Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 30

Oh, earth! pleasant earth! have we hanker'd To gather thy flowers and thy fruits?

The roses are wither'd, and canker'd The lilies, and barren the roots Of the fig-tree, the vine, the wild olive, Sharp thorns and sad thistles that yield Fierce harvest--so WE live, and SO live The perishing beasts of the field.

And withal we are conscious of evil And good--of the spirit and the clod, Of the power in our hearts of a devil, Of the power in our souls of a G.o.d, Whose commandments are graven in no cypher, But clear as His sun--from our youth One at least we have cherished--"An eye for An eye, and a tooth for a tooth."

Oh, man! of thy Maker the image; To pa.s.sion, to pride, or to wealth, Sworn bondsman, from dull youth to dim age, Thy portion the fire or the filth, Dross seeking, dead pleasure's death rattle Thy memories' happiest song, And thy highest hope--scarce a drawn battle With dark desperation. How long?

Roar louder! leap higher! ye surf-beds, And sprinkle your foam on the furze; Bring the dreams that brought sleep to our turf-beds, To camps of our long ago years, With the flashing and sparkling of broadswords, With the tossing of banners and spears, With the trampling of hard hoofs on hard swards, With the mingling of trumpets and cheers.

The gale has gone down; yet outlasting The gale, raging waves of the sea, Casting up their own foam, ever casting Their leprosy up with wild glee, Still storm; so in rashness and rudeness Man storms through the days of his grace; Yet man cannot fathom G.o.d's goodness, Exceeding G.o.d's infinite s.p.a.ce.

And coldly and calmly and purely Grey rock and green hillock lie white In star-shine dream-laden--so surely Night cometh--so cometh the night When we, too, at peace with our neighbour, May sleep where G.o.d's hillocks are piled, Thanking HIM for a rest from day's labour, And a sleep like the sleep of a child!

SCENE--The Castle in Normandy.

THORA working at embroidery, ELSPETH spinning.

Thora (sings): 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 moistening 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.

Elspeth: Thine eldest sister is wedded to Max; With Biorn, Hilda hath cast her lot.

If the husbands vanish'd, and left no tracks, Would the wives have cause for sorrow, I wot?

Thora: How well I remember that dreary ride; How I sigh'd for the lands of ice and snow, In the trackless wastes of the desert wide, With the sun o'erhead and the sand below; 'Neath the scanty shades of the feathery palms, How I sigh'd for the forest of sheltering firs, Whose shadows environ'd the Danish farms, Where I sang and sported in childish years.

On the fourteenth day of our pilgrimage We stayed at the foot of a sandhill high; Our fever'd thirst we could scarce a.s.suage At the brackish well that was nearly dry,

And the hot sun rose, and the hot sun set, And we rode all the day through a desert land, And we camp'd where the lake and the river met, On sedge and shingle and shining sand: Enfolded in Hugo's cloak I slept, Or watch'd the stars while I lay awake; And close to our feet the staghound crept, And the horses were grazing beside the lake; Now we own castles and serving men, Lands and revenues. What of that?

Hugo the Norman was kinder then, And happier was Thora of Armorat.

Elspeth: Nay, I warn'd thee, with Norman sails unfurl'd Above our heads, when we wished thee joy, That men are the same all over the world, They will worship only the newest toy; Yet Hugo is kind and constant too, Though somewhat given to studies of late; Biorn is sottish, and Max untrue, And worse than thine is thy sisters' fate.

But a shadow darkens the chamber door.

Enter THURSTON.

Thurston: 'Tis I, Lady Thora; our lord is near.

My horse being fresher, I rode before; Both he and Eric will soon be here.

Thora: Good Thurston, give me your hand. You are Most welcome. What has delayed you thus?

Thurston: Both by sea and land we have travell'd far, Yet little of note has happened to us-- We were wreck'd on the sh.o.r.es of Brittany, Near the coast of Morbihan iron-bound; The rocks were steep and the surf ran high, Thy kinsman, Eric, was well-nigh drown'd.

By a swarm of knaves we were next beset, Who took us for corsairs; then released By a Breton count, whose name I forget.

Now I go, by your leave, to tend my beast.

[He goes out.]

Elspeth: That man is rude and froward of speech: My ears are good, though my sight grows dim.

Thora: Thurston is faithful. Thou canst not teach Courtly nor servile manners to him.

SCENE--The Castle Hall.

THURSTON, RALPH, EUSTACE, and other followers of HUGO, seated at a long table. HAROLD seated apart.

Thurston: Who is that stranger, dark and tall, On the wooden settle next to the wall-- Mountebank, pilgrim, or wandering bard?

Eustace: To define his calling is somewhat hard; Lady Thora has taken him by the hand Because he has come from the Holy Land.

Pilgrims and palmers are all the rage With her, since she shared in that pilgrimage With Hugo. The stranger came yesterday, And would have gone on, but she bade him stay.

Besides, he sings in the Danish tongue The songs she has heard in her childhood sung.

That's all I know of him, good or bad; In my own opinion he's somewhat mad.

You must raise your voice if you speak with him, And he answers as though his senses were dim.

Thurston (to Harold): Good-morrow, sir stranger.

Harold: Good-morrow, friend.

Thurston: Where do you come from? and whither wend?

Harold: I have travelled of late with the setting sun At my back; and as soon as my task is done I purpose to turn my face to the north-- Yet we know not what a day may bring forth.

Thurston: Indeed we don't.

(To Eustace, aside): Nay, I know him now By that ugly scar that crosses his brow; And the less we say to him the better.

Your judgment is right to the very letter-- The man is mad.

Eustace: But harmless, I think; He eats but little, eschews strong drink, And only speaks when spoken to first.

Thurston: Harmless or not, he was once the worst And bitterest foe Lord Hugo had; And yet his story is somewhat sad.

Eustace: May I hear it?

Thurston: Nay, I never reveal What concerns me not. Our lord may conceal Or divulge at pleasure his own affairs,-- Not even his comrade Eric shares His secrets; though Eric thinks him wise, Which is more than I do, for I despise That foolish science he learnt in Rome.

He dreams and mopes when he sits at home, And now he's not much better abroad; 'Tis hard to follow so tame a lord.

'Twixt us two, he won't be worth a rush If he will persist in his studies----