Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 20

Brian and Basil are "punting", leave them their dice and their wine, Bertha is b.u.t.terfly hunting, surely one hour shall be mine.

See, I have done with all duty; see, I can dare all disgrace, Only to look at your beauty, feasting my eyes on your face.

She: Look at me, aye, till your eyes ache! How, let me ask, will it end?

Neither for your sake, nor my sake, but for the sake of my friend?

He: Is she your friend then? I own it, this is all wrong, and the rest, Frustra sed anima monet, caro quod fortius est.

She: Not quite so close, Laurence Raby, not with your arm round my waist; Something to look at I may be, nothing to touch or to taste.

He: Wilful as ever and wayward; why did you tempt me, Estelle?

She: You misinterpret each stray word, you for each inch take an ell.

Lightly all laws and ties trammel me, I am warn'd for all that.

He (aside): Perhaps she will swallow her camel when she has strained at her gnat.

She: Therefore take thought and consider, weigh well, as I do, the whole, You for mere beauty a bidder, say, would you barter a soul?

He: Girl! THAT MAY happen, but THIS IS; after this welcome the worst; Blest for one hour by your kisses, let me be evermore curs'd.

Talk not of ties to me reckless, here every tie I discard-- Make me your girdle, your necklace--

She: Laurence, you kiss me too hard.

He: Aye, 'tis the road to Avernus, n'est ce pas vrai donc, ma belle?

There let them bind us or burn us, mais le jeu vaut la chandelle.

Am I your lord or your va.s.sal? Are you my sun or my torch?

You, when I look at you, dazzle, yet when I touch you, you scorch.

She: Yonder are Brian and Basil watching us fools from the porch.

Scene X "After the Quarrel"

Laurence Raby's Chamber. LAURENCE enters, a little the worse for liquor.

Laurence: He never gave me a chance to speak, And he call'd her--worse than a dog-- The girl stood up with a crimson cheek, And I fell'd him there like a log.

I can feel the blow on my knuckles yet-- He feels it more on his brow.

In a thousand years we shall all forget The things that trouble us now.

Scene XI "Ten Paces Off"

An open country. LAURENCE RABY and FORREST, BRIAN AYLMER and PRESCOT.

Forrest: I've won the two tosses from Prescot; Now hear me, and hearken and heed, And pull that vile flower from your waistcoat, And throw down that beast of a weed; I'm going to give you the signal I gave Harry Hunt at Boulogne, The morning he met Major Bignell, And shot him as dead as a stone; For he must look round on his right hand To watch the white flutter--that stops His aim, for it takes off his sight, and I COUGH WHILE THE HANDKERCHIEF DROPS.

And you keep both eyes on his figure, Old fellow, and don't take them off.

You've got the sawhandled hair trigger-- You sight him and shoot when I cough.

Laurence (aside): Though G.o.d will never forgive me, Though men make light of my name, Though my sin and my shame outlive me, I shall not outlast my shame.

The coward, does he mean to miss me?

His right hand shakes like a leaf; Shall I live for my friends to hiss me, Of fools and of knaves the chief?

Shall I live for my foes to twit me?

He has master'd his nerve again-- He is firm, he will surely hit me-- Will he reach the heart or the brain?

One long look eastward and northward-- One prayer--"Our Father which art"-- And the cough chimes in with the fourth word, And I shoot skyward--the heart.

Last Scene "Exeunt"

HELEN RABY.

Where the grave-deeps rot, where the grave-dews rust, They dug, crying, "Earth to earth"-- Crying, "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust"-- And what are my poor prayers worth?

Upon whom shall I call, or in whom shall I trust, Though death were indeed new birth.

And they bid me be glad for my baby's sake That she suffered sinless and young-- Would they have me be glad when my b.r.e.a.s.t.s still ache Where that small, soft, sweet mouth clung?

I am glad that the heart will so surely break That has been so bitterly wrung.

He was false, they tell me, and what if he were?

I can only shudder and pray, Pouring out my soul in a pa.s.sionate prayer For the soul that he cast away; Was there nothing that once was created fair In the potter's peris.h.i.+ng clay?

Is it well for the sinner that souls endure?

For the sinless soul is it well?

Does the pure child lisp to the angels pure?

And where does the strong man dwell, If the sad a.s.surance of priests be sure, Or the tale that our preachers tell?

The unclean has follow'd the undefiled, And the ill MAY regain the good, And the man MAY be even as the little child!

We are children lost in the wood-- Lord! lead us out of this tangled wild, Where the wise and the prudent have been beguil'd, And only the babes have stood.

Doubtful Dreams

Aye, snows are rife in December, And sheaves are in August yet, And you would have me remember, And I would rather forget; In the bloom of the May-day weather, In the blight of October chill, We were dreamers of old together,-- As of old, are you dreaming still?