Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon

The sinner may scoff outright, The Bacchanal 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 shine, 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 shell, 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 bloody 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 God'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 cluster, 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 cumber 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] 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 incumbent 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 Cum [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 space 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 passionless 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 shiver! 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; Shield his life, and guard his honour, Let me not entreat in vain.