Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 8

For the bride sitting sad, and single, and pale, by the flickering fire?

For your ravenous pools of suction? for your shattering billow swell?

For your ceaseless work of destruction? for your hunger insatiable?

Not far from this very place, on the sand and the s.h.i.+ngle dry, He lay, with his batter'd face upturned to the frowning sky.

When your waters wash'd and swill'd high over his drowning head, When his nostrils and lungs were filled, when his feet and hands were as lead, When against the rock he was hurl'd, and suck'd again to the sea, On the sh.o.r.es of another world, on the brink of eternity, On the verge of annihilation, did it come to that swimmer strong, The sudden interpretation of your mystical, weird-like song?

"Mortal! that which thou askest, ask not thou of the waves; Fool! thou foolishly taskest us--we are only slaves; Might, more mighty, impels us--we must our lot fulfil, He who gathers and swells us curbs us, too, at His will.

Think'st thou the wave that shatters questioneth His decree?

Little to us it matters, and naught it matters to thee.

Not thus, murmuring idly, we from our duty would swerve, Over the world spread widely ever we labour and serve."

Whisperings in Wattle-Boughs

Oh, gaily sings the bird! and the wattle-boughs are stirr'd And rustled by the scented breath of spring; Oh, the dreary wistful longing! Oh, the faces that are thronging!

Oh, the voices that are vaguely whispering!

Oh, tell me, father mine, ere the good s.h.i.+p cross'd the brine, On the gangway one mute hand-grip we exchang'd; Do you, past the grave, employ, for your stubborn, reckless boy, Those pet.i.tions that in life were ne'er estranged?

Oh, tell me, sister dear, parting word and parting tear Never pa.s.s'd between us;--let me bear the blame, Are you living, girl, or dead? bitter tears since then I've shed For the lips that lisp'd with mine a mother's name.

Oh, tell me, ancient friend, ever ready to defend, In our boyhood, at the base of life's long hill, Are you waking yet or sleeping? have you left this vale of weeping?

Or do you, like your comrade, linger still?

Oh, whisper, buried love, is there rest and peace above?-- There is little hope or comfort here below; On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed is straight and cold-- Near the harbour where the sea-tides ebb and flow.

All silent--they are dumb--and the breezes go and come With an apathy that mocks at man's distress; Laugh, scoffer, while you may! I could bow me down and pray For an answer that might stay my bitterness.

Oh, harshly screams the bird! and the wattle-bloom is stirr'd; There's a sullen, weird-like whisper in the bough: "Aye, kneel, and pray, and weep, but HIS BELOVED SLEEP CAN NEVER BE DISTURB'D BY SUCH AS THOU!!"

Confiteor

The sh.o.r.e-boat lies in the morning light, By the good s.h.i.+p ready for sailing; The skies are clear, and the dawn is bright, Tho' the bar of the bay is fleck'd with white, And the wind is fitfully wailing; Near the tiller stands the priest, and the knight Leans over the quarter-railing.

"There is time while the vessel tarries still, There is time while her shrouds are slack, There is time ere her sails to the west wind fill, Ere her tall masts vanish from town and from hill, Ere cleaves to her keel the track: There is time for confession to those who will, To those who may never come back."

"Sir priest, you can shrive these men of mine, And, I pray you, shrive them fast, And shrive those hardy sons of the brine, Captain and mates of the EGLANTINE, And sailors before the mast; Then pledge me a cup of the Cyprus wine, For I fain would bury the past."

"And hast thou naught to repent, my son?

Dost thou scorn confession and shrift?

Ere thy sands from the gla.s.s of time shall run Is there naught undone that thou should'st have done, Naught done that thou should'st have left?

The guiltiest soul may from guilt be won, And the stoniest heart may be cleft."

"Have my ears been closed to the prayer of the poor, Or deaf to the cry of distress?

Have I given little, and taken more?

Have I brought a curse to the widow's door?

Have I wrong'd the fatherless?

Have I steep'd my fingers in guiltless gore, That I must perforce confess?"

"Have thy steps been guided by purity Through the paths with wickedness rife?

Hast thou never smitten thine enemy?

Hast thou yielded naught to the l.u.s.t of the eye, And naught to the pride of life?

Hast thou pa.s.s'd all snares of pleasure by?

Hast thou shunn'd all wrath and strife?"

"Nay, certes! a sinful life I've led, Yet I've suffered, and lived in hope; I may suffer still, but my hope has fled,-- I've nothing now to hope or to dread, And with fate I can fairly cope; Were the waters closing over my head, I should scarcely catch at a rope."

"Dost suffer? thy pain may be fraught with grace, Since never by works alone We are saved;--the penitent thief may trace The wealth of love in the Saviour's face To the Pharisee rarely shown; And the Magdalene's arms may yet embrace The foot of the jasper throne."

"Sir priest, a heavier doom I dree, For I feel no quickening pain, But a dull, dumb weight when I bow my knee, And (not with the words of the Pharisee) My hard eyes heavenward strain, Where my dead darling prayeth for me!

Now, I wot, she prayeth in vain!

"Still I hear it over the battle's din, And over the festive cheer,-- So she pray'd with clasp'd hands, white and thin,-- The prayer of a soul absolved from sin, For a soul that is dark and drear, For the light of repentance bursting in, And the flood of the blinding tear.

"Say, priest! when the saint must vainly plead, Oh! how shall the sinner fare?

I hold your comfort a broken reed; Let the wither'd branch for itself take heed, While the green shoots wait your care; I've striven, though feebly, to grasp your creed, And I've grappled my own despair."

"By the little within thee, good and brave, Not wholly shattered, though shaken; By the soul that crieth beyond the grave, The love that He once in His mercy gave, In His mercy since retaken, I conjure thee, oh! sinner, pardon crave, I implore thee, oh! sleeper, waken!"

"Go to! shall I lay my black soul bare To a vain, self-righteous man?

In my sin, in my sorrow, you may not share, And yet could I meet with one who must bear The load of an equal ban, With him I might strive to blend one prayer, The wail of the Publican."

"My son, I, too, am a withered bough, My place is to others given; Thou hast sinn'd, thou sayest; I ask not how, For I, too, have sinn'd, even as thou, And I, too, have feebly striven, And with thee I must bow, crying, 'Shrive us now!

Our Father which art in heaven!'"

Sunlight on the Sea

[The Philosophy of a Feast]

Make merry, comrades, eat and drink (The sunlight flickers on the sea), The garlands gleam, the gla.s.ses clink, The grape juice mantles fair and free, The lamps are trimm'd, although the light Of day still lingers on the sky; We sit between the day and night, And push the wine flask merrily.

I see you feasting round me still, All gay of heart and strong of limb; Make merry, friends, your gla.s.ses fill, The lights are growing dim.

I miss the voice of one I've heard (The sunlight sinks upon the sea), He sang as blythe as any bird, And shook the rafters with his glee; But times have changed with him, I wot, By fickle fortune cross'd and flung; Far stouter heart than mine he's got If now he sings as then he sung.