Poems, by Adam Lindsay GordonPart 3 out of 6"`Count', `Steeltrap', and `Challenger' ought to be pension'd;" "Count" died the same week, and now "Steeltrap" is dead. That morning our colonel was riding "Theresa", The filly by "Teddington" out of "Mistake"; His girls, pretty Alice and fair-haired Louisa, Were there on the ponies he purchased from Blake. I remember he pointed me out to his daughters, Said he, "In this troop I may fairly take pride, But I've none left like him in my officers' quarters, Whose life-blood the mane of old `Challenger' dyed." Where are they? the war-steeds who shared in our glory, The "Lanercost" colt, and the "Acrobat" mare, And the Irish division, "Kate Kearney" and "Rory", And rushing "Roscommon", and eager "Kildare", And "Freeny", a favourite once with my master, And "Warlock", a sluggard, but honest and true, And "Tancred", as honest as "Warlock", but faster, And "Blacklock", and "Birdlime", and "Molly Carew"? -- All vanish'd, what wonder! twelve summers have pass'd Since then, and my comrade lies buried this day, -- Old "Steeltrap", the kicker, -- and now I'm the last Of the chargers who shared in that glorious fray. * * * * * Come, "Harlequin", keep your nose out of my manger, You'll get your allowance, my boy, and no more; Snort! "Silvertail", snort! when you've seen as much danger As I have, you won't mind the rats in the straw. * * * * * Our gallant old colonel came limping and halting, The day before yesterday, into my stall; Oh! light to the saddle I've once seen him vaulting, In full marching order, steel broadsword and all. And now his left leg than his right is made shorter Three inches, he stoops, and his chest is unsound; He spoke to me gently, and patted my quarter, I laid my ears back, and look'd playfully round. For that word kindly meant, that caress kindly given, I thank'd him, though dumb, but my cheerfulness fled; More sadness I drew from the face of the living Than years back I did from the face of the dead. For the dead face, upturn'd, tranquil, joyous, and fearless, Look'd straight from green sod to blue fathomless sky With a smile; but the living face, gloomy and tearless, And haggard and harass'd, look'd down with a sigh. Did he think on the first time he kiss'd Lady Mary? On the morning he wing'd Horace Greville the beau? On the winner he steer'd in the grand military? On the charge that he headed twelve long years ago? Did he think on each fresh year, of fresh grief the herald? On lids that are sunken, and locks that are grey? On Alice, who bolted with Brian Fitzgerald? On Rupert, his first-born, dishonour'd by "play"? On Louey, his darling, who sleeps 'neath the cypress, That shades her and one whose last breath gave her life? I saw those strong fingers hard over each eye press -- Oh! the dead rest in peace when the quick toil in strife! * * * * * Scoff, man! egotistical, proud, unobservant, Since I with man's grief dare to sympathise thus; Why scoff? -- fellow-creature I am, fellow-servant Of God, can man fathom God's dealings with us? The wide gulf that parts us may yet be no wider Than that which parts you from some being more blest; And there may be more links 'twixt the horse and his rider Than ever your shallow philosophy guess'd. You are proud of your power, and vain of your courage, And your blood, Anglo-Saxon, or Norman, or Celt; Though your gifts you extol, and our gifts you disparage, Your perils, your pleasures, your sorrows we've felt. We, too, sprung from mares of the prophet of Mecca, And nursed on the pride that was born with the milk, And filtered through "Crucifix", "Beeswing", "Rebecca", We love sheen of scarlet and shimmer of silk. We, too, sprung from loins of the Ishmaelite stallions, We glory in daring that dies or prevails; From 'counter of squadrons, and crash of battalions, To rending of blackthorns, and rattle of rails. In all strife where courage is tested, and power, From the meet on the hill-side, the horn-blast, the find, The burst, the long gallop that seems to devour The champaign, all obstacles flinging behind, To the cheer and the clarion, the war-music blended With war-cry, the furious dash at the foe, The terrible shock, the recoil, and the splendid Bare sword, flashing blue, rising red from the blow. I've borne ONE through perils where many have seen us, No tyrant, a kind friend, a patient instructor, And I've felt some strange element flashing between us, Till the saddle seem'd turn'd to a lightning conductor. Did he see? could he feel through the faintness, the numbness, While linger'd the spirit half-loosed from the clay, Dumb eyes seeking his in their piteous dumbness, Dumb quivering nostrils, too stricken to neigh? And what then? the colours reversed, the drums muffled, The black nodding plumes, the dead march and the pall, The stern faces, soldier-like, silent, unruffled, The slow sacred music that floats over all! Cross carbine and boar-spear, hang bugle and banner, Spur, sabre, and snaffle, and helm -- Is it well? Vain 'scutcheon, false trophies of Mars and Diana, -- Can the dead laurel sprout with the live immortelle? It may be, -- we follow, and though we inherit Our strength for a season, our pride for a span, Say! vanity are they? vexation of spirit? Not so, since they serve for a time horse and man. They serve for a time, and they make life worth living, In spite of life's troubles -- 'tis vain to despond; Oh, man! WE at least, WE enjoy, with thanksgiving, God's gifts on this earth, though we look not beyond. YOU sin, and YOU suffer, and we, too, find sorrow, Perchance through YOUR sin -- yet it soon will be o'er; We labour to-day, and we slumber to-morrow, Strong horse and bold rider! -- and WHO KNOWETH MORE? * * * * * In our barrack-square shouted Drill-sergeant M'Cluskie, The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran, The colonel wheel'd short, speaking once, dry and husky, "Would to God I had died with your master, old man!" [End of Sea Spray and Smoke Drift.] Bush Ballads & Galloping Rhymes A Dedication to the Author of "Holmby House" They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less Of sound than of words, In lands where bright blossoms are scentless, And songless bright birds; Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses, Insatiable Summer oppresses Sere woodlands and sad wildernesses, And faint flocks and herds. Where in dreariest days, when all dews end, And all winds are warm, Wild Winter's large flood-gates are loosen'd, And floods, freed by storm, From broken up fountain heads, dash on Dry deserts with long pent up passion -- Here rhyme was first framed without fashion, Song shaped without form. Whence gather'd? -- The locust's glad chirrup May furnish a stave; The ring of a rowel and stirrup, The wash of a wave. The chaunt of the marsh frog in rushes, That chimes through the pauses and hushes Of nightfall, the torrent that gushes, The tempests that rave. In the deep'ning of dawn, when it dapples The dusk of the sky, With streaks like the redd'ning of apples, The ripening of rye. To eastward, when cluster by cluster, Dim stars and dull planets that muster, Wax wan in a world of white lustre That spreads far and high. In the gathering of night gloom o'erhead, in The still silent change, All fire-flushed when forest trees redden On slopes of the range. When the gnarl'd, knotted trunks Eucalyptian Seem carved, like weird columns Egyptian, With curious device -- quaint inscription, And hieroglyph strange. In the Spring, when the wattle gold trembles 'Twixt shadow and shine, When each dew-laden air draught resembles A long draught of wine; When the sky-line's blue burnish'd resistance Makes deeper the dreamiest distance, Some song in all hearts hath existence, -- Such songs have been mine. They came in all guises, some vivid To clasp and to keep; Some sudden and swift as the livid Blue thunder-flame's leap. This swept through the first breath of clover With memories renew'd to the rover -- That flash'd while the black horse turn'd over Before the long sleep. To you (having cunning to colour A page with your pen, That through dull days, and nights even duller, Long years ago ten, Fair pictures in fever afforded) -- I send these rude staves, roughly worded By one in whose brain stands recorded As clear now as then, "The great rush of grey `Northern water', The green ridge of bank, The `sorrel' with curved sweep of quarter Curl'd close to clean flank, The Royalist saddlefast squarely, And where the bright uplands stretch fairly, Behind, beyond pistol-shot barely, The Roundheaded rank. "A long launch, with clinging of muscles, And clenching of teeth! The loose doublet ripples and rustles! The swirl shoots beneath!" Enough. In return for your garland -- In lieu of the flowers from your far land -- Take wild growth of dreamland or starland, Take weeds for your wreath. Yet rhyme had not fail'd me for reason, Nor reason for rhyme, Sweet Song! had I sought you in season, And found you in time. You beckon in your bright beauty yonder, And I, waxing fainter, yet fonder, Now weary too soon when I wander -- Now fall when I climb. It matters but little in the long run, The weak have some right -- Some share in the race that the strong run, The fight the strong fight. If words that are worthless go westward, Yet the worst word shall be as the best word, In the day when all riot sweeps restward, In darkness or light. The Sick Stockrider Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade. Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I sway'd, All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride. The dawn at "Moorabinda" was a mist rack dull and dense, The sunrise was a sullen, sluggish lamp; I was dozing in the gateway at Arbuthnot's bound'ry fence, I was dreaming on the Limestone cattle camp. We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze, And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth; To southward lay "Katawa", with the sandpeaks all ablaze, And the flush'd fields of Glen Lomond lay to north. Now westward winds the bridle path that leads to Lindisfarm, And yonder looms the double-headed Bluff; From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm, You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough. Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch; 'Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase Eight years ago -- or was it nine? -- last March. 'Twas merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming grass, To wander as we've wandered many a mile, And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass, Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while. 'Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs, To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard, With a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs; Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard! Aye! we had a glorious gallop after "Starlight" and his gang, When they bolted from Sylvester's on the flat; How the sun-dried reed-beds crackled, how the flint-strewn ranges rang To the strokes of "Mountaineer" and "Acrobat". Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath, Close beside them through the tea-tree scrub we dash'd; And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath! And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash'd! We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the grey, And the troopers were three hundred yards behind, While we emptied our six-shooters on the bushrangers at bay, In the creek with stunted box-tree for a blind! There you grappled with the leader, man to man and horse to horse, And you roll'd together when the chestnut rear'd; He blazed away and missed you in that shallow watercourse -- A narrow shave -- his powder singed your beard! In these hours when life is ebbing, how those days when life was young Come back to us; how clearly I recall Even the yarns Jack Hall invented, and the songs Jem Roper sung; And where are now Jem Roper and Jack Hall? Aye! nearly all our comrades of the old colonial school, Our ancient boon companions, Ned, are gone; Hard livers for the most part, somewhat reckless as a rule, It seems that you and I are left alone. There was Hughes, who got in trouble through that business with the cards, It matters little what became of him; But a steer ripp'd up MacPherson in the Cooraminta yards, And Sullivan was drown'd at Sink-or-swim; And Mostyn -- poor Frank Mostyn -- died at last a fearful wreck, In "the horrors", at the Upper Wandinong, And Carisbrooke, the rider, at the Horsefall broke his neck, Faith! the wonder was he saved his neck so long! Ah! those days and nights we squandered at the Logans' in the glen -- The Logans, man and wife, have long been dead. Elsie's tallest girl seems taller than your little Elsie then; And Ethel is a woman grown and wed. I've had my share of pastime, and I've done my share of toil, And life is short -- the longest life a span; I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil, Or for the wine that maketh glad the heart of man. For good undone and gifts misspent and resolutions vain, 'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know -- I should live the same life over, if I had to live again; And the chances are I go where most men go. The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim, The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall; And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim, And on the very sun's face weave their pall. Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave, With never stone or rail to fence my bed; Should the sturdy station children pull the bush flowers on my grave, I may chance to hear them romping overhead. The Swimmer With short, sharp, violent lights made vivid, To southward far as the sight can roam, Only the swirl of the surges livid, The seas that climb and the surfs that comb. Only the crag and the cliff to nor'ward, And the rocks receding, and reefs flung forward, And waifs wreck'd seaward and wasted shoreward On shallows sheeted with flaming foam. A grim, grey coast and a seaboard ghastly, And shores trod seldom by feet of men -- Where the batter'd hull and the broken mast lie, They have lain embedded these long years ten. Love! when we wander'd here together, Hand in hand through the sparkling weather, From the heights and hollows of fern and heather, God surely loved us a little then. The skies were fairer and shores were firmer -- The blue sea over the bright sand roll'd; Babble and prattle, and ripple and murmur, Sheen of silver and glamour of gold -- And the sunset bath'd in the gulf to lend her A garland of pinks and of purples tender, A tinge of the sun-god's rosy splendour, A tithe of his glories manifold. Man's works are graven, cunning, and skilful On earth, where his tabernacles are; But the sea is wanton, the sea is wilful, And who shall mend her and who shall mar? Shall we carve success or record disaster On the bosom of her heaving alabaster? Will her purple pulse beat fainter or faster For fallen sparrow or fallen star? I would that with sleepy, soft embraces The sea would fold me -- would find me rest, In luminous shades of her secret places, In depths where her marvels are manifest; So the earth beneath her should not discover My hidden couch -- nor the heaven above her -- As a strong love shielding a weary lover, I would have her shield me with shining breast. When light in the realms of space lay hidden, When life was yet in the womb of time, Ere flesh was fettered to fruits forbidden, And souls were wedded to care and crime, Was the course foreshaped for the future spirit -- A burden of folly, a void of merit -- That would fain the wisdom of stars inherit, And cannot fathom the seas sublime? Under the sea or the soil (what matter? The sea and the soil are under the sun), As in the former days in the latter, The sleeping or waking is known of none. Surely the sleeper shall not awaken To griefs forgotten or joys forsaken, For the price of all things given and taken, The sum of all things done and undone. Shall we count offences or coin excuses, Or weigh with scales the soul of a man, Whom a strong hand binds and a sure hand looses, Whose light is a spark and his life a span? The seed he sow'd or the soil he cumber'd, The time he served or the space he slumber'd, Will it profit a man when his days are number'd, Or his deeds since the days of his life began? One, glad because of the light, saith, "Shall not The righteous Judge of all the earth do right, For behold the sparrows on the house-tops fall not Save as seemeth to Him good in His sight?" And this man's joy shall have no abiding, Through lights departing and lives dividing, He is soon as one in the darkness hiding, One loving darkness rather than light. A little season of love and laughter, Of light and life, and pleasure and pain, And a horror of outer darkness after, And dust returneth to dust again. Then the lesser life shall be as the greater, And the lover of life shall join the hater, And the one thing cometh sooner or later, And no one knoweth the loss or gain. Love of my life! we had lights in season -- Hard to part from, harder to keep -- We had strength to labour and souls to reason, And seed to scatter and fruits to reap. Though time estranges and fate disperses, We have HAD our loves and our loving mercies; Though the gifts of the light in the end are curses, Yet bides the gift of the darkness -- sleep! See! girt with tempest and wing'd with thunder, And clad with lightning and shod with sleet, The strong winds treading the swift waves sunder The flying rollers with frothy feet. One gleam like a bloodshot sword-blade swims on The sky-line, staining the green gulf crimson, A death stroke fiercely dealt by a dim sun, That strikes through his stormy winding-sheet. Oh! brave white horses! you gather and gallop, The storm sprite loosens the gusty reins; Now the stoutest ship were the frailest shallop In your hollow backs, or your high arch'd manes. I would ride as never a man has ridden In your sleepy, swirling surges hidden, To gulfs foreshadow'd through straits forbidden, Where no light wearies and no love wanes. From the Wreck "Turn out, boys!" -- "What's up with our super. to-night? The man's mad -- Two hours to daybreak I'd swear -- Stark mad -- why, there isn't a glimmer of light." "Take Bolingbroke, Alec, give Jack the young mare; Look sharp. A large vessel lies jamm'd on the reef, And many on board still, and some wash'd on shore. Ride straight with the news -- they may send some relief From the township; and we -- we can do little more. You, Alec, you know the near cuts; you can cross `The Sugarloaf' ford with a scramble, I think; Don't spare the blood filly, nor yet the black horse; Should the wind rise, God help them! the ship will soon sink. Old Peter's away down the paddock, to drive The nags to the stockyard as fast as he can -- A life and death matter; so, lads, look alive." Half-dress'd, in the dark, to the stockyard we ran. There was bridling with hurry, and saddling with haste, Confusion and cursing for lack of a moon; "Be quick with these buckles, we've no time to waste;" "Mind the mare, she can use her hind legs to some tune." "Make sure of the crossing-place; strike the old track, They've fenced off the new one; look out for the holes On the wombat hills." "Down with the slip rails; stand back." "And ride, boys, the pair of you, ride for your souls." In the low branches heavily laden with dew, In the long grasses spoiling with deadwood that day, Where the blackwood, the box, and the bastard oak grew, Between the tall gum-trees we gallop'd away -- We crash'd through a brush fence, we splash'd through a swamp -- We steered for the north near "The Eaglehawk's Nest" -- We bore to the left, just beyond "The Red Camp", And round the black tea-tree belt wheel'd to the west -- We cross'd a low range sickly scented with musk From wattle-tree blossom -- we skirted a marsh -- Then the dawn faintly dappled with orange the dusk, And peal'd overhead the jay's laughter note harsh, And shot the first sunstreak behind us, and soon The dim dewy uplands were dreamy with light; And full on our left flash'd "The Reedy Lagoon", And sharply "The Sugarloaf" rear'd on our right. A smothered curse broke through the bushman's brown beard, He turn'd in his saddle, his brick-colour'd cheek Flush'd feebly with sundawn, said, "Just what I fear'd; Last fortnight's late rainfall has flooded the creek." Black Bolingbroke snorted, and stood on the brink One instant, then deep in the dark sluggish swirl Plunged headlong. I saw the horse suddenly sink, Till round the man's armpits the waves seemed to curl. We follow'd, -- one cold shock, and deeper we sank Than they did, and twice tried the landing in vain; The third struggle won it; straight up the steep bank We stagger'd, then out on the skirts of the plain. The stockrider, Alec, at starting had got The lead, and had kept it throughout; 'twas his boast That through thickest of scrub he could steer like a shot, And the black horse was counted the best on the coast. The mare had been awkward enough in the dark, She was eager and headstrong, and barely half broke; She had had me too close to a big stringy-bark, And had made a near thing of a crooked sheoak; But now on the open, lit up by the morn, She flung the white foam-flakes from nostril to neck, And chased him -- I hatless, with shirt sleeves all torn (For he may ride ragged who rides from a wreck) -- And faster and faster across the wide heath We rode till we raced. Then I gave her her head, And she -- stretching out with the bit in her teeth -- She caught him, outpaced him, and passed him, and led. We neared the new fence, we were wide of the track; I look'd right and left -- she had never been tried At a stiff leap; 'twas little he cared on the black. "You're more than a mile from the gateway," he cried. I hung to her head, touched her flank with the spurs (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, Whose science claims some little share Of truth, what better things lay there? Aye! thought and mind were there, -- some kind Of faculty that men mistake For talent when their wits are blind, -- An aptitude to mar and break What others diligently make. This was the worst and best of him -- Wise with the cunning of the snake, Brave with the she wolf's courage grim, Dying hard and dumb, torn limb from limb. And you, Brown, you're a doctor; cure You can't, but you can kill, and he -- "WITNESS HIS MARK" -- he signed last year, And now he signs John Smith, J.P. We'll hold our inquest NOW, we three; I'll be your coroner for once; I think old Oswald ought to be Our foreman -- Jones is such a dunce, -- There's more brain in the bloodhound's sconce. No man may shirk the allotted work, The deed to do, the death to die; At least I think so, -- neither Turk, Nor Jew, nor infidel am I, -- And yet I wonder when I try To solve one question, may or must, And shall I solve it by-and-by, Beyond the dark, beneath the dust? I trust so, and I only trust. Aye, what they will, such trifles kill. Comrade, for one good deed of yours, Your history shall not help to fill The mouths of many brainless boors. It may be death absolves or cures The sin of life. 'Twere hazardous To assert so. If the sin endures, Say only, "God, who has judged him thus, Be merciful to him and us." How we Beat the Favourite A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup "Aye, squire," said Stevens, "they back him at evens; The race is all over, bar shouting, they say; The Clown ought to beat her; Dick Neville is sweeter Than ever -- he swears he can win all the way. "A gentleman rider -- well, I'm an outsider, But if he's a gent who the mischief's a jock? You swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for the plunder, He rides, too, like thunder -- he sits like a rock. "He calls `hunted fairly' a horse that has barely Been stripp'd for a trot within sight of the hounds, A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and Yorick, And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds. "They say we have no test to warrant a protest; Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward; The light of their faces they show him -- his case is Prejudged and his verdict already secured. "But none can outlast her, and few travel faster, She strides in her work clean away from The Drag; You hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter, Whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag. "And p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though they back it, May fall, or there's no knowing what may turn up; The mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady, Keep cool; and I think you may just win the Cup." Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle, Stood Iseult, arching her neck to the curb, A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry, A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb. Some parting injunction, bestowed with great unction, I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce, When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White Surrey, Came down in a hurry to start us at once. "Keep back in the yellow! Come up on Othello! Hold hard on the chestnut! Turn round on The Drag! Keep back there on Spartan! Back you, sir, in tartan! So, steady there, easy!" and down went the flag. We started, and Kerr made strong running on Mermaid, Through furrows that led to the first stake-and-bound, The crack, half extended, look'd bloodlike and splendid, Held wide on the right where the headland was sound. I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle, Before her two-thirds of the field got away, All through the wet pasture where floods of the last year Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with clay. The fourth fence, a wattle, floor'd Monk and Bluebottle; The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn and ditch, The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover, The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire Witch. She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock Sparrow, And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone wall; And Giles on The Greyling came down at the paling, And I was left sailing in front of them all. I took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed her Until the Black Bullfinch led into the plough, And through the strong bramble we bored with a scramble -- My cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree bough. Where furrows looked lighter I drew the rein tighter -- Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of white foam, Her flanks mud-bespattered, a weak rail she shattered -- We landed on turf with our heads turn'd for home. Then crash'd a low binder, and then close behind her The sward to the strokes of the favourite shook; His rush roused her mettle, yet ever so little She shortened her stride as we raced at the brook. She rose when I hit her. I saw the stream glitter, A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee, Between sky and water The Clown came and caught her, The space that he cleared was a caution to see. And forcing the running, discarding all cunning, A length to the front went the rider in green; A long strip of stubble, and then the big double, Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset between. She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her, I found my hands give to her strain on the bit; She rose when The Clown did -- our silks as we bounded Brush'd lightly, our stirrups clash'd loud as we lit. A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone coping -- The last -- we diverged round the base of the hill; His path was the nearer, his leap was the clearer, I flogg'd up the straight, and he led sitting still. She came to his quarter, and on still I brought her, And up to his girth, to his breastplate she drew; A short prayer from Neville just reach'd me, "The devil!" He mutter'd -- lock'd level the hurdles we flew. A hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd careering, All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely heard; "The green wins!" "The crimson!" The multitude swims on, And figures are blended and features are blurr'd. "The horse is her master!" "The green forges past her!" "The Clown will outlast her!" "The Clown wins!" "The Clown!" The white railing races with all the white faces, The chestnut outpaces, outstretches the brown. On still past the gateway she strains in the straightway, Still struggles, "The Clown by a short neck at most," He swerves, the green scourges, the stand rocks and surges, And flashes, and verges, and flits the white post. Aye! so ends the tussle, -- I knew the tan muzzle Was first, though the ring-men were yelling "Dead heat!" A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said, "The mare by A short head." And that's how the favourite was beat. Fragmentary Scenes from the Road to Avernus An Unpublished Dramatic Lyric Scene I "Discontent" LAURENCE RABY. Laurence: I said to young Allan M'Ilveray, Beside the swift swirls of the North, When, in lilac shot through with a silver ray, We haul'd the strong salmon fish forth -- Said only, "He gave us some trouble To land him, and what does he weigh? Our friend has caught one that weighs double, The game for the candle won't pay Us to-day, We may tie up our rods and away." I said to old Norman M'Gregor, Three leagues to the west of Glen Dhu -- I had drawn, with a touch of the trigger, The best BEAD that ever I drew -- Said merely, "For birds in the stubble I once had an eye -- I could swear He's down -- but he's not worth the trouble Of seeking. You once shot a bear In his lair -- 'Tis only a buck that lies there." I said to Lord Charles only last year, The time that we topp'd the oak rail Between Wharton's plough and Whynne's pasture, And clear'd the big brook in Blakesvale -- We only -- at Warburton's double He fell, then I finish'd the run And kill'd clean -- said, "So bursts a bubble That shone half an hour in the sun -- What is won? Your sire clear'd and captured a gun." I said to myself, in true sorrow, I said yestere'en, "A fair prize Is won, and it may be to-morrow 'Twill not seem so fair in thine eyes -- Real life is a race through sore trouble, That gains not an inch on the goal, And bliss an intangible bubble That cheats an unsatisfied soul, And the whole Of the rest an illegible scroll." Scene VII "Two Exhortations" A Shooting-box in the West of Ireland. A Bedchamber. LAURENCE RABY and MELCHIOR. Night. Melchior: Surely in the great beginning God made all things good, and still That soul-sickness men call sinning entered not without His will. Nay, our wisest have asserted that, as shade enhances light, Evil is but good perverted, wrong is but the foil of right. Banish sickness, then you banish joy for health to all that live; Slay all sin, all good must vanish, good being but comparative. Sophistry, you say -- yet listen: look you skyward, there 'tis known Worlds on worlds in myriads glisten -- larger, lovelier than our own -- This has been, and this still shall be, here as there, in sun or star; These things are to be and will be, those things were to be and are. Man in man's imperfect nature is by imperfection taught: Add one cubit to your stature if you can by taking thought. Laurence: Thus you would not teach that peasant, though he calls you "father". Melchior: True, I should magnify this present, mystify that future, too -- We adapt our conversation always to our hearer's light. Laurence: I am not of your persuasion. Melchior: Yet the difference is but slight. Laurence: I, EVEN I, say, "He who barters worldly weal for heavenly worth He does well" -- your saints and martyrs were examples here on earth. Melchior: Aye, in earlier Christian ages, while the heathen empire stood, When the war 'twixt saints and sages cried aloud for saintly blood, Christ was then their model truly. Now, if all were meek and pure, Save the ungodly and the unruly, would the Christian Church endure? Shall the toiler or the fighter dream by day and watch by night, Turn the left cheek to the smiter, smitten rudely on the right? Strong men must encounter bad men -- so-called saints of latter days Have been mostly pious madmen, lusting after righteous praise -- Or the thralls of superstition, doubtless worthy some reward, Since they came by their condition hardly of their free accord. 'Tis but madness, sad and solemn, that these fakir-Christians feel -- Saint Stylites on his column gratified a morbid zeal. Laurence: By your showing, good is really on a par (of worth) with ill. Melchior: Nay, I said not so; I merely tell you both some ends fulfil -- Priestly vows were my vocation, fast and vigil wait for me. You must work and face temptation. Never should the strong man flee, Though God wills the inclination with the soul at war to be. (Pauses.) In the strife 'twixt flesh and spirit, while you can the spirit aid. Should you fall not less your merit, be not for a fall afraid. Whatsoe'er most right, most fit is you shall do. When all is done Chaunt the noble Nunc Dimittis -- Benedicimur, my son. [Exit MELCHIOR.] Laurence (alone): Why do I provoke these wrangles? Melchior talks (as well he may) With the tongues of men and angels. (Takes up a pamphlet.) What has this man got to say? (Reads.) Sic sacerdos fatur (ejus nomen quondam erat Burgo.) Mala mens est, caro pejus, anima infirma, ergo I nunc, ora, sine mora -- orat etiam Sancta Virgo. (Thinks.) (Speaks.) So it seems they mean to make her wed the usurer, Nathan Lee. Poor Estelle! her friends forsake her; what has this to do with me? Glad I am, at least, that Helen still refuses to discard Her, through tales false gossips tell in spite or heedlessness. -- 'Tis hard! -- Lee, the Levite! -- some few years back Herbert horsewhipp'd him -- the cur Show'd his teeth and laid his ears back. Now his wealth has purchased her. Must his baseness mar her brightness? Shall the callous, cunning churl Revel in the rosy whiteness of that golden-headed girl? (Thinks and smokes.) (Reads.) Cito certe venit vitae finis (sic sacerdos fatur), Nunc audite omnes, ite, vobis fabula narratur Nunc orate et laudate, laudat etiam Alma Mater. (Muses.) Such has been, and such shall still be, here as there, in sun or star; These things are to be and will be, those things were to be and are. If I thought that speech worth heeding I should -- Nay, it seems to me More like Satan's special pleading than like Gloria Domine. (Lies down on his couch.) (Reads.) Et tuquoque frater meus facta mala quod fecisti Denique confundit Deus omnes res quas tetegisti. Nunc si unquam, nunc aut nunquam, sanguine adjuro Christi. Scene IX "In the Garden" Aylmer's Garden, near the Lake. LAURENCE RABY and ESTELLE. He: Come to the bank where the boat is moor'd to the willow-tree low; Bertha, the baby, won't notice, Brian, the blockhead, won't know. She: Bertha is not such a baby, sir, as you seem to suppose; Brian, a blockhead he may be, more than you think for he knows. He: This much, at least, of your brother, from the beginning he knew Somewhat concerning that other made such a fool of by you. She: Firmer those bonds were and faster, Frank was my spaniel, my slave. You! you would fain be my master; mark you! the difference is grave. He: Call me your spaniel, your starling, take me and treat me as these, I would be anything, darling! aye, whatsoever you please. Brian and Basil are "punting", leave them their dice and their wine, Bertha is butterfly hunting, surely one hour shall be mine. See, I have done with all duty; see, I can dare all disgrace, Only to look at your beauty, feasting my eyes on your face. She: Look at me, aye, till your eyes ache! How, let me ask, will it end? Neither for your sake, nor my sake, but for the sake of my friend? He: Is she your friend then? I own it, this is all wrong, and the rest, Frustra sed anima monet, caro quod fortius est. She: Not quite so close, Laurence Raby, not with your arm round my waist; Something to look at I may be, nothing to touch or to taste. He: Wilful as ever and wayward; why did you tempt me, Estelle? She: You misinterpret each stray word, you for each inch take an ell. Lightly all laws and ties trammel me, I am warn'd for all that. He (aside): Perhaps she will swallow her camel when she has strained at her gnat. She: Therefore take thought and consider, weigh well, as I do, the whole, You for mere beauty a bidder, say, would you barter a soul? He: Girl! THAT MAY happen, but THIS IS; after this welcome the worst; Blest for one hour by your kisses, let me be evermore curs'd. Talk not of ties to me reckless, here every tie I discard -- Make me your girdle, your necklace -- She: Laurence, you kiss me too hard. He: Aye, 'tis the road to Avernus, n'est ce pas vrai donc, ma belle? There let them bind us or burn us, mais le jeu vaut la chandelle. Am I your lord or your vassal? Are you my sun or my torch? You, when I look at you, dazzle, yet when I touch you, you scorch. She: Yonder are Brian and Basil watching us fools from the porch. Scene X "After the Quarrel" Laurence Raby's Chamber. LAURENCE enters, a little the worse for liquor. Laurence: He never gave me a chance to speak, And he call'd her -- worse than a dog -- The girl stood up with a crimson cheek, And I fell'd him there like a log. I can feel the blow on my knuckles yet -- He feels it more on his brow. In a thousand years we shall all forget The things that trouble us now. Scene XI "Ten Paces Off" An open country. LAURENCE RABY and FORREST, BRIAN AYLMER and PRESCOT. Forrest: I've won the two tosses from Prescot; Now hear me, and hearken and heed, And pull that vile flower from your waistcoat, And throw down that beast of a weed; I'm going to give you the signal I gave Harry Hunt at Boulogne, The morning he met Major Bignell, And shot him as dead as a stone; For he must look round on his right hand To watch the white flutter -- that stops His aim, for it takes off his sight, and I COUGH WHILE THE HANDKERCHIEF DROPS. And you keep both eyes on his figure, Old fellow, and don't take them off. You've got the sawhandled hair trigger -- You sight him and shoot when I cough. Laurence (aside): Though God will never forgive me, Though men make light of my name, Though my sin and my shame outlive me, I shall not outlast my shame. The coward, does he mean to miss me? His right hand shakes like a leaf; Shall I live for my friends to hiss me, Of fools and of knaves the chief? Shall I live for my foes to twit me? He has master'd his nerve again -- He is firm, he will surely hit me -- Will he reach the heart or the brain? One long look eastward and northward -- One prayer -- "Our Father which art" -- And the cough chimes in with the fourth word, And I shoot skyward -- the heart. Last Scene "Exeunt" HELEN RABY. Where the grave-deeps rot, where the grave-dews rust, They dug, crying, "Earth to earth" -- Crying, "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust" -- And what are my poor prayers worth? Upon whom shall I call, or in whom shall I trust, Though death were indeed new birth. And they bid me be glad for my baby's sake That she suffered sinless and young -- Would they have me be glad when my breasts still ache Where that small, soft, sweet mouth clung? I am glad that the heart will so surely break That has been so bitterly wrung. He was false, they tell me, and what if he were? I can only shudder and pray, Pouring out my soul in a passionate prayer For the soul that he cast away; Was there nothing that once was created fair In the potter's perishing clay? Is it well for the sinner that souls endure? For the sinless soul is it well? Does the pure child lisp to the angels pure? And where does the strong man dwell, If the sad assurance of priests be sure, Or the tale that our preachers tell? The unclean has follow'd the undefiled, And the ill MAY regain the good, And the man MAY be even as the little child! We are children lost in the wood -- Lord! lead us out of this tangled wild, Where the wise and the prudent have been beguil'd, And only the babes have stood. Doubtful Dreams Aye, snows are rife in December, And sheaves are in August yet, And you would have me remember, And I would rather forget; In the bloom of the May-day weather, In the blight of October chill, We were dreamers of old together, -- As of old, are you dreaming still? For nothing on earth is sadder Than the dream that cheated the grasp, The flower that turned to the adder, The fruit that changed to the asp; When the day-spring in darkness closes, As the sunset fades from the hills, With the fragrance of perish'd roses, With the music of parch'd-up rills. When the sands on the sea-shore nourish Red clover and yellow corn; When figs on the thistle flourish, And grapes grow thick on the thorn; When the dead branch, blighted and blasted, Puts forth green leaves in the spring, Then the dream that life has outlasted Dead comfort to life may bring. I have changed the soil and the season, But whether skies freeze or flame, The soil they flame on or freeze on Is changed in little save name; The loadstone points to the nor'ward, The river runs to the sea; And you would have me look forward, And backward I fain would flee. I remember the bright spring garlands, The gold that spangled the green, And the purple on fairy far lands, And the white and the red bloom, seen From the spot where we last lay dreaming Together -- yourself and I -- The soft grass beneath us gleaming, Above us the great grave sky. And we spoke thus: "Though we have trodden Rough paths in our boyish years; And some with our sweat are sodden, And some are salt with our tears; Though we stumble still, walking blindly, Our paths shall be made all straight; We are weak, but the heavens are kindly, The skies are compassionate." Is the clime of the old land younger, Where the young dreams longer are nursed? With the old insatiable hunger, With the old unquenchable thirst, Are you longing, as in the old years We have longed so often in vain; Fellow-toilers still, fellow-soldiers, Though the seas have sundered us twain? But the young dreams surely have faded! Young dreams! -- old dreams of young days -- Shall the new dream vex us as they did? Or as things worth censure or praise? Real toil is ours, real trouble, Dim dreams of pleasure and pride; Let the dreams disperse like a bubble, So the toil like a dream subside. Vain toil! men better and braver Rose early and rested late, Whose burdens than ours were graver, And sterner than ours their hate. What fair reward had Achilles? What rest could Alcides win? Vain toil! "Consider the lilies, They toil not neither do spin." Nor for mortal toiling nor spinning Will the matters of mortals mend; As it was so in the beginning, It shall be so in the end. The web that the weavers weave ill Shall not be woven aright Till the good is brought forth from evil, As day is brought forth from night. Vain dreams! for our fathers cherish'd High hopes in the days that were; And these men wonder'd and perish'd, Nor better than these we fare; And our due at last is their due, They fought against odds and fell; "En avant, les enfants perdus!" We fight against odds as well. The skies! Will the great skies care for Our footsteps, straighten our path, Or strengthen our weakness? Wherefore? We have rather incurr'd their wrath; When against the Captain of Hazor The stars in their courses fought, Did the skies shed merciful rays, or With love was the sunshine fraught? Can they favour man? Can they wrong man? The unapproachable skies? Though these gave strength to the strong man, And wisdom gave to the wise; When strength is turn'd to derision, And wisdom brought to dismay, Shall we wake from a troubled vision, Or rest from a toilsome day? Nay! I cannot tell. Peradventure Our very toil is a dream, And the works that we praise or censure, It may be, they only seem. If so, I would fain awaken, Or sleep more soundly than so, Or by dreamless sleep overtaken, The dream I would fain forego. For the great things of earth are small things, The longest life is a span, And there is an end to all things, A season to every man, Whose glory is dust and ashes, Whose spirit is but a spark, That out from the darkness flashes, And flickers out in the dark. We remember the pangs that wrung us When some went down to the pit, Who faded as leaves among us, Who flitted as shadows flit; What visions under the stone lie? What dreams in the shroud sleep dwell? For we saw the earth pit only, And we heard only the knell. We know not whether they slumber Who waken on earth no more, As the stars of the heights in number, As sands on the deep sea-shore. Shall stiffness bind them, and starkness Enthral them, by field and flood, Till "the sun shall be turn'd to darkness, And the moon shall be turn'd to blood." We know not! -- worse may enthral men -- "The wages of sin are death"; And so death passed upon all men, For sin was born with man's breath. Then the labourer spent with sinning, His hire with his life shall spend; For it was so in the beginning, And shall be so in the end. There is life in the blacken'd ember While a spark is smouldering yet; In a dream e'en now I remember That dream I had lief forget -- I had lief forget, I had e'en lief That dream with THIS doubt should die -- "IF WE DID THESE THINGS IN THE GREEN LEAF, WHAT SHALL BE DONE IN THE DRY?" The Rhyme of Joyous Garde Through the lattice rushes the south wind, dense With fumes of the flowery frankincense From hawthorn blossoming thickly; And gold is shower'd on grass unshorn, And poppy-fire on shuddering corn, With May-dew flooded and flush'd with morn, And scented with sweetness sickly. The bloom and brilliance of summer days, The buds that brighten, the fields that blaze, The fruits that ripen and redden, And all the gifts of a God-sent light Are sadder things in my shameful sight Than the blackest gloom of the bitterest night, When the senses darken and deaden. For the days recall what the nights efface, Scenes of glory and seasons of grace, For which there is no returning -- Else the days were even as the nights to me, Now the axe is laid to the root of the tree, And to-morrow the barren trunk may be Cut down -- cast forth for the burning. Would God I had died the death that day When the bishop blessed us before the fray At the shrine of the Saviour's Mother; We buckled the spur, we braced the belt, Arthur and I -- together we knelt, And the grasp of his kingly hand I felt As the grasp of an only brother. The body and the blood of Christ we shared, Knees bended and heads bow'd down and bared, We listened throughout the praying. Eftsoon the shock of the foe we bore, Shoulder to shoulder on Severn's shore, Till our hilts were glued to our hands with gore, And our sinews slacken'd with slaying. Was I far from Thy Kingdom, gracious Lord, With a shattered casque and a shiver'd sword, On the threshold of Mary's chapel? Pardie! I had well-nigh won that crown Which endureth more than a knight's renown, When the pagan giant had got me down, Sore spent in the deadly grapple. May his craven spirit find little grace, He was seal'd to Satan in any case, Yet the loser had been the winner; Had I waxed fainter or he less faint, Then my soul was free from this loathsome taint, I had died as a Christian knight -- no saint Perchance, yet a pardon'd sinner. But I strove full grimly beneath his weight, I clung to his poignard desperate, I baffled the thrust that followed, And writhing uppermost rose, to deal, With bare three inches of broken steel, One stroke -- Ha! the headpiece crash'd piecemeal, And the knave in his black blood wallow'd. So I lived for worse -- in fulness of time, When peace for a season sway'd the clime, And spears for a space were idle, Trusted and chosen of all the court, A favoured herald of fair report, I travell'd eastward, and duly brought A bride to a queenly bridal. Pardie! 'twas a morning even as this (The skies were warmer if aught, I wis, Albeit the fields were duller; Or it may be that the envious spring, Abash'd at the sight of a fairer thing, Wax'd somewhat sadder of colouring Because of her faultless colour). With her through the Lyonesse I rode, Till the woods with the noontide fervour glow'd, And there for a space we halted, Where the intertwining branches made Cool carpets of olive-tinted shade, And the floors with fretwork of flame inlaid From leafy lattices vaulted. And scarf and mantle for her I spread, And strewed them over the grassiest bed, And under the greenest awning, And loosen'd latch and buckle, and freed From selle and housing the red roan steed, And the jennet of swift Iberian breed, That had carried us since the dawning. The brown thrush sang through the briar and bower, All flush'd or frosted with forest flower In the warm sun's wanton glances; And I grew deaf to the song bird -- blind To blossom that sweeten'd the sweet spring wind -- I saw her only -- a girl reclined In her girlhood's indolent trances. And the song and the scent and sense wax'd weak, The wild rose withered beside the cheek She poised on her fingers slender; The soft spun gold of her glittering hair Ran rippling into a wondrous snare, That flooded the round arm bright and bare, And the shoulder's silvery splendour. The deep dusk fires in those dreamy eyes, Like seas clear-coloured in summer skies, Were guiltless of future treason; And I stood watching her, still and mute, Yet the evil seed in my soul found root, And the sad plant throve, and the sinful fruit Grew ripe in the shameful season. Let the sin be mine as the shame was hers, In desolate days of departed years She had leisure for shame and sorrow -- There was light repentance and brief remorse, When I rode against Saxon foes or Norse, With clang of harness and clatter of horse, And little heed for the morrow. And now she is dead, men tell me, and I, In this living death must I linger and lie Till my cup to the dregs is drunken? I looked through the lattice worn and grim, With eyelids darken'd and eyesight dim, And weary body and wasted limb, And sinew slacken'd and shrunken. She is dead! Gone down to the burial-place, Where the grave-dews cleave to her faultless face; Where the grave-sods crumble around her; And that bright burden of burnish'd gold, That once on those waxen shoulders roll'd, Will it spoil with the damps of the deadly mould? Was it shorn when the church vows bound her? Now I know full well that the fair spear shaft Shall never gladden my hand, nor the haft Of the good sword grow to my fingers; Now the maddest fray, the merriest din, Would fail to quicken this life-stream thin, Yet the sleepy poison of that sweet sin In the sluggish current still lingers. Would God I had slept with the slain men, long Or ever the heart conceived a wrong That the innermost soul abhorred -- Or ever these lying lips were strained To her lids, pearl-tinted and purple-vein'd, Or ever those traitorous kisses stained The snows of her spotless forehead. Let me gather a little strength to think, As one who reels on the outermost brink, To the innermost gulf descending. In that truce the longest and last of all, In the summer nights of that festival -- Soft vesture of samite and silken pall -- The beginning came of the ending. And one trod softly with sandal'd feet -- Ah! why are the stolen waters sweet? -- And one crept stealthily after; I would I had taken him there and wrung His knavish neck when the dark door swung, Or torn by the roots his treacherous tongue, And stifled his hateful laughter. So the smouldering scandal blazed -- but he, My king, to the last put trust in me -- Aye, well was his trust requited! Now priests may patter, and bells may toll, He will need no masses to aid his soul; When the angels open the judgment scroll, His wrong will be tenfold righted. Then dawn'd the day when the mail was donn'd, And the steed for the strife caparison'd, But not 'gainst the Norse invader. Then was bloodshed -- not by untoward chance, As the blood that is drawn by the jouster's lance, The fray in the castle of Melegrance, The fight in the lists with Mador. Then the guilt made manifest, then the siege, When the true men rallying round the liege Beleaguer'd his base betrayer; Then the fruitless parleys, the pleadings vain, And the hard-fought battles with brave Gawaine, Twice worsted, and once so nearly slain, I may well be counted his slayer. Then the crime of Modred -- a little sin At the side of mine, though the knave was kin To the king by the knave's hand stricken. And the once-loved knight, was he there to save That knightly king who that knighthood gave? Ah, Christ! will he greet me as knight or knave In the day when the dust shall quicken. Had he lightly loved, had he trusted less, I had sinn'd perchance with the sinfulness That through prayer and penance is pardoned. Oh, love most loyal! Oh, faith most sure! In the purity of a soul so pure I found my safeguard -- I sinn'd secure, Till my heart to the sin grew harden'd. We were glad together in gladsome meads, When they shook to the strokes of our snorting steeds; We were joyful in joyous lustre When it flush'd the coppice or fill'd the glade, Where the horn of the Dane or the Saxon bray'd, And we saw the heathen banner display'd, And the heathen lances cluster. Then a steel-shod rush and a steel-clad ring, And a crash of the spear staves splintering, And the billowy battle blended. Riot of chargers, revel of blows, And fierce, flush'd faces of fighting foes, From croup to bridle, that reel'd and rose, In a sparkle of sword-play splendid. And the long, lithe sword in the hand became As a leaping light, as a falling flame, As a fire through the flax that hasted; Slender, and shining, and beautiful, How it shore through shivering casque and skull, And never a stroke was void and null, And never a thrust was wasted. I have done for ever with all these things -- 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.
Back to Full Books |