Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 15

I saw those strong fingers hard over each eye press-- Oh! the dead rest in peace when the quick toil in strife!

Scoff, man! egotistical, proud, un.o.bservant, Since I with man's grief dare to sympathise thus; Why scoff?--fellow-creature I am, fellow-servant Of G.o.d, can man fathom G.o.d's dealings with us?

The wide gulf that parts us may yet be no wider Than that which parts you from some being more blest; And there may be more links 'twixt the horse and his rider Than ever your shallow philosophy guess'd.

You are proud of your power, and vain of your courage, And your blood, Anglo-Saxon, or Norman, or Celt; Though your gifts you extol, and our gifts you disparage, Your perils, your pleasures, your sorrows we've felt.

We, too, sprung from mares of the prophet of Mecca, And nursed on the pride that was born with the milk, And filtered through "Crucifix", "Beeswing", "Rebecca", We love sheen of scarlet and s.h.i.+mmer of silk.

We, too, sprung from loins of the Ishmaelite stallions, We glory in daring that dies or prevails; From 'counter of squadrons, and crash of battalions, To rending of blackthorns, and rattle of rails.

In all strife where courage is tested, and power, From the meet on the hill-side, the horn-blast, the find, The burst, the long gallop that seems to devour The champaign, all obstacles flinging behind,

To the cheer and the clarion, the war-music blended With war-cry, the furious dash at the foe, The terrible shock, the recoil, and the splendid Bare sword, flas.h.i.+ng blue, rising red from the blow.

I've borne ONE through perils where many have seen us, No tyrant, a kind friend, a patient instructor, And I've felt some strange element flas.h.i.+ng between us, Till the saddle seem'd turn'd to a lightning conductor.

Did he see? could he feel through the faintness, the numbness, While linger'd the spirit half-loosed from the clay, Dumb eyes seeking his in their piteous dumbness, Dumb quivering nostrils, too stricken to neigh?

And what then? the colours reversed, the drums m.u.f.fled, The black nodding plumes, the dead march and the pall, The stern faces, soldier-like, silent, unruffled, The slow sacred music that floats over all!

Cross carbine and boar-spear, hang bugle and banner, Spur, sabre, and snaffle, and helm--Is it well?

Vain 'scutcheon, false trophies of Mars and Diana,-- Can the dead laurel sprout with the live immortelle?

It may be,--we follow, and though we inherit Our strength for a season, our pride for a span, Say! vanity are they? vexation of spirit?

Not so, since they serve for a time horse and man.

They serve for a time, and they make life worth living, In spite of life's troubles--'tis vain to despond; Oh, man! WE at least, WE enjoy, with thanksgiving, G.o.d's gifts on this earth, though we look not beyond.

YOU sin, and YOU suffer, and we, too, find sorrow, Perchance through YOUR sin--yet it soon will be o'er; We labour to-day, and we slumber to-morrow, Strong horse and bold rider!--and WHO KNOWETH MORE?

In our barrack-square shouted Drill-sergeant M'Cluskie, The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran, The colonel wheel'd short, speaking once, dry and husky, "Would to G.o.d I had died with your master, old man!"

[End of Sea Spray and Smoke Drift.]

BUSH BALLADS & GALLOPING RHYMES

A Dedication

to the Author of "Holmby House"

They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less Of sound than of words, In lands where bright blossoms are scentless, And songless bright birds; Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses, Insatiable Summer oppresses Sere woodlands and sad wildernesses, And faint flocks and herds.

Where in dreariest days, when all dews end, And all winds are warm, Wild Winter's large flood-gates are loosen'd, And floods, freed by storm, From broken up fountain heads, dash on Dry deserts with long pent up pa.s.sion-- Here rhyme was first framed without fas.h.i.+on, Song shaped without form.

Whence gather'd?--The locust's glad chirrup May furnish a stave; The ring of a rowel and stirrup, The wash of a wave.

The chaunt of the marsh frog in rushes, That chimes through the pauses and hushes Of nightfall, the torrent that gushes, The tempests that rave.

In the deep'ning of dawn, when it dapples The dusk of the sky, With streaks like the redd'ning of apples, The ripening of rye.

To eastward, when cl.u.s.ter by cl.u.s.ter, Dim stars and dull planets that muster, Wax wan in a world of white l.u.s.tre That spreads far and high.

In the gathering of night gloom o'erhead, in The still silent change, All fire-flushed when forest trees redden On slopes of the range.

When the gnarl'd, knotted trunks Eucalyptian Seem carved, like weird columns Egyptian, With curious device--quaint inscription, And hieroglyph strange.

In the Spring, when the wattle gold trembles 'Twixt shadow and s.h.i.+ne, When each dew-laden air draught resembles A long draught of wine; When the sky-line's blue burnish'd resistance Makes deeper the dreamiest distance, Some song in all hearts hath existence,-- Such songs have been mine.

They came in all guises, some vivid To clasp and to keep; Some sudden and swift as the livid Blue thunder-flame's leap.

This swept through the first breath of clover With memories renew'd to the rover-- That flash'd while the black horse turn'd over Before the long sleep.

To you (having cunning to colour A page with your pen, That through dull days, and nights even duller, Long years ago ten, Fair pictures in fever afforded)-- I send these rude staves, roughly worded By one in whose brain stands recorded As clear now as then,

"The great rush of grey 'Northern water', The green ridge of bank, The 'sorrel' with curved sweep of quarter Curl'd close to clean flank, The Royalist saddlefast squarely, And where the bright uplands stretch fairly, Behind, beyond pistol-shot barely, The Roundheaded rank.

"A long launch, with clinging of muscles, And clenching of teeth!

The loose doublet ripples and rustles!

The swirl shoots beneath!"

Enough. In return for your garland-- In lieu of the flowers from your far land-- Take wild growth of dreamland or starland, Take weeds for your wreath.

Yet rhyme had not fail'd me for reason, Nor reason for rhyme, Sweet Song! had I sought you in season, And found you in time.

You beckon in your bright beauty yonder, And I, waxing fainter, yet fonder, Now weary too soon when I wander-- Now fall when I climb.

It matters but little in the long run, The weak have some right-- Some share in the race that the strong run, The fight the strong fight.

If words that are worthless go westward, Yet the worst word shall be as the best word, In the day when all riot sweeps restward, In darkness or light.

The Sick Stockrider

Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade.

Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I sway'd, All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride.

The dawn at "Moorabinda" was a mist rack dull and dense, The sunrise was a sullen, sluggish lamp; I was dozing in the gateway at Arbuthnot's bound'ry fence, I was dreaming on the Limestone cattle camp.

We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze, And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth; To southward lay "Katawa", with the sandpeaks all ablaze, And the flush'd fields of Glen Lomond lay to north.

Now westward winds the bridle path that leads to Lindisfarm, And yonder looms the double-headed Bluff; From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm, You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough.