Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 2

"We were wed but yester-noon, must we separate so soon?

Must you travel una.s.soiled and, aye, unshriven, With the blood stain on your hand, and the red streak on your brand, And your guilt all unconfessed and unforgiven?"

"Tho' it were but yester-even we were wedded, still unshriven, Across the moor this morning I must ride; I must gallop fast and straight, for my errand will not wait; Fear naught, I shall return at eventide."

"If I fear, it is for thee, thy weal is dear to me, Yon moor with retribution seemeth rife; As we've sown so must we reap, and I've started in my sleep At the voice of the avenger, 'Life for life'."

"My arm is strong, I ween, and my trusty blade is keen, And the courser that I ride is swift and sure, And I cannot break my oath, though to leave thee I am loth, There is one that I must meet upon the moor."

Oh! the sun shone on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie, Down the avenue and through the iron gate, Spurr'd and belted, so he rode, steel to draw and steel to goad, And across the moor he galloped fast and straight.

Oh! the sun shone on the lea, and the bird sang full of glee, Ere the mists of evening gather'd chill and grey; But the wild bird's merry note on the deaf ear never smote, And the sunshine never warmed the lifeless clay.

Ere the sun began to droop, or the mist began to stoop, The youthful bride lay swooning in the hall; Empty saddle on his back, broken bridle hanging slack, The steed returned full gallop to the stall.

Oh! the sun sank in the sea, and the wind wailed drearilie; Let the bells in yonder monastery toll, For the night rack nestles dark round the body stiff and stark, And unshriven to its Maker flies the soul.

Ye Wearie Wayfarer, hys Ballad In Eight Fyttes.

Fytte I By Wood and Wold [A Preamble]

"Beneath the greenwood bough."--W. Scott.

Lightly the breath of the spring wind blows, Though laden with faint perfume, 'Tis the fragrance rare that the bushman knows, The scent of the wattle bloom.

Two-thirds of our journey at least are done, Old horse! let us take a spell In the shade from the glare of the noonday sun, Thus far we have travell'd well; Your bridle I'll slip, your saddle ungirth, And lay them beside this log, For you'll roll in that track of reddish earth, And shake like a water-dog.

Upon yonder rise there's a clump of trees-- Their shadows look cool and broad-- You can crop the gra.s.s as fast as you please, While I stretch my limbs on the sward; 'Tis pleasant, I ween, with a leafy screen O'er the weary head, to lie On the mossy carpet of emerald green, 'Neath the vault of the azure sky; Thus all alone by the wood and wold, I yield myself once again To the memories old that, like tales fresh told, Come flitting across the brain.

Fytte II By Flood and Field [A Legend of the Cottiswold]

"They have saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, They have bridled a hundred black."--Old Ballad.

"He turned in his saddle, now follow who dare.

I ride for my country, quoth ----."

--Lawrence.

I remember the lowering wintry morn, And the mist on the Cotswold hills, Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman's horn, Not far from the seven rills.

Jack Esdale was there, and Hugh St. Clair, Bob Chapman and Andrew Kerr, And big George Griffiths on Devil-May-Care, And--black Tom Oliver.

And one who rode on a dark-brown steed, Clean jointed, sinewy, spare, With the lean game head of the Blacklock breed, And the resolute eye that loves the lead, And the quarters ma.s.sive and square-- A tower of strength, with a promise of speed (There was Celtic blood in the pair).

I remember how merry a start we got, When the red fox broke from the gorse, In a country so deep, with a scent so hot, That the hound could outpace the horse; I remember how few in the front rank shew'd, How endless appeared the tail, On the brown hill-side, where we cross'd the road, And headed towards the vale.

The dark-brown steed on the left was there, On the right was a dappled grey, And between the pair, on a chestnut mare, The duffer who writes this lay.

What business had "this child" there to ride?

But little or none at all; Yet I held my own for a while in "the pride That goeth before a fall."

Though rashness can hope for but one result, We are heedless when fate draws nigh us, And the maxim holds good, "Quem perdere vult Deus, dementat prius."

The right hand man to the left hand said, As down in the vale we went, "Harden your heart like a millstone, Ned, And set your face as flint; Solid and tall is the rasping wall That stretches before us yonder; You must have it at speed or not at all, 'Twere better to halt than to ponder, For the stream runs wide on the take-off side, And washes the clay bank under; Here goes for a pull, 'tis a madman's ride, And a broken neck if you blunder."

No word in reply his comrade spoke, Nor waver'd nor once look'd round, But I saw him shorten his horse's stroke As we splash'd through the marshy ground; I remember the laugh that all the while On his quiet features play'd:-- So he rode to his death, with that careless smile, In the van of the "Light Brigade"; So stricken by Russian grape, the cheer Rang out, while he toppled back, From the shattered lungs as merry and clear As it did when it roused the pack.

Let never a tear his memory stain, Give his ashes never a sigh, One of many who perished, NOT IN VAIN, AS A TYPE OF OUR CHIVALRY--

I remember one thrust he gave to his hat, And two to the flanks of the brown, And still as a statue of old he sat, And he shot to the front, hands down; I remember the snort and the stag-like bound Of the steed six lengths to the fore, And the laugh of the rider while, landing sound, He turned in his saddle and glanced around; I remember--but little more, Save a bird's-eye gleam of the dashing stream, A jarring thud on the wall, A shock and the blank of a nightmare's dream-- I was down with a stunning fall.

Fytte III Zu der edlen Yagd [A Treatise on Trees--Vine-tree v. Saddle-tree]

"Now, welcome, welcome, masters mine, Thrice welcome to the n.o.ble chase, Nor earthly sport, nor sport divine, Can take such honourable place."--Ballad of the Wild Huntsman.

(Free Translation.)

I remember some words my father said, When I was an urchin vain;-- G.o.d rest his soul, in his narrow bed These ten long years he hath lain.

When I think one drop of the blood he bore This faint heart surely must hold, It may be my fancy and nothing more, But the faint heart seemeth bold.

He said that as from the blood of grape, Or from juice distilled from the grain, False vigour, soon to evaporate, Is lent to nerve and brain, So the coward will dare on the gallant horse What he never would dare alone, Because he exults in a borrowed force, And a hardihood not his own.

And it may be so, yet this difference lies 'Twixt the vine and the saddle-tree, The spurious courage that drink supplies Sets our baser pa.s.sions free; But the stimulant which the horseman feels When he gallops fast and straight, To his better nature most appeals, And charity conquers hate.

As the kindly sunshine thaws the snow, E'en malice and spite will yield, We could almost welcome our mortal foe In the saddle by flood and field; And chivalry dawns in the merry tale That "Market Harborough" writes, And the yarns of "Nimrod" and "Martingale"

Seem legends of loyal knights.

Now tell me for once, old horse of mine, Grazing round me loose and free, Does your ancient equine heart repine For a burst in such companie, Where "the POWERS that be" in the front rank ride, To hold your own with the throng, Or to plunge at "Faugh-a-Ballagh's" side In the rapids of Dandenong.

Don't tread on my toes, you're no foolish weight, So I found to my cost, as under Your carcase I lay, when you rose too late, Yet I blame you not for the blunder.

What! sulky old man, your under-lip falls!

You think I, too, ready to rail am At your kinship remote to that duffer at walls, The talkative roadster of Balaam.

Fytte IV In Utrumque Paratus [A Logical Discussion]

"Then hey for boot and horse, lad!

And round the world away!

Young blood will have its course, lad!