Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 23

I lost her; then I said, "There is No fiercer pang in h.e.l.l!")

We have upheld each other's rights, Shared purse, and borrow'd blade; Have stricken side by side in fights; And side by side have prayed In churches. We were Christian knights, And she a Christian maid.

We met at sunrise, he and I, My comrade--'twas agreed The steel our quarrel first should try, The poison should succeed; For two of three were doom'd to die, And one was doom'd to bleed.

We buckled to the doubtful fray, At first with some remorse; But he who must be slain, or slay, Soon strikes with vengeful force.

He fell; I left him where he lay, Among the trampled gorse.

Did pa.s.sion warp my heart and head To madness? And, if so, Can madness palliate bloodshed?-- It may be--I shall know When G.o.d shall gather up the dead From where the four winds blow.

We met at sunset, he and I-- My second comrade true; Two cups with wine were br.i.m.m.i.n.g high, And one was drugg'd--we knew Not which, nor sought we to descry; Our choice by lot we drew.

And there I sat with him to sup; I heard him blithely speak Of by-gone days--the fatal cup Forgotten seem'd--his cheek Was ruddy: father, raise me up, My voice is waxing weak.

We drank; his lips turned livid white, His cheeks grew leaden ash; He reel'd--I heard his temples smite The threshold with a crash!

And from his hand, in shivers bright, I saw the goblet flash.

The morrow dawn'd with fragrance rare, The May breeze, from the west, Just fann'd the sleepy olives, where She heard and I confess'd; My hair entangled with her hair, Her breast strained to my breast.

On the dread verge of endless gloom My soul recalls that hour; Skies languishing with balm of bloom, And fields aflame with flower; And slow caresses that consume, And kisses that devour.

Ah! now with storm the day seems rife, My dull ears catch the roll Of thunder, and the far sea strife, On beach and bar and shoal-- I loved her better than my life, And better than my soul.

She fled! I cannot prove her guilt, Nor would I an I could; See, life for life is fairly spilt!

And blood is shed for blood; Her white hands neither touched the hilt, Nor yet the potion brew'd.

Aye! turn me from the sickly south, Towards the gusty north; The fruits of sin are dust and drouth, The end of crime is wrath-- The lips that pressed her rose-like mouth Are choked with blood-red froth.

Then dig the grave-pit deep and wide, Three graves thrown into one, And lay three corpses side by side, And tell their tale to none; But bring her back in all her pride To see what she hath done.

A Song of Autumn

"Where shall we go for our garlands glad At the falling of the year, When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad, When the boughs are yellow and sere?

Where are the old ones that once we had, And when are the new ones near?

What shall we do for our garlands glad At the falling of the year?"

"Child! can I tell where the garlands go?

Can I say where the lost leaves veer On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow, When they drift through the dead-wood drear?

Girl! when the garlands of next year glow, YOU may gather again, my dear-- But I go where the last year's lost leaves go At the falling of the year."

The Romance of Britomarte

As related by Sergeant Leigh on the night he got his captaincy at the Restoration.

I'll tell you a story; but pa.s.s the "jack", And let us make merry to-night, my men.

Aye, those were the days when my beard was black-- I like to remember them now and then-- Then Miles was living, and Cuthbert there, On his lip was never a sign of down; But I carry about some braided hair, That has not yet changed from the glossy brown That it showed the day when I broke the heart Of that bravest of destriers, "Britomarte".

Sir Hugh was slain (may his soul find grace!) In the fray that was neither lost nor won At Edgehill--then to St. Hubert's Chase Lord Goring despatched a garrison-- But men and horses were ill to spare, And ere long the soldiers were shifted fast.

As for me, I never was quartered there Till Marston Moor had been lost; at last, As luck would have it, alone, and late In the night, I rode to the northern gate.

I thought, as I pa.s.sed through the moonlit park, On the boyish days I used to spend In the halls of the knight lying stiff and stark-- Thought on his lady, my father's friend (Mine, too, in spite of my sinister bar, But with that my story has naught to do)-- She died the winter before the war-- Died giving birth to the baby Hugh.

He pa.s.s'd ere the green leaves clothed the bough, And the orphan girl was the heiress now.

When I was a rude and a reckless boy, And she a brave and a beautiful child, I was her page, her playmate, her toy-- I have crown'd her hair with the field-flowers wild, Cowslip and crow-foot and colt's-foot bright-- I have carried her miles when the woods were wet, I have read her romances of dame and knight; She was my princess, my pride, my pet, There was then this proverb us twain between, For the glory of G.o.d and of Gwendoline.

She had grown to a maiden wonderful fair, But for years I had scarcely seen her face.

Now, with troopers Holdsworth, Huntly, and Clare, Old Miles kept guard at St. Hubert's Chase, And the chatelaine was a Mistress Ruth, Sir Hugh's half-sister, an ancient dame, But a mettlesome soul had she forsooth, As she show'd when the time of her trial came.

I bore despatches to Miles and to her, To warn them against the bands of Kerr.

And mine would have been a perilous ride With the rebel hors.e.m.e.n--we knew not where They were scattered over that country side,-- If it had not been for my brave brown mare.

She was iron-sinew'd and satin-skinn'd, Ribb'd like a drum and limb'd like a deer, Fierce as the fire and fleet as the wind-- There was nothing she couldn't climb or clear-- Rich lords had vex'd me, in vain, to part, For their gold and silver, with Britomarte.

Next morn we muster'd scarce half a score, With the serving men, who were poorly arm'd-- Five soldiers, counting myself, no more, And a culverin, which might well have harm'd Us, had we used it, but not our foes, When, with horses and foot, to our doors they came, And a psalm-singer summon'd us (through his nose), And deliver'd--"This, in the people's name, Unto whoso holdeth this fortress here, Surrender! or bide the siege--John Kerr."

'Twas a mansion built in a style too new, A castle by courtesy, he lied Who called it a fortress--yet, 'tis true, It had been indifferently fortified-- We were well provided with bolt and bar-- And while I hurried to place our men, Old Miles was call'd to a council of war With Mistress Ruth and with HER, and when They had argued loudly and long, those three, They sent, as a last resource, for me.

In the chair of state sat erect Dame Ruth; She had cast aside her embroidery; She had been a beauty, they say, in her youth, There was much fierce fire in her bold black eye.

"Am I deceived in you both?" quoth she.

"If one spark of her father's spirit lives In this girl here--so, this Leigh, Ralph Leigh, Let us hear what counsel the springald gives."

Then I stammer'd, somewhat taken aback-- (Simon, you ale-swiller, pa.s.s the "jack").

The dame wax'd hotter--"Speak out, lad, say, Must we fall in that canting caitiff's power?

Shall we yield to a knave and a turncoat? Nay, I had liever leap from our topmost tower.

For a while we can surely await relief; Our walls are high and our doors are strong."

This Kerr was indeed a canting thief-- I know not rightly, some private wrong He had done Sir Hugh, but I know this much, Traitor or turncoat, he suffer'd as such.

Quoth Miles--"Enough! your will shall be done; Relief may arrive by the merest chance, But your house ere dusk will be lost and won; They have got three pieces of ordnance."

Then I cried, "Lord Guy, with four troops of horse, Even now is biding at Westbrooke town; If a rider could break through the rebel force, He would bring relief ere the sun goes down; Through the postern door could I make one dart, I could baffle them all upon Britomarte."

Miles mutter'd "Madness!" Dame Ruth look'd grave, Said, "True, though we cannot keep one hour The courtyard, no, nor the stables save, They will have to batter piecemeal the tower, And thus----" But suddenly she halted there.

With a shining hand on my shoulder laid Stood Gwendoline. She had left her chair, And, "Nay, if it needs must be done," she said, "Ralph Leigh will gladly do it, I ween, For the glory of G.o.d and of Gwendoline."

I had undertaken a heavier task For a lighter word. I saddled with care, Nor c.u.mber'd myself with corselet nor casque (Being loth to burden the brave brown mare).

Young Clare kept watch on the wall--he cried, "Now, haste, Ralph! this is the time to seize; The rebels are round us on every side, But here they straggle by twos and threes."

Then out I led her, and up I sprung, And the postern door on its hinges swung.

I had drawn this sword--you may draw it and feel, For this is the blade that I bore that day-- There's a notch even now on the long grey steel, A nick that has never been rasp'd away.

I bow'd my head and I buried my spurs, One bound brought the gliding green beneath; I could tell by her back-flung, flatten'd ears, She had fairly taken the bit in her teeth-- (What, Jack, have you drain'd your namesake dry, Left nothing to quench the thirst of a fly?)