Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon

For the lips that lisp'd with mine a mother's name. Oh, tell me, ancient friend, ever ready to defend, In our boyhood, at the base of life's long hill, Are you waking yet or sleeping? have you left this vale of weeping? Or do you, like your comrade, linger still? Oh, whisper, buried love, is there rest and peace above?-- There is little hope or comfort here below; On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed is straight and cold-- Near the harbour where the sea-tides ebb and flow. * * * * * All silent--they are dumb--and the breezes go and come With an apathy that mocks at man's distress; Laugh, scoffer, while you may! I could bow me down and pray For an answer that might stay my bitterness. Oh, harshly screams the bird! and the wattle-bloom is stirr'd; There's a sullen, weird-like whisper in the bough: "Aye, kneel, and pray, and weep, but HIS BELOVED SLEEP CAN NEVER BE DISTURB'D BY SUCH AS THOU!!" Confiteor The shore-boat lies in the morning light, By the good ship ready for sailing; The skies are clear, and the dawn is bright, Tho' the bar of the bay is fleck'd with white, And the wind is fitfully wailing; Near the tiller stands the priest, and the knight Leans over the quarter-railing. "There is time while the vessel tarries still, There is time while her shrouds are slack, There is time ere her sails to the west wind fill, Ere her tall masts vanish from town and from hill, Ere cleaves to her keel the track: There is time for confession to those who will, To those who may never come back." "Sir priest, you can shrive these men of mine, And, I pray you, shrive them fast, And shrive those hardy sons of the brine, Captain and mates of the EGLANTINE, And sailors before the mast; Then pledge me a cup of the Cyprus wine, For I fain would bury the past." "And hast thou naught to repent, my son? Dost thou scorn confession and shrift? Ere thy sands from the glass of time shall run Is there naught undone that thou should'st have done, Naught done that thou should'st have left? The guiltiest soul may from guilt be won, And the stoniest heart may be cleft." "Have my ears been closed to the prayer of the poor, Or deaf to the cry of distress? Have I given little, and taken more? Have I brought a curse to the widow's door? Have I wrong'd the fatherless? Have I steep'd my fingers in guiltless gore, That I must perforce confess?" "Have thy steps been guided by purity Through the paths with wickedness rife? Hast thou never smitten thine enemy? Hast thou yielded naught to the lust of the eye, And naught to the pride of life? Hast thou pass'd all snares of pleasure by? Hast thou shunn'd all wrath and strife?" "Nay, certes! a sinful life I've led, Yet I've suffered, and lived in hope; I may suffer still, but my hope has fled,-- I've nothing now to hope or to dread, And with fate I can fairly cope; Were the waters closing over my head, I should scarcely catch at a rope." "Dost suffer? thy pain may be fraught with grace, Since never by works alone We are saved;--the penitent thief may trace The wealth of love in the Saviour's face To the Pharisee rarely shown; And the Magdalene's arms may yet embrace The foot of the jasper throne." "Sir priest, a heavier doom I dree, For I feel no quickening pain, But a dull, dumb weight when I bow my knee, And (not with the words of the Pharisee) My hard eyes heavenward strain, Where my dead darling prayeth for me! Now, I wot, she prayeth in vain! "Still I hear it over the battle's din, And over the festive cheer,-- So she pray'd with clasp'd hands, white and thin,-- The prayer of a soul absolved from sin, For a soul that is dark and drear, For the light of repentance bursting in, And the flood of the blinding tear. "Say, priest! when the saint must vainly plead, Oh! how shall the sinner fare? I hold your comfort a broken reed; Let the wither'd branch for itself take heed, While the green shoots wait your care; I've striven, though feebly, to grasp your creed, And I've grappled my own despair." "By the little within thee, good and brave, Not wholly shattered, though shaken; By the soul that crieth beyond the grave, The love that He once in His mercy gave, In His mercy since retaken, I conjure thee, oh! sinner, pardon crave, I implore thee, oh! sleeper, waken!" "Go to! shall I lay my black soul bare To a vain, self-righteous man? In my sin, in my sorrow, you may not share, And yet could I meet with one who must bear The load of an equal ban, With him I might strive to blend one prayer, The wail of the Publican." "My son, I, too, am a withered bough, My place is to others given; Thou hast sinn'd, thou sayest; I ask not how, For I, too, have sinn'd, even as thou, And I, too, have feebly striven, And with thee I must bow, crying, 'Shrive us now! Our Father which art in heaven!'" Sunlight on the Sea [The Philosophy of a Feast] Make merry, comrades, eat and drink (The sunlight flickers on the sea), The garlands gleam, the glasses clink, The grape juice mantles fair and free, The lamps are trimm'd, although the light Of day still lingers on the sky; We sit between the day and night, And push the wine flask merrily. I see you feasting round me still, All gay of heart and strong of limb; Make merry, friends, your glasses fill, The lights are growing dim. I miss the voice of one I've heard (The sunlight sinks upon the sea), He sang as blythe as any bird, And shook the rafters with his glee; But times have changed with him, I wot, By fickle fortune cross'd and flung; Far stouter heart than mine he's got If now he sings as then he sung. Yet some must swim when others sink, And some must sink when others swim; Make merry, comrades, eat and drink, The lights are growing dim. I miss the face of one I've loved (The sunlight settles on the sea)-- Long since to distant climes he roved, He had his faults, and so have we; His name was mentioned here this day, And it was coupled with a sneer; I heard, nor had I aught to say, Though once I held his memory dear. Who cares, 'mid wines and fruits and flowers, Though death or danger compass him; He had his faults, and we have ours, The lights are growing dim. I miss the form of one I know (The sunlight wanes upon the sea)-- 'Tis not so very long ago, We drank his health with three-times-three, And we were gay when he was here; And he is gone, and we are gay. Where has he gone? or far or near? Good sooth, 'twere somewhat hard to say. You glance aside, you doubtless think My homily a foolish whim, 'Twill soon be ended, eat and drink, The lights are growing dim. The fruit is ripe, the wine is red (The sunlight fades upon the sea); To us the absent are the dead, The dead to us must absent be. We, too, the absent ranks must join; And friends will censure and forget: There's metal base in every coin; Men vanish, leaving traces yet Of evil and of good behind, Since false notes taint the skylark's hymn, And dross still lurks in gold refined-- The lights are growing dim. We eat and drink or e'er we die (The sunlight flushes on the sea). Three hundred soldiers feasted high An hour before Thermopylae; Leonidas pour'd out the wine, And shouted ere he drain'd the cup, "Ho! comrades, let us gaily dine-- This night with Pluto we shall sup"; And if they leant upon a reed, And if their reed was slight and slim, There's something good in Spartan creed-- The lights are growing dim. Make merry, comrades, eat and drink (The sunlight flashes on the sea); My spirit is rejoiced to think That even as they were so are we; For they, like us, were mortals vain, The slaves to earthly passions wild, Who slept with heaps of Persians slain For winding-sheets around them piled. The dead man's deeds are living still-- My Festive speech is somewhat grim-- Their good obliterates their ill-- The lights are growing dim. We eat and drink, we come and go (The sunlight dies upon the open sea). I speak in riddles. Is it so? My riddles need not mar your glee; For I will neither bid you share My thoughts, nor will I bid you shun, Though I should see in yonder chair Th' Egyptian's muffled skeleton. One toast with me your glasses fill, Aye, fill them level with the brim, De mortuis, nisi bonum, nil! The lights are growing dim. Delilah [From a Picture] The sun has gone down, spreading wide on The sky-line one ray of red fire; Prepare the soft cushions of Sidon, Make ready the rich loom of Tyre. The day, with its toil and its sorrow, Its shade, and its sunshine, at length Has ended; dost fear for the morrow, Strong man, in the pride of thy strength? Like fire-flies, heavenward clinging, They multiply, star upon star; And the breeze a low murmur is bringing From the tents of my people afar. Nay, frown not, I am but a Pagan, Yet little for these things I care; 'Tis the hymn to our deity Dagon That comes with the pleasant night air. It shall not disturb thee, nor can it; See, closed are the curtains, the lights Gleam down on the cloven pomegranate, Whose thirst-slaking nectar invites; The red wine of Hebron glows brightly In yon goblet--the draught of a king; And through the silk awning steals lightly The sweet song my handmaidens sing. Dost think that thy God, in His anger, Will trifle with nature's great laws, And slacken those sinews in languor That battled so well in His cause? Will He take back that strength He has given, Because to the pleasures of youth Thou yieldest? Nay, Godlike, in heaven, He laughs at such follies, forsooth. Oh! were I, for good or for evil, As great and as gifted as thou, Neither God should restrain me, nor devil, To none like a slave would I bow. If fate must indeed overtake thee, And feebleness come to thy clay, Pause not till thy strength shall forsake thee, Enjoy it the more in thy day. Oh, fork'd-tongue of adder, by her pent In smooth lips!--oh, Sybarite blind! Oh, woman allied to the serpent! Oh, beauty with venom combined! Oh, might overcoming the mighty! Oh, glory departing! oh, shame! Oh, altar of false Aphrodite, What strength is consumed in thy flame! Strong chest, where her drapery rustles, Strong limbs by her black tresses hid! Not alone by the might of your muscles Yon lion was rent like a kid! The valour from virtue that sunders, Is 'reft of its nobler part; And Lancelot's arm may work wonders, But braver is Galahad's heart. Sleep sound on that breast fair and ample; Dull brain, and dim eyes, and deaf ears, Feel not the cold touch on your temple, Heed not the faint clash of the shears. It comes!--with the gleam of the lamps on The curtains--that voice--does it jar