Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 16

Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch; 'Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase Eight years ago--or was it nine?--last March.

'Twas merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming gra.s.s, To wander as we've wandered many a mile, And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pa.s.s, Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while.

'Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs, To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard, With a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs; Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard!

Aye! we had a glorious gallop after "Starlight" and his gang, When they bolted from Sylvester's on the flat; How the sun-dried reed-beds crackled, how the flint-strewn ranges rang To the strokes of "Mountaineer" and "Acrobat".

Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath, Close beside them through the tea-tree scrub we dash'd; And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath!

And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash'd!

We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the grey, And the troopers were three hundred yards behind, While we emptied our six-shooters on the bushrangers at bay, In the creek with stunted box-tree for a blind!

There you grappled with the leader, man to man and horse to horse, And you roll'd together when the chestnut rear'd; He blazed away and missed you in that shallow watercourse-- A narrow shave--his powder singed your beard!

In these hours when life is ebbing, how those days when life was young Come back to us; how clearly I recall Even the yarns Jack Hall invented, and the songs Jem Roper sung; And where are now Jem Roper and Jack Hall?

Aye! nearly all our comrades of the old colonial school, Our ancient boon companions, Ned, are gone; Hard livers for the most part, somewhat reckless as a rule, It seems that you and I are left alone.

There was Hughes, who got in trouble through that business with the cards, It matters little what became of him; But a steer ripp'd up MacPherson in the Cooraminta yards, And Sullivan was drown'd at Sink-or-swim; And Mostyn--poor Frank Mostyn--died at last a fearful wreck, In "the horrors", at the Upper Wandinong, And Carisbrooke, the rider, at the Horsefall broke his neck, Faith! the wonder was he saved his neck so long!

Ah! those days and nights we squandered at the Logans' in the glen-- The Logans, man and wife, have long been dead.

Elsie's tallest girl seems taller than your little Elsie then; And Ethel is a woman grown and wed.

I've had my share of pastime, and I've done my share of toil, And life is short--the longest life a span; I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil, Or for the wine that maketh glad the heart of man.

For good undone and gifts misspent and resolutions vain, 'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know-- I should live the same life over, if I had to live again; And the chances are I go where most men go.

The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim, The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall; And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim, And on the very sun's face weave their pall.

Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave, With never stone or rail to fence my bed; Should the st.u.r.dy station children pull the bush flowers on my grave, I may chance to hear them romping overhead.

The Swimmer

With short, sharp, violent lights made vivid, To southward far as the sight can roam, Only the swirl of the surges livid, The seas that climb and the surfs that comb.

Only the crag and the cliff to nor'ward, And the rocks receding, and reefs flung forward, And waifs wreck'd seaward and wasted sh.o.r.eward On shallows sheeted with flaming foam.

A grim, grey coast and a seaboard ghastly, And sh.o.r.es trod seldom by feet of men-- Where the batter'd hull and the broken mast lie, They have lain embedded these long years ten.

Love! when we wander'd here together, Hand in hand through the sparkling weather, From the heights and hollows of fern and heather, G.o.d surely loved us a little then.

The skies were fairer and sh.o.r.es were firmer-- The blue sea over the bright sand roll'd; Babble and prattle, and ripple and murmur, Sheen of silver and glamour of gold-- And the sunset bath'd in the gulf to lend her A garland of pinks and of purples tender, A tinge of the sun-G.o.d's rosy splendour, A t.i.the of his glories manifold.

Man's works are graven, cunning, and skilful On earth, where his tabernacles are; But the sea is wanton, the sea is wilful, And who shall mend her and who shall mar?

Shall we carve success or record disaster On the bosom of her heaving alabaster?

Will her purple pulse beat fainter or faster For fallen sparrow or fallen star?

I would that with sleepy, soft embraces The sea would fold me--would find me rest, In luminous shades of her secret places, In depths where her marvels are manifest; So the earth beneath her should not discover My hidden couch--nor the heaven above her-- As a strong love s.h.i.+elding a weary lover, I would have her s.h.i.+eld me with s.h.i.+ning breast.

When light in the realms of s.p.a.ce lay hidden, When life was yet in the womb of time, Ere flesh was fettered to fruits forbidden, And souls were wedded to care and crime, Was the course foreshaped for the future spirit-- A burden of folly, a void of merit-- That would fain the wisdom of stars inherit, And cannot fathom the seas sublime?

Under the sea or the soil (what matter?

The sea and the soil are under the sun), As in the former days in the latter, The sleeping or waking is known of none.

Surely the sleeper shall not awaken To griefs forgotten or joys forsaken, For the price of all things given and taken, The sum of all things done and undone.

Shall we count offences or coin excuses, Or weigh with scales the soul of a man, Whom a strong hand binds and a sure hand looses, Whose light is a spark and his life a span?

The seed he sow'd or the soil he c.u.mber'd, The time he served or the s.p.a.ce he slumber'd, Will it profit a man when his days are number'd, Or his deeds since the days of his life began?

One, glad because of the light, saith, "Shall not The righteous Judge of all the earth do right, For behold the sparrows on the house-tops fall not Save as seemeth to Him good in His sight?"

And this man's joy shall have no abiding, Through lights departing and lives dividing, He is soon as one in the darkness hiding, One loving darkness rather than light.

A little season of love and laughter, Of light and life, and pleasure and pain, And a horror of outer darkness after, And dust returneth to dust again.

Then the lesser life shall be as the greater, And the lover of life shall join the hater, And the one thing cometh sooner or later, And no one knoweth the loss or gain.

Love of my life! we had lights in season-- Hard to part from, harder to keep-- We had strength to labour and souls to reason, And seed to scatter and fruits to reap.

Though time estranges and fate disperses, We have HAD our loves and our loving mercies; Though the gifts of the light in the end are curses, Yet bides the gift of the darkness--sleep!

See! girt with tempest and wing'd with thunder, And clad with lightning and shod with sleet, The strong winds treading the swift waves sunder The flying rollers with frothy feet.

One gleam like a bloodshot sword-blade swims on The sky-line, staining the green gulf crimson, A death stroke fiercely dealt by a dim sun, That strikes through his stormy winding-sheet.

Oh! brave white horses! you gather and gallop, The storm sprite loosens the gusty reins; Now the stoutest s.h.i.+p were the frailest shallop In your hollow backs, or your high arch'd manes.

I would ride as never a man has ridden In your sleepy, swirling surges hidden, To gulfs foreshadow'd through straits forbidden, Where no light wearies and no love wanes.

From the Wreck

"Turn out, boys!"--"What's up with our super. to-night?

The man's mad--Two hours to daybreak I'd swear-- Stark mad--why, there isn't a glimmer of light."

"Take Bolingbroke, Alec, give Jack the young mare; Look sharp. A large vessel lies jamm'd on the reef, And many on board still, and some wash'd on sh.o.r.e.

Ride straight with the news--they may send some relief From the towns.h.i.+p; and we--we can do little more.

You, Alec, you know the near cuts; you can cross 'The Sugarloaf' ford with a scramble, I think; Don't spare the blood filly, nor yet the black horse; Should the wind rise, G.o.d help them! the s.h.i.+p will soon sink.

Old Peter's away down the paddock, to drive The nags to the stockyard as fast as he can-- A life and death matter; so, lads, look alive."

Half-dress'd, in the dark, to the stockyard we ran.

There was bridling with hurry, and saddling with haste, Confusion and cursing for lack of a moon; "Be quick with these buckles, we've no time to waste;"

"Mind the mare, she can use her hind legs to some tune."

"Make sure of the crossing-place; strike the old track, They've fenced off the new one; look out for the holes On the wombat hills." "Down with the slip rails; stand back."

"And ride, boys, the pair of you, ride for your souls."

In the low branches heavily laden with dew, In the long gra.s.ses spoiling with deadwood that day, Where the blackwood, the box, and the b.a.s.t.a.r.d oak grew, Between the tall gum-trees we gallop'd away-- We crash'd through a brush fence, we splash'd through a swamp-- We steered for the north near "The Eaglehawk's Nest"-- We bore to the left, just beyond "The Red Camp", And round the black tea-tree belt wheel'd to the west-- We cross'd a low range sickly scented with musk From wattle-tree blossom--we skirted a marsh-- Then the dawn faintly dappled with orange the dusk, And peal'd overhead the jay's laughter note harsh, And shot the first sunstreak behind us, and soon The dim dewy uplands were dreamy with light; And full on our left flash'd "The Reedy Lagoon", And sharply "The Sugarloaf" rear'd on our right.

A smothered curse broke through the bushman's brown beard, He turn'd in his saddle, his brick-colour'd cheek Flush'd feebly with sundawn, said, "Just what I fear'd; Last fortnight's late rainfall has flooded the creek."

Black Bolingbroke snorted, and stood on the brink One instant, then deep in the dark sluggish swirl Plunged headlong. I saw the horse suddenly sink, Till round the man's armpits the waves seemed to curl.

We follow'd,--one cold shock, and deeper we sank Than they did, and twice tried the landing in vain; The third struggle won it; straight up the steep bank We stagger'd, then out on the skirts of the plain.

The stockrider, Alec, at starting had got The lead, and had kept it throughout; 'twas his boast That through thickest of scrub he could steer like a shot, And the black horse was counted the best on the coast.

The mare had been awkward enough in the dark, She was eager and headstrong, and barely half broke; She had had me too close to a big stringy-bark, And had made a near thing of a crooked sheoak; But now on the open, lit up by the morn, She flung the white foam-flakes from nostril to neck, And chased him--I hatless, with s.h.i.+rt sleeves all torn (For he may ride ragged who rides from a wreck)-- And faster and faster across the wide heath We rode till we raced. Then I gave her her head, And she--stretching out with the bit in her teeth-- She caught him, outpaced him, and pa.s.sed him, and led.