Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 14

Already green hillocks are swelling, And combing white locks on the bar, Where a dull, droning murmur is telling Of winds that have gather'd afar; Thus we know not the day, nor the morrow, Nor yet what the night may bring forth, Nor the storm, nor the sleep, nor the sorrow, Nor the strife, nor the rest, nor the wrath.

Yet the skies are still tranquil and starlit, The sun 'twixt the wave and the west Dies in purple, and crimson, and scarlet, And gold; let us hope for the best, Since again from the earth his effulgence The darkness and damp-dews shall wipe.

Kind reader, extend your indulgence To this the last lay of "The Pipe".

The Roll of the Kettledrum; or, The Lay of the Last Charger

"You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?

Of two such lessons, why forget The n.o.bler and the manlier one?"--Byron.

One line of swart profiles and bearded lips dressing, One ridge of bright helmets, one crest of fair plumes, One streak of blue sword-blades all bared for the fleshing, One row of red nostrils that scent battle-fumes.

Forward! the trumpets were sounding the charge, The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran, That music, like wild-fire spreading at large, Madden'd the war-horse as well as the man.

Forward! still forward! we thunder'd along, Steadily yet, for our strength we were nursing; Tall Ewart, our sergeant, was humming a song, Lance-corporal Black Will was blaspheming and cursing.

Open'd their volley of guns on our right, Puffs of grey smoke, veiling gleams of red flame, Curling to leeward, were seen on the height, Where the batteries were posted, as onward we came.

Spreading before us their cavalry lay, Squadron on squadron, troop upon troop; We were so few, and so many were they-- Eagles wait calmly the sparrow-hawk's stoop.

Forward! still forward! steed answering steed Cheerily neigh'd, while the foam flakes were toss'd From bridle to bridle--the top of our speed Was gain'd, but the pride of our order was lost.

One was there leading by nearly a rood, Though we were racing he kept to the fore, Still as a rock in his stirrups he stood, High in the sunlight his sabre he bore.

Suddenly tottering, backwards he crash'd, Loudly his helm right in front of us rung; Iron hoofs thunder'd, and naked steel flash'd Over him--youngest, where many were young.

Now we were close to them, every horse striding Madly;--St. Luce pa.s.s'd with never a groan;-- Sadly my master look'd round--he was riding On the boy's right, with a line of his own.

Thrusting his hand in his breast or breast-pocket, While from his wrist the sword swung by a chain, Swiftly he drew out some trinket or locket, Kiss'd it (I think) and replaced it again.

Burst, while his fingers reclosed on the haft, Jarring concussion and earth shaking din, Horse 'counter'd horse, and I reel'd, but he laugh'd, Down went his man, cloven clean to the chin!

Wedged in the midst of that struggling ma.s.s, After the first shock, where each his foe singled, Little was seen, save a dazzle, like gla.s.s In the sun, with grey smoke and black dust intermingled.

Here and there redden'd a pistol shot, flashing Through the red sparkle of steel upon steel!

Redder the spark seem'd, and louder the clashing, Struck from the helm by the iron-shod heel!

Over fallen riders, like wither'd leaves strewing Uplands in autumn, we sunder'd their ranks; Steeds rearing and plunging, men hacking and hewing, Fierce grinding of sword-blades, sharp goading of flanks.

Short was the crisis of conflict soon over, Being too good (I suppose) to last long; Through them we cut, as the scythe cuts the clover, Batter'd and stain'd we emerg'd from their throng.

Some of our saddles were emptied, of course; To heaven (or elsewhere) Black Will had been carried!

Ned Sullivan mounted Will's riderless horse, His mare being hurt, while ten seconds we tarried.

And then we re-formed, and went at them once more, And ere they had rightly closed up the old track, We broke through the lane we had open'd before, And as we went forward e'en so we came back.

Our numbers were few, and our loss far from small, They could fight, and, besides, they were twenty to one; We were clear of them all when we heard the recall, And thus we returned, but my tale is not done.

For the hand of my rider felt strange on my bit, He breathed once or twice like one partially choked, And sway'd in his seat, then I knew he was. .h.i.t;-- He must have bled fast, for my withers were soak'd,

And scarcely an inch of my housing was dry; I slacken'd my speed, yet I never quite stopp'd, Ere he patted my neck, said, "Old fellow, good-bye!"

And dropp'd off me gently, and lay where he dropp'd!

Ah, me! after all, they may call us dumb creatures-- I tried hard to neigh, but the sobs took my breath, Yet I guess'd gazing down at those still, quiet features, He was never more happy in life than in death.

Two years back, at Aldershot, Elrington mentioned My name to our colonel one field-day. He said, "'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 pa.s.s'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 hara.s.s'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?