Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Deeds that were joyous to knights and kings, In days that with songs were cherish'd. The songs are ended, the deeds are done, There shall none of them gladden me now, not one; There is nothing good for me under the sun, But to perish as these things perish'd. Shall it profit me aught that the bishop seeks My presence daily, and duly speaks Soft words of comfort and kindness? Shall it aught avail me?"Certes," he said, "Though thy soul is darken'd, be not afraid-- God hateth nothing that He hath made-- His light shall disperse thy blindness." I am not afraid for myself, although I know I have had that light, and I know The greater my condemnation. When I well-nigh swoon'd in the deep-drawn bliss Of that first long, sweet, slow, stolen kiss, I would gladly have given, for less than this, Myself, with my soul's salvation. I would languish thus in some loathsome den, As a thing of naught in the eyes of men, In the mouths of men as a by-word, Through years of pain, and when God saw fit, Singing his praises my soul should flit To the darkest depth of the nethermost pit, If HERS could be wafted skyward. Lord Christ! have patience a little while, I have sinn'd because I am utterly vile, Having light, loving darkness rather. And I pray Thee deal with me as Thou wilt, Yet the blood of Thy foes I have freely spilt, And, moreover, mine is the greater guilt In the sight of Thee and Thy Father. That saint, Thy servant, was counted dear Whose sword in the garden grazed the ear Of Thine enemy, Lord Redeemer! Not thus on the shattering visor jarr'd In this hand the iron of the hilt cross-barr'd, When the blade was swallow'd up to the guard Through the teeth of the strong blasphemer. If ever I smote as a man should smite, If I struck one stroke that seem'd good in Thy sight, By Thy loving mercy prevailing, Lord! let her stand in the light of Thy face, Cloth'd with Thy love and crown'd with Thy grace, When I gnash my teeth in the terrible place That is fill'd with weeping and wailing. Shall I comfort my soul on account of this? In the world to come, whatsoever it is, There is no more earthly ill-doing-- For the dusty darkness shall slay desire, And the chaff may burn with unquenchable fire, But for green wild growth of thistle and briar At least there is no renewing. And this grievous burden of life shall change In the dim hereafter, dreamy and strange, And sorrows and joys diurnal. And partial blessings and perishing ills Shall fade in the praise, or the pang that fills The glory of God's eternal hills, Or the gloom of His gulf eternal. Yet if all things change to the glory of One Who for all ill-doers gave His Own sweet Son, To His goodness so shall He change ill, When the world as a wither'd leaf shall be, And the sky like a shrivell'd scroll shall flee, And souls shall be summon'd from land and sea, At the blast of His bright archangel. Thora's Song ("Ashtaroth") We severed in autumn early, Ere the earth was torn by the plough; The wheat and the oats and the barley Are ripe for the harvest now. We sunder'd one misty morning, Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain, Through the flowers those hills adorning-- Thou comest not back again. My heart is heavy and weary With the weight of a weary soul; The mid-day glare grows dreary, And dreary the midnight scroll. The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle, 'Neath the load of the golden grain; I sigh for a mate more fickle-- Thou comest not back again. The warm sun riseth and setteth, The night bringeth moist'ning dew, But the soul that longeth forgetteth The warmth and the moisture, too; In the hot sun rising and setting There is naught save feverish pain; There are tears in the night-dews wetting-- Thou comest not back again. Thy voice in mine ear still mingles With the voices of whisp'ring trees; Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles At each kiss of the summer breeze; While dreams of the past are thronging For substance of shades in vain, I am waiting, watching, and longing-- Thou comest not back again. Waiting and watching ever, Longing and lingering yet, Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver, Winds murmur and waters fret; No answer they bring, no greeting, No speech save that sad refrain, Nor voice, save an echo repeating-- He cometh not back again. The Three Friends (From the French) The sword slew one in deadly strife; One perish'd by the bowl; The third lies self-slain by the knife; For three the bells may toll-- I loved her better than my life, And better than my soul. Aye, father! hast thou come at last? 'Tis somewhat late to pray; Life's crimson tides are ebbing fast, They drain my soul away; Mine eyes with film are overcast, The lights are waning grey. This curl from her bright head I shore, And this her hands gave mine; See, one is stained with purple gore, And one with poison'd wine; Give these to her when all is o'er-- How serpent-like they twine! We three were brethren in arms, And sworn companions we; We held this motto, "Whoso harms The one shall harm the three!" Till, matchless for her subtle charms, Beloved of each was she. (These two were slain that I might kiss Her sweet mouth. I did well; I said, "There is no greater bliss For those in heaven that dwell;" I lost her; then I said, "There is No fiercer pang in hell!") We have upheld each other's rights, Shared purse, and borrow'd blade; Have stricken side by side in fights; And side by side have prayed In churches. We were Christian knights, And she a Christian maid. We met at sunrise, he and I, My comrade--'twas agreed The steel our quarrel first should try, The poison should succeed; For two of three were doom'd to die, And one was doom'd to bleed. We buckled to the doubtful fray, At first with some remorse; But he who must be slain, or slay, Soon strikes with vengeful force. He fell; I left him where he lay, Among the trampled gorse. Did passion warp my heart and head To madness? And, if so, Can madness palliate bloodshed?-- It may be--I shall know When God shall gather up the dead From where the four winds blow. We met at sunset, he and I-- My second comrade true; Two cups with wine were brimming high, And one was drugg'd--we knew Not which, nor sought we to descry; Our choice by lot we drew. And there I sat with him to sup; I heard him blithely speak Of by-gone days--the fatal cup Forgotten seem'd--his cheek Was ruddy: father, raise me up, My voice is waxing weak. We drank; his lips turned livid white, His cheeks grew leaden ash; He reel'd--I heard his temples smite The threshold with a crash! And from his hand, in shivers bright, I saw the goblet flash. The morrow dawn'd with fragrance rare, The May breeze, from the west, Just fann'd the sleepy olives, where She heard and I confess'd; My hair entangled with her hair, Her breast strained to my breast. On the dread verge of endless gloom My soul recalls that hour; Skies languishing with balm of bloom, And fields aflame with flower; And slow caresses that consume, And kisses that devour. Ah! now with storm the day seems rife, My dull ears catch the roll Of thunder, and the far sea strife, On beach and bar and shoal-- I loved her better than my life, And better than my soul. She fled! I cannot prove her guilt, Nor would I an I could; See, life for life is fairly spilt! And blood is shed for blood; Her white hands neither touched the hilt, Nor yet the potion brew'd. Aye! turn me from the sickly south, Towards the gusty north; The fruits of sin are dust and drouth, The end of crime is wrath-- The lips that pressed her rose-like mouth Are choked with blood-red froth. Then dig the grave-pit deep and wide, Three graves thrown into one, And lay three corpses side by side, And tell their tale to none; But bring her back in all her pride To see what she hath done. A Song of Autumn "Where shall we go for our garlands glad At the falling of the year, When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad, When the boughs are yellow and sere? Where are the old ones that once we had, And when are the new ones near? What shall we do for our garlands glad At the falling of the year?" "Child! can I tell where the garlands go? Can I say where the lost leaves veer On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow, When they drift through the dead-wood drear? Girl! when the garlands of next year glow, YOU may gather again, my dear-- But I go where the last year's lost leaves go At the falling of the year." The Romance of Britomarte As related by Sergeant Leigh on the night he got his captaincy at the Restoration. I'll tell you a story; but pass the "jack", And let us make merry to-night, my men. Aye, those were the days when my beard was black-- I like to remember them now and then-- Then Miles was living, and Cuthbert there, On his lip was never a sign of down; But I carry about some braided hair, That has not yet changed from the glossy brown That it showed the day when I broke the heart Of that bravest of destriers, "Britomarte". Sir Hugh was slain (may his soul find grace!) In the fray that was neither lost nor won At Edgehill--then to St. Hubert's Chase Lord Goring despatched a garrison-- But men and horses were ill to spare, And ere long the soldiers were shifted fast. As for me, I never was quartered there Till Marston Moor had been lost; at last, As luck would have it, alone, and late In the night, I rode to the northern gate. I thought, as I passed through the moonlit park, On the boyish days I used to spend In the halls of the knight lying stiff and stark-- Thought on his lady, my father's friend (Mine, too, in spite of my sinister bar, But with that my story has naught to do)-- She died the winter before the war-- Died giving birth to the baby Hugh. He pass'd ere the green leaves clothed the bough, And the orphan girl was the heiress now. When I was a rude and a reckless boy, And she a brave and a beautiful child, I was her page, her playmate, her toy-- I have crown'd her hair with the field-flowers wild, Cowslip and crow-foot and colt's-foot bright-- I have carried her miles when the woods were wet, I have read her romances of dame and knight; She was my princess, my pride, my pet, There was then this proverb us twain between, For the glory of God and of Gwendoline. She had grown to a maiden wonderful fair, But for years I had scarcely seen her face. Now, with troopers Holdsworth, Huntly, and Clare, Old Miles kept guard at St. Hubert's Chase, And the chatelaine was a Mistress Ruth,