Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 22

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 G.o.d 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 ma.s.ses 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 l.u.s.tre 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 cl.u.s.ter.

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 sh.o.r.e 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-- G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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.

Aye, father! hast thou come at last?

'Tis somewhat late to pray; Life's crimson tides are ebbing fast, They drain my soul away; Mine eyes with film are overcast, The lights are waning grey.

This curl from her bright head I sh.o.r.e, And this her hands gave mine; See, one is stained with purple gore, And one with poison'd wine; Give these to her when all is o'er-- How serpent-like they twine!

We three were brethren in arms, And sworn companions we; We held this motto, "Whoso harms The one shall harm the three!"

Till, matchless for her subtle charms, Beloved of each was she.

(These two were slain that I might kiss Her sweet mouth. I did well; I said, "There is no greater bliss For those in heaven that dwell;"