dead. The brow was rife with seams of strife-- A lawless death made doubly plain The ravage of a reckless life; The havoc of a hurricane Of passions through that breadth of brain, Like headlong horses that had run Riot, regardless of the rein-- "Madman, he might have lived and done Better than most men," whispered one. The beams and blots that Heaven allots To every life with life begin. Fool! would you change the leopard's spots, Or blanch the Ethiopian's skin? What more could he have hoped to win, What better things have thought to gain, So shapen--so conceived in sin? No life is wholly void and vain, Just and unjust share sun and rain. Were new life sent, and life misspent, Wiped out (if such to God seemed good), Would he (being as he was) repent, Or could he, even if he would, Who heeded not things understood (Though dimly) even in savage lands By some who worship stone or wood, Or bird or beast, or who stretch hands Sunward on shining Eastern sands? And crime has cause. Nay, never pause Idly to feel a pulseless wrist; Brace up the massive, square-shaped jaws, Unclench the stubborn, stiff'ning fist, And close those eyes through film and mist That kept the old defiant glare; And answer, wise Psychologist,