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@@ -0,0 +1,11446 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Adam Lindsay Gordon + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems + +Author: Adam Lindsay Gordon + +Release Date: June 29, 2008 [EBook #258] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light and Linda Bowser + + + + + +POEMS + +By Adam Lindsay Gordon + +[British-born Australian Steeple-Chase Rider and Poet--1833-1870.] + + +1893 Edition + + + Sea Spray and Smoke Drift + Bush Ballads & Galloping Rhymes + Miscellaneous Poems + Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric + + + + +IN MEMORIAM. +(A. L. Gordon.) + + + + At rest! Hard by the margin of that sea + Whose sounds are mingled with his noble verse, + Now lies the shell that never more will house + The fine, strong spirit of my gifted friend. + Yea, he who flashed upon us suddenly, + A shining soul with syllables of fire, + Who sang the first great songs these lands can claim + To be their own; the one who did not seem + To know what royal place awaited him + Within the Temple of the Beautiful, + Has passed away; and we who knew him, sit + Aghast in darkness, dumb with that great grief, + Whose stature yet we cannot comprehend; + While over yonder churchyard, hearsed with pines, + The night-wind sings its immemorial hymn, + And sobs above a newly-covered grave. + + The bard, the scholar, and the man who lived + That frank, that open-hearted life which keeps + The splendid fire of English chivalry + From dying out; the one who never wronged + A fellow-man; the faithful friend who judged + The many, anxious to be loved of him, + By what he saw, and not by what he heard, + As lesser spirits do; the brave great soul + That never told a lie, or turned aside + To fly from danger; he, I say, was one + Of that bright company this sin-stained world + Can ill afford to lose. + + They did not know, + The hundreds who had read his sturdy verse, + And revelled over ringing major notes, + The mournful meaning of the undersong + Which runs through all he wrote, and often takes + The deep autumnal, half-prophetic tone + Of forest winds in March; nor did they think + That on that healthy-hearted man there lay + The wild specific curse which seems to cling + For ever to the Poet's twofold life! + + To Adam Lindsay Gordon, I who laid + Two years ago on Lionel Michael's grave + A tender leaf of my regard; yea I, + Who culled a garland from the flowers of song + To place where Harpur sleeps; I, left alone, + The sad disciple of a shining band + Now gone! to Adam Lindsay Gordon's name + I dedicate these lines; and if 'tis true + That, past the darkness of the grave, the soul + Becomes omniscient, then the bard may stoop + From his high seat to take the offering, + And read it with a sigh for human friends, + In human bonds, and gray with human griefs. + + And having wove and proffered this poor wreath, + I stand to-day as lone as he who saw + At nightfall through the glimmering moony mists, + The last of Arthur on the wailing mere, + And strained in vain to hear the going voice. + + Henry Kendall. + + + + +PREFACE. + +The poems of Gordon have an interest beyond the mere personal one which +his friends attach to his name. Written, as they were, at odd times and +leisure moments of a stirring and adventurous life, it is not to be +wondered at if they are unequal or unfinished. The astonishment of those +who knew the man, and can gauge the capacity of this city to foster +poetic instinct, is that such work was ever produced here at all. +Intensely nervous, and feeling much of that shame at the exercise of the +higher intelligence which besets those who are known to be renowned in +field sports, Gordon produced his poems shyly, scribbled them on scraps +of paper, and sent them anonymously to magazines. It was not until he +discovered one morning that everybody knew a couplet or two of "How we +Beat the Favourite" that he consented to forego his anonymity and appear +in the unsuspected character of a versemaker. The success of his +republished "collected" poems gave him courage, and the unreserved +praise which greeted "Bush Ballads" should have urged him to forget or +to conquer those evil promptings which, unhappily, brought about his +untimely death. + +Adam Lindsay Gordon was the son of an officer in the English army, and +was educated at Woolwich, in order that he might follow the profession +of his family. At the time when he was a cadet there was no sign of +either of the two great wars which were about to call forth the strength +of English arms, and, like many other men of his day, he quitted his +prospects of service and emigrated. He went to South Australia and +started as a sheep farmer. His efforts were attended with failure. He +lost his capital, and, owning nothing but a love for horsemanship and a +head full of Browning and Shelley, plunged into the varied life which +gold-mining, "overlanding", and cattle-driving affords. From this +experience he emerged to light in Melbourne as the best amateur +steeplechase rider in the colonies. The victory he won for Major Baker +in 1868, when he rode Babbler for the Cup Steeplechase, made him +popular, and the almost simultaneous publication of his last volume of +poems gave him welcome entrance to the houses of all who had pretensions +to literary taste. The reputation of the book spread to England, and +Major Whyte Melville did not disdain to place the lines of the dashing +Australian author at the head of his own dashing descriptions of +sporting scenery. Unhappily, the melancholy which Gordon's friends had +with pain observed increased daily, and in the full flood of his +success, with congratulations pouring upon him from every side, he was +found dead in the heather near his home with a bullet from his own rifle +in his brain. + +I do not propose to criticise the volumes which these few lines of +preface introduce to the reader. The influence of Browning and of +Swinburne upon the writer's taste is plain. There is plainly visible +also, however, a keen sense for natural beauty and a manly admiration +for healthy living. If in "Ashtaroth" and "Bellona" we recognise the +swing of a familiar metre, in such poems as "The Sick Stockrider" we +perceive the genuine poetic instinct united to a very clear perception +of the loveliness of duty and of labour. + + "'Twas merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming grass, + To wander as we've wandered many a mile, + And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass, + 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 behind them through the tea-tree scrub we dashed; + And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath! + And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash'd!" + +This is genuine. There is no "poetic evolution from the depths of +internal consciousness" here. The writer has ridden his ride as well as +written it. + +The student of these unpretending volumes will be repaid for his labour. +He will find in them something very like the beginnings of a national +school of Australian poetry. In historic Europe, where every rood of +ground is hallowed in legend and in song, the least imaginative can find +food for sad and sweet reflection. When strolling at noon down an +English country lane, lounging at sunset by some ruined chapel on the +margin of an Irish lake, or watching the mists of morning unveil Ben +Lomond, we feel all the charm which springs from association with the +past. Soothed, saddened, and cheered by turns, we partake of the varied +moods which belong not so much to ourselves as to the dead men who, in +old days, sung, suffered, or conquered in the scenes which we survey. +But this our native or adopted land has no past, no story. No poet +speaks to us. Do we need a poet to interpret Nature's teachings, we +must look into our own hearts, if perchance we may find a poet there. + +What is the dominant note of Australian scenery? That which is the +dominant note of Edgar Allan Poe's poetry--Weird Melancholy. A poem +like "L'Allegro" could never be written by an Australian. It is too +airy, too sweet, too freshly happy. The Australian mountain forests are +funereal, secret, stern. Their solitude is desolation. They seem to +stifle, in their black gorges, a story of sullen despair. No tender +sentiment is nourished in their shade. In other lands the dying year is +mourned, the falling leaves drop lightly on his bier. In the Australian +forests no leaves fall. The savage winds shout among the rock clefts. +From the melancholy gums strips of white bark hang and rustle. The very +animal life of these frowning hills is either grotesque or ghostly. +Great grey kangaroos hop noiselessly over the coarse grass. Flights of +white cockatoos stream out, shrieking like evil souls. The sun suddenly +sinks, and the mopokes burst out into horrible peals of semi-human +laughter. The natives aver that, when night comes, from out the +bottomless depth of some lagoon the Bunyip rises, and, in form like +monstrous sea-calf, drags his loathsome length from out the ooze. From +a corner of the silent forest rises a dismal chant, and around a fire +dance natives painted like skeletons. All is fear-inspiring and gloomy. +No bright fancies are linked with the memories of the mountains. +Hopeless explorers have named them out of their sufferings--Mount +Misery, Mount Dreadful, Mount Despair. As when among sylvan scenes in +places + + "Made green with the running of rivers, + And gracious with temperate air," + +the soul is soothed and satisfied, so, placed before the frightful +grandeur of these barren hills, it drinks in their sentiment of defiant +ferocity, and is steeped in bitterness. + +Australia has rightly been named the Land of the Dawning. Wrapped in +the midst of early morning, her history looms vague and gigantic. The +lonely horseman riding between the moonlight and the day sees vast +shadows creeping across the shelterless and silent plains, hears strange +noises in the primeval forest, where flourishes a vegetation long dead +in other lands, and feels, despite his fortune, that the trim +utilitarian civilisation which bred him shrinks into insignificance +beside the contemptuous grandeur of forest and ranges coeval with an age +in which European scientists have cradled his own race. + +There is a poem in every form of tree or flower, but the poetry which +lives in the trees and flowers of Australia differs from those of other +countries. Europe is the home of knightly song, of bright deeds and +clear morning thought. Asia sinks beneath the weighty recollections of +her past magnificence, as the Suttee sinks, jewel burdened, upon the +corpse of dread grandeur, destructive even in its death. America swiftly +hurries on her way, rapid, glittering, insatiable even as one of her own +giant waterfalls. From the jungles of Africa, and the creeper-tangled +groves of the Islands of the South, arise, from the glowing hearts of a +thousand flowers, heavy and intoxicating odours--the Upas-poison which +dwells in barbaric sensuality. In Australia alone is to be found the +Grotesque, the Weird, the strange scribblings of Nature learning how to +write. Some see no beauty in our trees without shade, our flowers +without perfume, our birds who cannot fly, and our beasts who have not +yet learned to walk on all fours. But the dweller in the wilderness +acknowledges the subtle charm of this fantastic land of monstrosities. +He becomes familiar with the beauty of loneliness. Whispered to by the +myriad tongues of the wilderness, he learns the language of the barren +and the uncouth, and can read the hieroglyphics of haggard gum-trees, +blown into odd shapes, distorted with fierce hot winds, or cramped with +cold nights, when the Southern Cross freezes in a cloudless sky of icy +blue. The phantasmagoria of that wild dreamland termed the Bush +interprets itself, and the Poet of our desolation begins to comprehend +why free Esau loved his heritage of desert sand better than all the +bountiful richness of Egypt. + + + Marcus Clarke. + + + + + + +GENERAL CONTENTS. + +[The poems are listed by alphabetical order.] + + + + In Memoriam. By Henry Kendall. + Preface. By Marcus Clarke. + + A Basket of Flowers + A Dedication + A Fragment + "After the Quarrel" + A Hunting Song + A Legend of Madrid + An Exile's Farewell + Ars Longa + Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric + A Song of Autumn + Banker's Dream + Bellona + Borrow'd Plumes + By Flood and Field + By Wood and Wold + Cito Pede Preterit Aetas + Confiteor + Credat Judaeus Apella + Cui Bono + Delilah + De Te + "Discontent" + Doubtful Dreams + "Early Adieux" + "Exeunt" + Ex Fumo Dare Lucem + Fauconshawe + Finis Exoptatus + Fragmentary Scenes from the Road to Avernus + From Lightning and Tempest + From the Wreck + Gone + Hippodromania; or, Whiffs from the Pipe + How we Beat the Favourite + "In the Garden" + In Utrumque Paratus + Laudamus + Lex Talionis + No Name + Pastor Cum + Podas Okus + Potters' Clay + Quare Fatigasti + Rippling Water + Sunlight on the Sea + "Ten Paces Off" + The Fields of Coleraine + The Last Leap + "The Old Leaven" + The Rhyme of Joyous Garde + The Roll of the Kettledrum; or, + The Lay of the Last Charger + The Romance of Britomarte + The Sick Stockrider + The Song of the Surf + The Swimmer + The Three Friends + Thick-headed Thoughts + Thora's Song + To a Proud Beauty + To My Sister + "Two Exhortations" + Unshriven + Visions in the Smoke + Whisperings in Wattle-Boughs + Wolf and Hound + Wormwood and Nightshade + Ye Wearie Wayfarer, hys Ballad + Zu der edlen Yagd + + + + +SEA SPRAY AND SMOKE DRIFT + + + + +Podas Okus + + Am I waking? Was I sleeping? + Dearest, are you watching yet? + Traces on your cheeks of weeping + Glitter, 'tis in vain you fret; + Drifting ever! drifting onward! + In the glass the bright sand runs + Steadily and slowly downward; + Hushed are all the Myrmidons. + + Has Automedon been banish'd + From his post beside my bed? + Where has Agamemnon vanished? + Where is warlike Diomed? + Where is Nestor? where Ulysses? + Menelaus, where is he? + Call them not, more dear your kisses + Than their prosings are to me. + + Daylight fades and night must follow, + Low, where sea and sky combine, + Droops the orb of great Apollo, + Hostile god to me and mine. + Through the tent's wide entrance streaming, + In a flood of glory rare, + Glides the golden sunset, gleaming + On your golden, gleaming hair. + + Chide him not, the leech who tarries, + Surest aid were all too late; + Surer far the shaft of Paris, + Winged by Phoebus and by fate; + When he crouch'd behind the gable, + Had I once his features scann'd, + Phoebus' self had scarce been able + To have nerved his trembling hand. + + Blue-eyed maiden! dear Athena! + Goddess chaste, and wise and brave, + From the snares of Polyxena + Thou would'st fain thy favourite save. + Tell me, is it not far better + That it should be as it is? + Jove's behest we cannot fetter, + Fate's decrees are always his. + + Many seek for peace and riches, + Length of days and life of ease; + I have sought for one thing, which is + Fairer unto me than these. + Often, too, I've heard the story, + In my boyhood, of the doom + Which the fates assigned me--Glory, + Coupled with an early tomb. + + Swift assault and sudden sally + Underneath the Trojan wall; + Charge, and countercharge, and rally, + War-cry loud, and trumpet call; + Doubtful strain of desp'rate battle, + Cut and thrust and grapple fierce, + Swords that ring on shields that rattle, + Blades that gash and darts that pierce;-- + + I have done with these for ever; + By the loud resounding sea, + Where the reedy jav'lins quiver, + There is now no place for me. + Day by day our ranks diminish, + We are falling day by day; + But our sons the strife will finish, + Where man tarries man must slay. + + Life, 'tis said, to all men sweet is, + Death to all must bitter be; + Wherefore thus, oh, mother Thetis! + None can baffle Jove's decree? + I am ready, I am willing, + To resign my stormy life; + Weary of this long blood-spilling, + Sated with this ceaseless strife. + + Shorter doom I've pictured dimly, + On a bed of crimson sand; + Fighting hard and dying grimly, + Silent lips, and striking hand. + But the toughest lives are brittle, + And the bravest and the best + Lightly fall--it matters little; + Now I only long for rest. + + I have seen enough of slaughter, + Seen Scamander's torrent red, + Seen hot blood poured out like water, + Seen the champaign heaped with dead. + Men will call me unrelenting, + Pitiless, vindictive, stern; + Few will raise a voice dissenting, + Few will better things discern. + + Speak! the fires of life are reeling, + Like the wildfires on the marsh, + Was I to a friend unfeeling? + Was I to a mistress harsh? + Was there nought save bloodshed throbbing + In this heart and on this brow? + Whisper! girl, in silence sobbing! + Dead Patroclus! answer thou! + + Dry those violet orbs that glisten, + Darling, I have had my day; + Place your hand in mine and listen, + Ere the strong soul cleaves its way + Through the death mist hovering o'er me, + As the stout ship cleaves the wave, + To my fathers gone before me, + To the gods who love the brave! + + Courage, we must part for certain; + Shades that sink and shades that rise, + Blending in a shroud-like curtain, + Gather o'er these weary eyes. + O'er the fields we used to roam, in + Brighter days and lighter cheer, + Gathers thus the quiet gloaming-- + Now, I ween, the end is near. + + For the hand that clasps your fingers, + Closing in the death-grip tight, + Scarcely feels the warmth that lingers, + Scarcely heeds the pressure light; + While the failing pulse that alters, + Changing 'neath a death chill damp, + Flickers, flutters, flags, and falters, + Feebly like a waning lamp. + + Think'st thou, love, 'twill chafe my ghost in + Hades' realm, where heroes shine, + Should I hear the shepherd boasting + To his Argive concubine? + Let him boast, the girlish victor, + Let him brag; not thus, I trow, + Were the laurels torn from Hector, + Not so very long ago. + + Does my voice sound thick and husky? + Is my hand no longer warm? + Round that neck where pearls look dusky + Let me once more wind my arm; + Rest my head upon that shoulder, + Where it rested oft of yore; + Warm and white, yet seeming colder + Now than e'er it seem'd before. + + 'Twas the fraud of Priam's daughter, + Not the force of Priam's son, + Slew me--ask not why I sought her, + 'Twas my doom--her work is done! + Fairer far than she, and dearer, + By a thousandfold thou art; + Come, my own one, nestle nearer, + Cheating death of half his smart. + + Slowly, while your amber tresses + Shower down their golden rain, + Let me drink those last caresses, + Never to be felt again; + Yet th' Elysian halls are spacious, + Somewhere near me I may keep + Room--who knows?--The gods are gracious; + Lay me lower--let me sleep! + + Lower yet, my senses wander, + And my spirit seems to roll + With the tide of swift Scamander + Rushing to a viewless goal. + In my ears, like distant washing + Of the surf upon the shore, + Drones a murmur, faintly splashing, + 'Tis the splash of Charon's oar. + + Lower yet, my own Briseis, + Denser shadows veil the light; + Hush, what is to be, to be is, + Close my eyes, and say good-night. + Lightly lay your red lips, kissing, + On this cold mouth, while your thumbs + Lie on these cold eyelids pressing-- + Pallas! thus thy soldier comes! + + + + +Gone + + In Collins-street standeth a statue tall--[1] + A statue tall on a pillar of stone, + Telling its story, to great and small, + Of the dust reclaimed from the sand waste lone. + Weary and wasted, and worn and wan, + Feeble and faint, and languid and low, + He lay on the desert a dying man, + Who has gone, my friends, where we all must go. + + There are perils by land, and perils by water, + Short, I ween, are the obsequies + Of the landsman lost, but they may be shorter + With the mariner lost in the trackless seas; + And well for him when the timbers start, + And the stout ship reels and settles below, + Who goes to his doom with as bold a heart + As that dead man gone where we all must go. + + Man is stubborn his rights to yield, + And redder than dews at eventide + Are the dews of battle, shed on the field, + By a nation's wrath or a despot's pride; + But few who have heard their death-knell roll, + From the cannon's lips where they faced the foe, + Have fallen as stout and steady of soul + As that dead man gone where we all must go. + + Traverse yon spacious burial-ground, + Many are sleeping soundly there, + Who pass'd with mourners standing around, + Kindred and friends, and children fair; + Did he envy such ending? 'twere hard to say; + Had he cause to envy such ending? no; + Can the spirit feel for the senseless clay + When it once has gone where we all must go? + + What matters the sand or the whitening chalk, + The blighted herbage, the black'ning log, + The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk, + Or the hot red tongue of the native dog? + That couch was rugged, those sextons rude, + Yet, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know + That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms' food, + When once they've gone where we all must go. + + With the pistol clenched in his failing hand, + With the death mist spread o'er his fading eyes, + He saw the sun go down on the sand, + And he slept, and never saw it rise; + 'Twas well; he toil'd till his task was done, + Constant and calm in his latest throe; + The storm was weathered, the battle was won, + When he went, my friends, where we all must go. + + God grant that whenever, soon or late, + Our course is run and our goal is reach'd, + We may meet our fate as steady and straight + As he whose bones in yon desert bleach'd; + No tears are needed--our cheeks are dry, + We have none to waste upon living woe; + Shall we sigh for one who has ceased to sigh, + Having gone, my friends, where we all must go? + + We tarry yet, we are toiling still, + He is gone and he fares the best, + He fought against odds, he struggled up hill, + He has fairly earned his season of rest; + No tears are needed--fill out the wine, + Let the goblets clash, and the grape juice flow; + Ho! pledge me a death-drink, comrade mine, + To a brave man gone where we all must go. + + + + +Unshriven + + + Oh! the sun rose on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie, + And the steed stood ready harness'd in the hall, + And he left his lady's bower, and he sought the eastern tower, + And he lifted cloak and weapon from the wall. + + "We were wed but yester-noon, must we separate so soon? + Must you travel unassoiled and, aye, unshriven, + With the blood stain on your hand, and the red streak on your brand, + And your guilt all unconfessed and unforgiven?" + + "Tho' it were but yester-even we were wedded, still unshriven, + Across the moor this morning I must ride; + I must gallop fast and straight, for my errand will not wait; + Fear naught, I shall return at eventide." + + "If I fear, it is for thee, thy weal is dear to me, + Yon moor with retribution seemeth rife; + As we've sown so must we reap, and I've started in my sleep + At the voice of the avenger, 'Life for life'." + + "My arm is strong, I ween, and my trusty blade is keen, + And the courser that I ride is swift and sure, + And I cannot break my oath, though to leave thee I am loth, + There is one that I must meet upon the moor." + + * * * * * + + Oh! the sun shone on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie, + Down the avenue and through the iron gate, + Spurr'd and belted, so he rode, steel to draw and steel to goad, + And across the moor he galloped fast and straight. + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + Oh! the sun shone on the lea, and the bird sang full of glee, + Ere the mists of evening gather'd chill and grey; + But the wild bird's merry note on the deaf ear never smote, + And the sunshine never warmed the lifeless clay. + + Ere the sun began to droop, or the mist began to stoop, + The youthful bride lay swooning in the hall; + Empty saddle on his back, broken bridle hanging slack, + The steed returned full gallop to the stall. + + Oh! the sun sank in the sea, and the wind wailed drearilie; + Let the bells in yonder monastery toll, + For the night rack nestles dark round the body stiff and stark, + And unshriven to its Maker flies the soul. + + + + +Ye Wearie Wayfarer, hys Ballad In Eight Fyttes. + + + Fytte I + By Wood and Wold + [A Preamble] + + "Beneath the greenwood bough."--W. Scott. + + + Lightly the breath of the spring wind blows, + Though laden with faint perfume, + 'Tis the fragrance rare that the bushman knows, + The scent of the wattle bloom. + Two-thirds of our journey at least are done, + Old horse! let us take a spell + In the shade from the glare of the noonday sun, + Thus far we have travell'd well; + Your bridle I'll slip, your saddle ungirth, + And lay them beside this log, + For you'll roll in that track of reddish earth, + And shake like a water-dog. + + Upon yonder rise there's a clump of trees-- + Their shadows look cool and broad-- + You can crop the grass as fast as you please, + While I stretch my limbs on the sward; + 'Tis pleasant, I ween, with a leafy screen + O'er the weary head, to lie + On the mossy carpet of emerald green, + 'Neath the vault of the azure sky; + Thus all alone by the wood and wold, + I yield myself once again + To the memories old that, like tales fresh told, + Come flitting across the brain. + + + + Fytte II + By Flood and Field + [A Legend of the Cottiswold] + + "They have saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, + They have bridled a hundred black."--Old Ballad. + "He turned in his saddle, now follow who dare. + I ride for my country, quoth ----." + --Lawrence. + + + + I remember the lowering wintry morn, + And the mist on the Cotswold hills, + Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman's horn, + Not far from the seven rills. + Jack Esdale was there, and Hugh St. Clair, + Bob Chapman and Andrew Kerr, + And big George Griffiths on Devil-May-Care, + And--black Tom Oliver. + And one who rode on a dark-brown steed, + Clean jointed, sinewy, spare, + With the lean game head of the Blacklock breed, + And the resolute eye that loves the lead, + And the quarters massive and square-- + A tower of strength, with a promise of speed + (There was Celtic blood in the pair). + + I remember how merry a start we got, + When the red fox broke from the gorse, + In a country so deep, with a scent so hot, + That the hound could outpace the horse; + I remember how few in the front rank shew'd, + How endless appeared the tail, + On the brown hill-side, where we cross'd the road, + And headed towards the vale. + The dark-brown steed on the left was there, + On the right was a dappled grey, + And between the pair, on a chestnut mare, + The duffer who writes this lay. + What business had "this child" there to ride? + But little or none at all; + Yet I held my own for a while in "the pride + That goeth before a fall." + Though rashness can hope for but one result, + We are heedless when fate draws nigh us, + And the maxim holds good, "Quem perdere vult + Deus, dementat prius." + + The right hand man to the left hand said, + As down in the vale we went, + "Harden your heart like a millstone, Ned, + And set your face as flint; + Solid and tall is the rasping wall + That stretches before us yonder; + You must have it at speed or not at all, + 'Twere better to halt than to ponder, + For the stream runs wide on the take-off side, + And washes the clay bank under; + Here goes for a pull, 'tis a madman's ride, + And a broken neck if you blunder." + + No word in reply his comrade spoke, + Nor waver'd nor once look'd round, + But I saw him shorten his horse's stroke + As we splash'd through the marshy ground; + I remember the laugh that all the while + On his quiet features play'd:-- + So he rode to his death, with that careless smile, + In the van of the "Light Brigade"; + So stricken by Russian grape, the cheer + Rang out, while he toppled back, + From the shattered lungs as merry and clear + As it did when it roused the pack. + Let never a tear his memory stain, + Give his ashes never a sigh, + One of many who perished, NOT IN VAIN, + AS A TYPE OF OUR CHIVALRY-- + + I remember one thrust he gave to his hat, + And two to the flanks of the brown, + And still as a statue of old he sat, + And he shot to the front, hands down; + I remember the snort and the stag-like bound + Of the steed six lengths to the fore, + And the laugh of the rider while, landing sound, + He turned in his saddle and glanced around; + I remember--but little more, + Save a bird's-eye gleam of the dashing stream, + A jarring thud on the wall, + A shock and the blank of a nightmare's dream-- + I was down with a stunning fall. + + + + Fytte III + Zu der edlen Yagd + [A Treatise on Trees--Vine-tree v. Saddle-tree] + + "Now, welcome, welcome, masters mine, + Thrice welcome to the noble chase, + Nor earthly sport, nor sport divine, + Can take such honourable place."--Ballad of the Wild Huntsman. + (Free Translation.) + + + + I remember some words my father said, + When I was an urchin vain;-- + God rest his soul, in his narrow bed + These ten long years he hath lain. + When I think one drop of the blood he bore + This faint heart surely must hold, + It may be my fancy and nothing more, + But the faint heart seemeth bold. + + He said that as from the blood of grape, + Or from juice distilled from the grain, + False vigour, soon to evaporate, + Is lent to nerve and brain, + So the coward will dare on the gallant horse + What he never would dare alone, + Because he exults in a borrowed force, + And a hardihood not his own. + + And it may be so, yet this difference lies + 'Twixt the vine and the saddle-tree, + The spurious courage that drink supplies + Sets our baser passions free; + But the stimulant which the horseman feels + When he gallops fast and straight, + To his better nature most appeals, + And charity conquers hate. + + As the kindly sunshine thaws the snow, + E'en malice and spite will yield, + We could almost welcome our mortal foe + In the saddle by flood and field; + And chivalry dawns in the merry tale + That "Market Harborough" writes, + And the yarns of "Nimrod" and "Martingale" + Seem legends of loyal knights. + + Now tell me for once, old horse of mine, + Grazing round me loose and free, + Does your ancient equine heart repine + For a burst in such companie, + Where "the POWERS that be" in the front rank ride, + To hold your own with the throng, + Or to plunge at "Faugh-a-Ballagh's" side + In the rapids of Dandenong. + + Don't tread on my toes, you're no foolish weight, + So I found to my cost, as under + Your carcase I lay, when you rose too late, + Yet I blame you not for the blunder. + What! sulky old man, your under-lip falls! + You think I, too, ready to rail am + At your kinship remote to that duffer at walls, + The talkative roadster of Balaam. + + + + Fytte IV + In Utrumque Paratus + [A Logical Discussion] + + "Then hey for boot and horse, lad! + And round the world away! + Young blood will have its course, lad! + And every dog his day!"--C. Kingsley. + + + + There's a formula which the west country clowns + Once used, ere their blows fell thick, + At the fairs on the Devon and Cornwall downs, + In their bouts with the single-stick. + You may read a moral, not far amiss, + If you care to moralise, + In the crossing-guard, where the ash-plants kiss, + To the words "God spare our eyes". + No game was ever yet worth a rap + For a rational man to play, + Into which no accident, no mishap, + Could possibly find its way. + + If you hold the willow, a shooter from Wills + May transform you into a hopper, + And the football meadow is rife with spills, + If you feel disposed for a cropper; + In a rattling gallop with hound and horse + You may chance to reverse the medal + On the sward, with the saddle your loins across, + And your hunter's loins on the saddle; + In the stubbles you'll find it hard to frame + A remonstrance firm, yet civil, + When oft as "our mutual friend" takes aim, + Long odds may be laid on the rising game, + And against your gaiters level; + There's danger even where fish are caught, + To those who a wetting fear; + For what's worth having must aye be bought, + And sport's like life and life's like sport, + "It ain't all skittles and beer." + + The honey bag lies close to the sting, + The rose is fenced by the thorn, + Shall we leave to others their gathering, + And turn from clustering fruits that cling + To the garden wall in scorn? + Albeit those purple grapes hang high, + Like the fox in the ancient tale, + Let us pause and try, ere we pass them by, + Though we, like the fox, may fail. + + All hurry is worse than useless; think + On the adage, "'Tis pace that kills"; + Shun bad tobacco, avoid strong drink, + Abstain from Holloway's pills, + Wear woollen socks, they're the best you'll find, + Beware how you leave off flannel; + And whatever you do, don't change your mind + When once you have picked your panel; + With a bank of cloud in the south south-east, + Stand ready to shorten sail; + Fight shy of a corporation feast; + Don't trust to a martingale; + Keep your powder dry, and shut one eye, + Not both, when you touch your trigger; + Don't stop with your head too frequently + (This advice ain't meant for a nigger); + Look before you leap, if you like, but if + You mean leaping, don't look long, + Or the weakest place will soon grow stiff, + And the strongest doubly strong; + As far as you can, to every man, + Let your aid be freely given, + And hit out straight, 'tis your shortest plan, + When against the ropes you're driven. + + Mere pluck, though not in the least sublime, + Is wiser than blank dismay, + Since "No sparrow can fall before its time", + And we're valued higher than they; + So hope for the best and leave the rest + In charge of a stronger hand, + Like the honest boors in the far-off west, + With the formula terse and grand. + + They were men for the most part rough and rude, + Dull and illiterate, + But they nursed no quarrel, they cherished no feud, + They were strangers to spite and hate; + In a kindly spirit they took their stand, + That brothers and sons might learn + How a man should uphold the sports of his land, + And strike his best with a strong right hand, + And take his strokes in return. + "'Twas a barbarous practice," the Quaker cries, + "'Tis a thing of the past, thank heaven"-- + Keep your thanks till the combative instinct dies + With the taint of the olden leaven; + Yes, the times are changed, for better or worse, + The prayer that no harm befall + Has given its place to a drunken curse, + And the manly game to a brawl. + + Our burdens are heavy, our natures weak, + Some pastime devoid of harm + May we look for? "Puritan elder, speak!" + "Yea, friend, peradventure thou mayest seek + Recreation singing a psalm." + If I did, your visage so grim and stern + Would relax in a ghastly smile, + For of music I never one note could learn, + And my feeble minstrelsy would turn + Your chant to discord vile. + + Tho' the Philistine's mail could not avail, + Nor the spear like a weaver's beam, + There are episodes yet in the Psalmist's tale, + To obliterate which his poems fail, + Which his exploits fail to redeem. + Can the Hittite's wrongs forgotten be? + Does HE warble "Non nobis Domine", + With his monarch in blissful concert, free + From all malice to flesh inherent; + Zeruiah's offspring, who served so well, + Yet between the horns of the altar fell-- + Does HIS voice the "Quid gloriaris" swell, + Or the "Quare fremuerunt"? + It may well be thus where DAVID sings, + And Uriah joins in the chorus, + But while earth to earthy matter clings, + Neither you nor the bravest of Judah's kings + As a pattern can stand before us. + + + + Fytte V + Lex Talionis + [A Moral Discourse] + + "And if there's blood upon his hand, + 'Tis but the blood of deer."--W. Scott. + + + + To beasts of the field, and fowls of the air, + And fish of the sea alike, + Man's hand is ever slow to spare, + And ever ready to strike; + With a license to kill, and to work our will, + In season by land or by water, + To our heart's content we may take our fill + Of the joys we derive from slaughter. + + And few, I reckon, our rights gainsay + In this world of rapine and wrong, + Where the weak and the timid seem lawful prey + For the resolute and the strong; + Fins, furs, and feathers, they are and were + For our use and pleasure created, + We can shoot, and hunt, and angle, and snare, + Unquestioned, if not unsated. + + I have neither the will nor the right to blame, + Yet to many (though not to all) + The sweets of destruction are somewhat tame + When no personal risks befall; + Our victims suffer but little, we trust + (Mere guess-work and blank enigma), + If they suffer at all, our field sports must + Of cruelty bear the stigma. + + Shall we, hard-hearted to their fates, thus + Soft-hearted shrink from our own, + When the measure we mete is meted to us, + When we reap as we've always sown? + Shall we who for pastime have squander'd life, + Who are styled "the Lords of Creation", + Recoil from our chance of more equal strife, + And our risk of retaliation? + + Though short is the dying pheasant's pain, + Scant pity you well may spare, + And the partridge slain is a triumph vain, + And a risk that a child may dare; + You feel, when you lower the smoking gun, + Some ruth for yon slaughtered hare, + And hit or miss, in your selfish fun + The widgeon has little share. + + But you've no remorseful qualms or pangs + When you kneel by the grizzly's lair, + On that conical bullet your sole chance hangs, + 'Tis the weak one's advantage fair, + And the shaggy giant's terrific fangs + Are ready to crush and tear; + Should you miss, one vision of home and friends, + Five words of unfinished prayer, + Three savage knife stabs, so your sport ends + In the worrying grapple that chokes and rends;-- + Rare sport, at least, for the bear. + + Short shrift! sharp fate! dark doom to dree! + Hard struggle, though quickly ending! + At home or abroad, by land or sea, + In peace or war, sore trials must be, + And worse may happen to you or to me, + For none are secure, and none can flee + From a destiny impending. + + Ah! friend, did you think when the LONDON sank, + Timber by timber, plank by plank, + In a cauldron of boiling surf, + How alone at least, with never a flinch, + In a rally contested inch by inch, + You could fall on the trampled turf? + When a livid wall of the sea leaps high, + In the lurid light of a leaden sky, + And bursts on the quarter railing; + While the howling storm-gust seems to vie + With the crash of splintered beams that fly, + Yet fails too oft to smother the cry + Of women and children wailing? + + Then those who listen in sinking ships + To despairing sobs from their lov'd one's lips, + Where the green wave thus slowly shatters, + May long for the crescent-claw that rips + The bison into ribbons and strips, + And tears the strong elk to tatters. + + Oh! sunderings short of body and breath! + Oh! "battle and murder and sudden death!" + Against which the Liturgy preaches; + By the will of a just, yet a merciful Power, + Less bitter, perchance, in the mystic hour, + When the wings of the shadowy angel lower, + Than man in his blindness teaches! + + + + Fytte VI + Potters' Clay + [An Allegorical Interlude] + + "Nec propter vitam vivendi perdere causas." + + + + Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill + Too oft gets broken at last, + There are scores of others its place to fill + When its earth to the earth is cast; + Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam, + But lie like a useless clod, + Yet sooner or later the hour will come + When its chips are thrown to the sod. + + Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day, + When the vessel is crack'd and old, + To cherish the battered potters' clay, + As though it were virgin gold? + Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf, + Though prudent and safe you seem, + Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf, + And mine by the dazzling stream. + + + + Fytte VII + Cito Pede Preterit Aetas + [A Philosophical Dissertation] + + "Gillian's dead, God rest her bier-- + How I loved her many years syne; + Marion's married, but I sit here, + Alive and merry at three-score year, + Dipping my nose in Gascoigne wine."--Wamba's Song--Thackeray. + + + + A mellower light doth Sol afford, + His meridian glare has pass'd, + And the trees on the broad and sloping sward + Their length'ning shadows cast. + "Time flies." The current will be no joke, + If swollen by recent rain, + To cross in the dark, so I'll have a smoke, + And then I'll be off again. + + What's up, old horse? Your ears you prick, + And your eager eyeballs glisten; + 'Tis the wild dog's note in the tea-tree thick, + By the river, to which you listen. + With head erect and tail flung out, + For a gallop you seem to beg, + But I feel the qualm of a chilling doubt, + As I glance at your fav'rite leg. + + Let the dingo rest, 'tis all for the best; + In this world there's room enough + For him and you and me and the rest, + And the country is awful rough. + We've had our gallop in days of yore, + Now down the hill we must run; + Yet at times we long for one gallop more, + Although it were only one. + + Did our spirits quail at a new four-rail, + Could a "double" double-bank us, + Ere nerve and sinew began to fail + In the consulship of Plancus? + When our blood ran rapidly, and when + Our bones were pliant and limber, + Could we stand a merry cross-counter then, + A slogging fall over timber? + + Arcades ambo! Duffers both, + In our best of days, alas! + (I tell the truth, though to tell it loth) + 'Tis time we were gone to grass; + The young leaves shoot, the sere leaves fall, + And the old gives way to the new, + While the preacher cries, "'Tis vanity all, + And vexation of spirit, too." + + Now over my head the vapours curl + From the bowl of the soothing clay, + In the misty forms that eddy and whirl + My thoughts are flitting away; + Yes, the preacher's right, 'tis vanity all, + But the sweeping rebuke he showers + On vanities all may heaviest fall + On vanities worse than ours. + + We have no wish to exaggerate + The worth of the sports we prize, + Some toil for their Church, and some for their State, + And some for their merchandise; + Some traffic and trade in the city's mart, + Some travel by land and sea, + Some follow science, some cleave to art, + And some to scandal and tea; + + And some for their country and their queen + Would fight, if the chance they had, + Good sooth, 'twere a sorry world, I ween, + If we all went galloping mad; + Yet if once we efface the joys of the chase + From the land, and outroot the Stud, + GOOD-BYE TO THE ANGLO-SAXON RACE! + FAREWELL TO THE NORMAN BLOOD! + + Where the burn runs down to the uplands brown, + From the heights of the snow-clad range, + What anodyne drawn from the stifling town + Can be reckon'd a fair exchange + For the stalker's stride, on the mountain side, + In the bracing northern weather, + To the slopes where couch, in their antler'd pride, + The deer on the perfum'd heather? + + Oh! the vigour with which the air is rife! + The spirit of joyous motion; + The fever, the fulness of animal life, + Can be drain'd from no earthly potion! + The lungs with the living gas grow light, + And the limbs feel the strength of ten, + While the chest expands with its madd'ning might, + GOD'S GLORIOUS OXYGEN. + + Thus the measur'd stroke, on elastic sward, + Of the steed three parts extended, + Hard held, the breath of his nostrils broad, + With the golden ether blended; + Then the leap, the rise from the springy turf, + The rush through the buoyant air, + And the light shock landing--the veriest serf + Is an emperor then and there! + + Such scenes! sensation and sound and sight! + To some undiscover'd shore + On the current of Time's remorseless flight + Have they swept to return no more? + While, like phantoms bright of the fever'd night, + That have vex'd our slumbers of yore, + You follow us still in your ghostly might, + Dead days that have gone before. + + Vain dreams, again and again re-told, + Must you crowd on the weary brain, + Till the fingers are cold that entwin'd of old + Round foil and trigger and rein, + Till stay'd for aye are the roving feet, + Till the restless hands are quiet, + Till the stubborn heart has forgotten to beat, + Till the hot blood has ceas'd to riot? + + In Exeter Hall the saint may chide, + The sinner may scoff outright, + The Bacchanal steep'd in the flagon's tide, + Or the sensual Sybarite; + But NOLAN'S name will flourish in fame, + When our galloping days are past, + When we go to the place from whence we came, + Perchance to find rest at last. + + Thy riddles grow dark, oh! drifting cloud, + And thy misty shapes grow drear, + Thou hang'st in the air like a shadowy shroud, + But I am of lighter cheer; + Though our future lot is a sable blot, + Though the wise ones of earth will blame us, + Though our saddles will rot, and our rides be forgot, + "DUM VIVIMUS, VIVAMUS!" + + + + + Fytte VIII + Finis Exoptatus + [A Metaphysical Song] + + "There's something in this world amiss + Shall be unriddled by-and-bye."--Tennyson. + + + + Boot and saddle, see, the slanting + Rays begin to fall, + Flinging lights and colours flaunting + Through the shadows tall. + Onward! onward! must we travel? + When will come the goal? + Riddle I may not unravel, + Cease to vex my soul. + + Harshly break those peals of laughter + From the jays aloft, + Can we guess what they cry after? + We have heard them oft; + Perhaps some strain of rude thanksgiving + Mingles in their song, + Are they glad that they are living? + Are they right or wrong? + Right, 'tis joy that makes them call so, + Why should they be sad? + Certes! we are living also, + Shall not we be glad? + Onward! onward! must we travel? + Is the goal more near? + Riddle we may not unravel, + Why so dark and drear? + + Yon small bird his hymn outpouring, + On the branch close by, + Recks not for the kestrel soaring + In the nether sky, + Though the hawk with wings extended + Poises over head, + Motionless as though suspended + By a viewless thread. + See, he stoops, nay, shooting forward + With the arrow's flight, + Swift and straight away to nor'ward + Sails he out of sight. + Onward! onward! thus we travel, + Comes the goal more nigh? + Riddle we may not unravel, + Who shall make reply? + + Ha! Friend Ephraim, saint or sinner, + Tell me if you can-- + Tho' we may not judge the inner, + By the outer man, + Yet by girth of broadcloth ample, + And by cheeks that shine, + Surely you set no example + In the fasting line-- + + Could you, like yon bird, discov'ring, + Fate as close at hand, + As the kestrel o'er him hov'ring, + Still, as he did, stand? + Trusting grandly, singing gaily, + Confident and calm, + Not one false note in your daily + Hymn or weekly psalm? + + Oft your oily tones are heard in + Chapel, where you preach, + This the everlasting burden + Of the tale you teach: + "We are d----d, our sins are deadly, + You alone are heal'd"-- + 'Twas not thus their gospel redly + Saints and martyrs seal'd. + You had seem'd more like a martyr, + Than you seem to us, + To the beasts that caught a Tartar + Once at Ephesus; + Rather than the stout apostle + Of the Gentiles, who, + Pagan-like, could cuff and wrestle, + They'd have chosen you. + + Yet, I ween, on such occasion, + Your dissenting voice + Would have been, in mild persuasion, + Raised against their choice; + Man of peace, and man of merit, + Pompous, wise, and grave, + Ephraim! is it flesh or spirit + You strive most to save? + Vain is half this care and caution + O'er the earthly shell, + We can neither baffle nor shun + Dark plumed Azrael. + Onward! onward! still we wander, + Nearer draws the goal; + Half the riddle's read, we ponder + Vainly on the whole. + + Eastward! in the pink horizon, + Fleecy hillocks shame + This dim range dull earth that lies on, + Tinged with rosy flame. + Westward! as a stricken giant + Stoops his bloody crest, + And tho' vanquished, frowns defiant, + Sinks the sun to rest. + Distant, yet approaching quickly, + From the shades that lurk, + Like a black pall gathers thickly, + Night, when none may work. + Soon our restless occupation + Shall have ceas'd to be; + Units! in God's vast creation, + Ciphers! what are we? + Onward! onward! oh! faint-hearted; + Nearer and more near + Has the goal drawn since we started, + Be of better cheer. + + Preacher! all forbearance ask, for + All are worthless found, + Man must aye take man to task for + Faults while earth goes round. + On this dank soil thistles muster, + Thorns are broadcast sown; + Seek not figs where thistles cluster, + Grapes where thorns have grown. + + Sun and rain and dew from heaven, + Light and shade and air, + Heat and moisture freely given, + Thorns and thistles share. + Vegetation rank and rotten + Feels the cheering ray; + Not uncared for, unforgotten, + We, too, have our day. + + Unforgotten! though we cumber + Earth we work His will. + Shall we sleep through night's long slumber + Unforgotten still? + Onward! onward! toiling ever, + Weary steps and slow, + Doubting oft, despairing never, + To the goal we go! + + Hark! the bells on distant cattle + Waft across the range; + Through the golden-tufted wattle, + Music low and strange; + Like the marriage peal of fairies + Comes the tinkling sound, + Or like chimes of sweet St. Mary's + On far English ground. + How my courser champs the snaffle, + And with nostril spread, + Snorts and scarcely seems to ruffle + Fern leaves with his tread; + Cool and pleasant on his haunches + Blows the evening breeze, + Through the overhanging branches + Of the wattle trees: + Onward! to the Southern Ocean, + Glides the breath of Spring. + Onward! with a dreary motion, + I, too, glide and sing-- + Forward! forward! still we wander-- + Tinted hills that lie + In the red horizon yonder-- + Is the goal so nigh? + + Whisper, spring-wind, softly singing, + Whisper in my ear; + Respite and nepenthe bringing, + Can the goal be near? + Laden with the dew of vespers, + From the fragrant sky, + In my ear the wind that whispers + Seems to make reply-- + + "Question not, but live and labour + Till yon goal be won, + Helping every feeble neighbour, + Seeking help from none; + Life is mostly froth and bubble, + Two things stand like stone, + KINDNESS in another's trouble, + COURAGE in your own." + + Courage, comrades, this is certain, + All is for the best-- + There are lights behind the curtain-- + Gentiles, let us rest. + As the smoke-rack veers to seaward, + From "the ancient clay", + With its moral drifting leeward, + Ends the wanderer's lay. + + + + +Borrow'd Plumes + + [A Preface and a Piracy] + + + + Prologue + + + Of borrow'd plumes I take the sin, + My extracts will apply + To some few silly songs which in + These pages scatter'd lie. + + The words are Edgar Allan Poe's, + As any man may see, + But what a POE-t wrote in prose, + Shall make blank verse for me. + + + These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a + view to their redemption from the many improvements to which + they have been subjected while going at random the rounds of + the Press. I am naturally anxious that what I have written + should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. * * + * * * * In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is + incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume + of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. + E. A. P. + + (See Preface to Poe's Poetical Works.) + + + Epilogue + + + And now that my theft stands detected, + The first of my extracts may call + To some of the rhymes here collected + Your notice, the second to all. + + Ah! friend, you may shake your head sadly, + Yet this much you'll say for my verse, + I've written of old something badly, + But written anew something worse. + + + + + Pastor Cum + [Translation from Horace] + + + + When he, that shepherd false, 'neath Phrygian sails, + Carried his hostess Helen o'er the seas, + In fitful slumber Nereus hush'd the gales, + That he might sing their future destinies. + A curse to your ancestral home you take + With her, whom Greece, with many a soldier bold + Shall seek again, in concert sworn to break + Your nuptial ties and Priam's kingdom old. + Alas! what sweat from man and horse must flow, + What devastation to the Trojan realm + You carry, even now doth Pallas show + Her wrath, preparing buckler, car, and helm. + In vain, secure in Aphrodite's care, + You comb your locks, and on the girlish lyre + Select the strains most pleasant to the fair; + In vain, on couch reclining, you desire + To shun the darts that threaten, and the thrust + Of Cretan lance, the battle's wild turmoil, + And Ajax swift to follow--in the dust + Condemned, though late, your wanton curls to soil. + Ah! see you not where (fatal to your race) + Laertes' son comes with the Pylean sage; + Fearless alike, with Teucer joins the chase + Stenelaus, skill'd the fistic strife to wage, + Nor less expert the fiery steeds to quell; + And Meriones, you must know. Behold + A warrior, than his sire more fierce and fell, + To find you rages,--Diomed the bold, + Whom like the stag that, far across the vale, + The wolf being seen, no herbage can allure, + So fly you, panting sorely, dastard pale!-- + Not thus you boasted to your paramour. + Achilles' anger for a space defers + The day of wrath to Troy and Trojan dame; + Inevitable glide the allotted years, + And Dardan roofs must waste in Argive flame. + + + + +A Legend of Madrid + + [Translated from the Spanish] + + + + Francesca. + + Crush'd and throng'd are all the places + In our amphitheatre, + 'Midst a sea of swarming faces + I can yet distinguish her; + Dost thou triumph, dark-brow'd Nina? + Is my secret known to thee? + On the sands of yon arena + I shall yet my vengeance see. + Now through portals fast careering + Picadors are disappearing; + Now the barriers nimbly clearing + Has the hindmost chulo flown. + Clots of dusky crimson streaking, + Brindled flanks and haunches reeking, + Wheels the wild bull, vengeance seeking, + On the matador alone. + Features by sombrero shaded, + Pale and passionless and cold; + Doublet richly laced and braided, + Trunks of velvet slash'd with gold, + Blood-red scarf, and bare Toledo,-- + Mask more subtle, and disguise + Far less shallow, thou dost need, oh, + Traitor, to deceive my eyes. + Shouts of noisy acclamation, + Breathing savage expectation, + Greet him while he takes his station + Leisurely, disdaining haste; + Now he doffs his tall sombrero, + Fools! applaud your butcher hero, + Ye would idolise a Nero, + Pandering to public taste. + + From the restless Guadalquivir + To my sire's estates he came, + Woo'd and won me, how I shiver! + Though my temples burn with shame. + I, a proud and high-born lady, + Daughter of an ancient race, + 'Neath the vine and olive shade I + Yielded to a churl's embrace. + To a churl my vows were plighted, + Well my madness he requited, + Since, by priestly ties, united + To the muleteer's child; + And my prayers are wafted o'er him, + That the bull may crush and gore him, + Since the love that once I bore him + Has been changed to hatred wild. + + + Nina. + + Save him! aid him! oh, Madonna! + Two are slain if he is slain; + Shield his life, and guard his honour, + Let me not entreat in vain. + Sullenly the brindled savage + Tears and tosses up the sand; + Horns that rend and hoofs that ravage, + How shall man your shock withstand? + On the shaggy neck and head lie + Frothy flakes, the eyeballs redly + Flash, the horns so sharp and deadly + Lower, short, and strong, and straight; + Fast, and furious, and fearless, + Now he charges;--virgin peerless, + Lifting lids, all dry and tearless, + At thy throne I supplicate. + + + Francesca. + + Cool and calm, the perjured varlet + Stands on strongly-planted heel, + In his left a strip of scarlet, + In his right a streak of steel; + Ah! the monster topples over, + Till his haunches strike the plain!-- + Low-born clown and lying lover, + Thou hast conquer'd once again. + + + Nina. + + Sweet Madonna, maiden mother, + Thou hast saved him, and no other; + Now the tears I cannot smother, + Tears of joy my vision blind; + Where thou sittest I am gazing, + These glad, misty eyes upraising, + I have pray'd, and I am praising, + Bless thee! bless thee! virgin kind. + + + Francesca. + + While the crowd still sways and surges, + Ere the applauding shouts have ceas'd, + See, the second bull emerges-- + 'Tis the famed Cordovan beast,-- + By the picador ungoaded, + Scathless of the chulo's dart. + Slay him, and with guerdon loaded, + And with honours crown'd depart. + No vain brutish strife he wages, + Never uselessly he rages, + And his cunning, as he ages, + With his hatred seems to grow; + Though he stands amid the cheering, + Sluggish to the eye appearing, + Few will venture on the spearing + Of so resolute a foe. + + + Nina. + + Courage, there is little danger, + Yonder dull-eyed craven seems + Fitter far for stall and manger + Than for scarf and blade that gleams; + Shorter, and of frame less massive, + Than his comrade lying low, + Tame, and cowardly, and passive,-- + He will prove a feebler foe. + I have done with doubt and anguish, + Fears like dews in sunshine languish, + Courage, husband, we shall vanquish, + Thou art calm and so am I. + For the rush he has not waited, + On he strides with step elated, + And the steel with blood unsated, + Leaps to end the butchery. + + + Francesca. + + Tyro! mark the brands of battle + On those shoulders dusk and dun, + Such as he is are the cattle + Skill'd tauridors gladly shun; + Warier than the Andalusian, + Swifter far, though not so large, + Think'st thou, to his own confusion, + He, like him, will blindly charge? + Inch by inch the brute advances, + Stealthy yet vindictive glances, + Horns as straight as levell'd lances, + Crouching withers, stooping haunches;-- + Closer yet, until the tightening + Strains of rapt excitement height'ning + Grows oppressive. Ha! like lightning + On his enemy he launches. + + + Nina. + + O'er the horn'd front drops the streamer, + In the nape the sharp steel hisses, + Glances, grazes,--Christ! Redeemer! + By a hair the spine he misses. + + + Francesca. + + Hark! that shock like muffled thunder, + Booming from the Pyrenees! + Both are down--the man is under-- + Now he struggles to his knees, + Now he sinks, his features leaden + Sharpen rigidly and deaden, + Sands beneath him soak and redden, + Skies above him spin and veer; + Through the doublet torn and riven, + Where the stunted horn was driven, + Wells the life-blood--We are even, + Daughter of the muleteer! + + + + +Fauconshawe + + [A Ballad] + + + + To fetch clear water out of the spring + The little maid Margaret ran; + From the stream to the castle's western wing + It was but a bowshot span; + On the sedgy brink where the osiers cling + Lay a dead man, pallid and wan. + + The lady Mabel rose from her bed, + And walked in the castle hall, + Where the porch through the western turret led + She met with her handmaid small. + "What aileth thee, Margaret?" the lady said, + "Hast let thy pitcher fall? + + "Say, what hast thou seen by the streamlet side-- + A nymph or a water sprite-- + That thou comest with eyes so wild and wide, + And with cheeks so ghostly white?" + "Nor nymph nor sprite," the maiden cried, + "But the corpse of a slaughtered knight." + + The lady Mabel summon'd straight + To her presence Sir Hugh de Vere, + Of the guests who tarried within the gate + Of Fauconshawe most dear + Was he to that lady; betrothed in state + They had been since many a year. + + "Little Margaret sayeth a dead man lies + By the western spring, Sir Hugh; + I can scarce believe that the maiden lies-- + Yet scarce can believe her true." + And the knight replies, "Till we test her eyes + Let her words gain credence due." + + Down the rocky path knight and lady led, + While guests and retainers bold + Followed in haste, for like wildfire spread + The news by the maiden told. + They found 'twas even as she had said-- + The corpse had some while been cold. + + How the spirit had pass'd in the moments last + There was little trace to reveal: + On the still calm face lay no imprint ghast, + Save the angel's solemn seal, + Yet the hands were clench'd in a death-grip fast, + And the sods stamp'd down by the heel. + + Sir Hugh by the side of the dead man knelt, + Said, "Full well these features I know, + We have faced each other where blows were dealt, + And he was a stalwart foe; + I had rather have met him hilt to hilt + Than have found him lying low." + + He turn'd the body up on its face, + And never a word was spoken, + While he ripp'd the doublet, and tore the lace, + And tugg'd--by the self-same token,-- + And strain'd, till he wrench'd it out of its place, + The dagger-blade that was broken. + + Then he turned the body over again, + And said, while he rose upright, + "May the brand of Cain, with its withering stain, + On the murderer's forehead light, + For he never was slain on the open plain, + Nor yet in the open fight." + + Solemn and stern were the words he spoke, + And he look'd at his lady's men, + But his speech no answering echoes woke, + All were silent there and then, + Till a clear, cold voice the silence broke:-- + Lady Mabel cried, "Amen." + + His glance met hers, the twain stood hush'd, + With the dead between them there; + But the blood to her snowy temples rush'd + Till it tinged the roots of her hair, + Then paled, but a thin red streak still flush'd + In the midst of her forehead fair. + + Four yeomen raised the corpse from the ground, + At a sign from Sir Hugh de Vere; + It was borne to the western turret round, + And laid on a knightly bier, + With never a sob nor a mourning sound,-- + No friend to the dead was near. + + Yet that night was neither revel nor dance + In the halls of Fauconshawe; + Men looked askance with a doubtful glance + At Sir Hugh, for they stood in awe + Of his prowess, but he, like one in a trance, + Regarded naught that he saw. + + * * * * * + + Night black and chill, wind gathering still, + With its wail in the turret tall, + And its headlong blast like a catapult cast + On the crest of the outer wall, + And its hail and rain on the crashing pane, + Till the glassy splinters fall. + + A moody knight by the fitful light + Of the great hall fire below; + A corpse upstairs, and a woman at prayers, + Will they profit her, aye or no? + By'r lady fain, an' she comfort gain, + There is comfort for us also. + + The guests were gone, save Sir Hugh alone, + And he watched the gleams that broke + On the pale hearth-stone, and flickered and shone + On the panels of polish'd oak; + He was 'ware of no presence except his own + Till the voice of young Margaret spoke: + + "I've risen, Sir Hugh, at the mirk midnight, + I cannot sleep in my bed, + Now, unless my tale can be told aright, + I wot it were best unsaid; + It lies, the blood of yon northern knight, + On my lady's hand and head." + + "Oh! the wild wind raves and rushes along, + But thy ravings seem more wild-- + She never could do so foul a wrong-- + Yet I blame thee not, my child, + For the fever'd dreams on thy rest that throng!" + He frown'd though his speech was mild. + + "Let storm winds eddy, and scream, and hurl + Their wrath, they disturb me naught; + The daughter she of a high-born earl, + No secret of hers I've sought; + I am but the child of a peasant churl, + Yet look to the proofs I've brought; + + "This dagger snapp'd so close to the hilt-- + Dost remember thy token well? + Will it match with the broken blade that spilt + His life in the western dell? + Nay! read her handwriting an' thou wilt, + From her paramour's breast it fell." + + The knight in silence the letter read, + Oh! the characters well he knew! + And his face might have match'd the face of the dead, + So ashen white was its hue! + Then he tore the parchment shred by shred, + And the strips in the flames he threw. + + And he muttered, "Densely those shadows fall + In the copse where the alders thicken; + There she bade him come to her, once for all-- + Now, I well may shudder and sicken;-- + Gramercy! that hand so white and small, + How strongly it must have stricken." + + * * * * * + + At midnight hour, in the western tower, + Alone with the dead man there, + Lady Mabel kneels, nor heeds nor feels + The shock of the rushing air, + Though the gusts that pass through the riven glass + Have scattered her raven hair. + + Across the floor, through the opening door, + Where standeth a stately knight, + The lamplight streams, and flickers, and gleams, + On his features stern and white-- + 'Tis Sir Hugh de Vere, and he cometh more near, + And the lady standeth upright. + + "'Tis little," he said, "that I know or care + Of the guilt (if guilt there be) + That lies 'twixt thee and yon dead man there, + Nor matters it now to me; + I thought thee pure, thou art only fair, + And to-morrow I cross the sea. + + "He perish'd! I ask not why or how? + I come to recall my troth; + Take back, my lady, thy broken vow, + Give back my allegiance oath; + Let the past be buried between us now + For ever--'tis best for both. + + "Yet, Mabel, I could ask, dost thou dare + Lay hand on that corpse's heart, + And call on thy Maker, and boldly swear, + That thou hadst in his death no part? + I ask not, while threescore proofs I share + With one doubt--uncondemn'd thou art." + + Oh! cold and bleak upon Mabel's cheek + Came the blast of the storm-wind keen, + And her tresses black, as the glossy back + Of the raven, glanced between + Her fingers slight, like the ivory white, + As she parted their sable sheen. + + Yet with steady lip, and with fearless eye, + And with cheek like the flush of dawn, + Unflinchingly she spoke in reply-- + "Go hence with the break of morn, + I will neither confess, nor yet deny, + I will return thee scorn for scorn." + + The knight bow'd low as he turn'd to go; + He travell'd by land and sea, + But naught of his future fate I know, + And naught of his fair ladye; + My story is told as, long ago, + My story was told to me. + + + + +Rippling Water + + + The maiden sat by the river side + (The rippling water murmurs by), + And sadly into the clear blue tide + The salt tear fell from her clear blue eye. + "'Tis fixed for better, for worse," she cried, + "And to-morrow the bridegroom claims the bride. + Oh! wealth and power and rank and pride + Can surely peace and happiness buy. + I was merry, nathless, in my girlhood's hours, + 'Mid the waving grass when the bright sun shone, + Shall I be as merry in Marmaduke's towers?" + (The rippling water murmurs on). + + Stephen works for his daily bread + (The rippling water murmurs low). + Through the crazy thatch that covers his head + The rain-drops fall and the wind-gusts blow. + "I'll mend the old roof-tree," so he said, + "And repair the cottage when we are wed." + And my pulses throbb'd, and my cheek grew red, + When he kiss'd me--that was long ago. + Stephen and I, should we meet again, + Not as we've met in days that are gone, + Will my pulses throb with pleasure or pain? + (The rippling water murmurs on). + + Old Giles, the gardener, strok'd my curls + (The rippling water murmurs past), + Quoth he, "In laces and silks and pearls + My child will see her reflection cast; + Now I trust in my heart that your lord will be + Kinder to you than he was to me, + When I lay in the gaol, and my children three, + With their sickly mother, kept bitter fast." + With Marmaduke now my will is law, + Marmaduke's will may be law anon; + Does the sheath of velvet cover the claw? + (The rippling water murmurs on). + + Dame Martha patted me on the cheek + (The rippling water murmurs low), + Saying, "There are words that I fain would speak-- + Perhaps they were best unspoken though; + I can't persuade you to change your mind, + And useless warnings are scarcely kind, + And I may be foolish as well as blind, + But take my blessing whether or no." + Dame Martha's wise, though her hair is white, + Her sense is good, though her sight is gone-- + Can she really be gifted with second sight? + (The rippling water murmurs on). + + Brian of Hawksmede came to our cot + (The rippling water murmurs by), + Scatter'd the sods of our garden plot, + Riding his roan horse recklessly; + Trinket and token and tress of hair, + He flung them down at the door-step there, + Said, "Elsie! ask your lord, if you dare, + Who gave him the blow as well as the lie." + That evening I mentioned Brian's name, + And Marmaduke's face grew white and wan, + Am I pledged to one of a spirit so tame? + (The rippling water murmurs on). + + Brian is headstrong, rash, and vain + (The rippling water murmurs still), + Stephen is somewhat duller of brain, + Slower of speech, and milder of will; + Stephen must toil a living to gain, + Plough and harrow and gather the grain; + Brian has little enough to maintain + The station in life which he needs must fill; + Both are fearless and kind and frank, + But we can't win all gifts under the sun-- + What have I won save riches and rank? + (The rippling water murmurs on). + + Riches and rank, and what beside? + (The rippling water murmurs yet), + The mansion is stately, the manor is wide, + Their lord for a while may pamper and pet; + Liveried lackeys may jeer aside, + Though the peasant girl is their master's bride, + At her shyness, mingled with awkward pride,-- + 'Twere folly for trifles like these to fret; + But the love of one that I cannot love, + Will it last when the gloss of his toy is gone? + Is there naught beyond, below, or above? + (The rippling water murmurs on). + + + + +Cui Bono + + + + Oh! wind that whistles o'er thorns and thistles, + Of this fruitful earth like a goblin elf; + Why should he labour to help his neighbour + Who feels too reckless to help himself? + The wail of the breeze in the bending trees + Is something between a laugh and a groan; + And the hollow roar of the surf on the shore + Is a dull, discordant monotone; + I wish I could guess what sense they express, + There's a meaning, doubtless, in every sound, + Yet no one can tell, and it may be as well-- + Whom would it profit?--The world goes round! + + On this earth so rough we know quite enough, + And, I sometimes fancy, a little too much; + The sage may be wiser than clown or than kaiser, + Is he more to be envied for being such? + Neither more nor less, in his idleness + The sage is doom'd to vexation sure; + The kaiser may rule, but the slippery stool, + That he calls his throne, is no sinecure; + And as for the clown, you may give him a crown, + Maybe he'll thank you, and maybe not, + And before you can wink he may spend it in drink-- + To whom does it profit?--We ripe and rot! + + Yet under the sun much work is done + By clown and kaiser, by serf and sage; + All sow and some reap, and few gather the heap + Of the garner'd grain of a by-gone age. + By sea or by soil man is bound to toil, + And the dreamer, waiting for time and tide, + For awhile may shirk his share of the work, + But he grows with his dream dissatisfied; + He may climb to the edge of the beetling ledge, + Where the loose crag topples and well-nigh reels + 'Neath the lashing gale, but the tonic will fail-- + What does it profit?--Wheels within wheels! + + Aye! work we must, or with idlers rust, + And eat we must our bodies to nurse; + Some folk grow fatter--what does it matter? + I'm blest if I do--quite the reverse; + 'Tis a weary round to which we are bound, + The same thing over and over again; + Much toil and trouble, and a glittering bubble, + That rises and bursts, is the best we gain; + And we murmur, and yet 'tis certain we get + What good we deserve--can we hope for more?-- + They are roaring, those waves, in their echoing caves-- + To whom do they profit?--Let them roar! + + + + +Bellona + + + + Thou art moulded in marble impassive, + False goddess, fair statue of strife, + Yet standest on pedestal massive, + A symbol and token of life. + Thou art still, not with stillness of languor, + And calm, not with calm boding rest; + For thine is all wrath and all anger + That throbs far and near in the breast + Of man, by thy presence possess'd. + + With the brow of a fallen archangel, + The lips of a beautiful fiend, + And locks that are snake-like to strangle, + And eyes from whose depths may be glean'd + The presence of passions, that tremble + Unbidden, yet shine as they may + Through features too proud to dissemble, + Too cold and too calm to betray + Their secrets to creatures of clay. + + Thy breath stirreth faction and party, + Men rise, and no voice can avail + To stay them--rose-tinted Astarte + Herself at thy presence turns pale. + For deeper and richer the crimson + That gathers behind thee throws forth + A halo thy raiment and limbs on, + And leaves a red track in the path + That flows from thy wine-press of wrath. + + For behind thee red rivulets trickle, + Men fall by thy hands swift and lithe, + As corn falleth down to the sickle, + As grass falleth down to the scythe, + Thine arm, strong and cruel, and shapely, + Lifts high the sharp, pitiless lance, + And rapine and ruin and rape lie + Around thee. The Furies advance, + And Ares awakes from his trance. + + We, too, with our bodies thus weakly, + With hearts hard and dangerous, thus + We owe thee--the saints suffered meekly + Their wrongs--it is not so with us. + Some share of thy strength thou hast given + To mortals refusing in vain + Thine aid. We have suffered and striven + Till we have grown reckless of pain, + Though feeble of heart and of brain. + + Fair spirit, alluring if wicked, + False deity, terribly real, + Our senses are trapp'd, our souls tricked + By thee and thy hollow ideal. + The soldier who falls in his harness, + And strikes his last stroke with slack hand, + On his dead face thy wrath and thy scorn is + Imprinted. Oh! seeks he a land + Where he shall escape thy command? + + When the blood of thy victims lies red on + That stricken field, fiercest and last, + In the sunset that gilds Armageddon + With battle-drift still overcast-- + When the smoke of thy hot conflagrations + O'ershadows the earth as with wings, + Where nations have fought against nations, + And kings have encounter'd with kings, + When cometh the end of all things-- + + Then those who have patiently waited, + And borne, unresisting, the pain + Of thy vengeance unglutted, unsated, + Shall they be rewarded again? + Then those who, enticed by thy laurels, + Or urged by thy promptings unblest, + Have striven and stricken in quarrels, + Shall they, too, find pardon and rest? + We know not, yet hope for the best. + + + + +The Song of the Surf + + + + White steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roar + On the bar of ironstone steep, not a fathom's length from the shore, + Is there never a seer nor sophist can interpret your wild refrain, + When speech the harshest and roughest is seldom studied in vain? + My ears are constantly smitten by that dreary monotone, + In a hieroglyphic 'tis written--'tis spoken in a tongue unknown; + Gathering, growing, and swelling, and surging, and shivering, say! + What is the tale you are telling? What is the drift of your lay? + + You come, and your crests are hoary with the foam of your countless + years; + You break, with a rainbow of glory, + through the spray of your glittering tears. + Is your song a song of gladness? a paean of joyous might? + Or a wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs you never can right? + For the empty seat by the ingle? for children 'reft of their sire? + 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 shingle 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 shores 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 ship 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 petitions that in life were ne'er estranged? + + Oh, tell me, sister dear, parting word and parting tear + Never pass'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 shore-boat lies in the morning light, + By the good ship 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 glass 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 lust of the eye, + And naught to the pride of life? + Hast thou pass'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 glasses 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 glasses 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. + Yet some must swim when others sink, + And some must sink when others swim; + Make merry, comrades, eat and drink, + The lights are growing dim. + + I miss the face of one I've loved + (The sunlight settles on the sea)-- + Long since to distant climes he roved, + He had his faults, and so have we; + His name was mentioned here this day, + And it was coupled with a sneer; + I heard, nor had I aught to say, + Though once I held his memory dear. + Who cares, 'mid wines and fruits and flowers, + Though death or danger compass him; + He had his faults, and we have ours, + The lights are growing dim. + + I miss the form of one I know + (The sunlight wanes upon the sea)-- + 'Tis not so very long ago, + We drank his health with three-times-three, + And we were gay when he was here; + And he is gone, and we are gay. + Where has he gone? or far or near? + Good sooth, 'twere somewhat hard to say. + You glance aside, you doubtless think + My homily a foolish whim, + 'Twill soon be ended, eat and drink, + The lights are growing dim. + + The fruit is ripe, the wine is red + (The sunlight fades upon the sea); + To us the absent are the dead, + The dead to us must absent be. + We, too, the absent ranks must join; + And friends will censure and forget: + There's metal base in every coin; + Men vanish, leaving traces yet + Of evil and of good behind, + Since false notes taint the skylark's hymn, + And dross still lurks in gold refined-- + The lights are growing dim. + + We eat and drink or e'er we die + (The sunlight flushes on the sea). + Three hundred soldiers feasted high + An hour before Thermopylae; + Leonidas pour'd out the wine, + And shouted ere he drain'd the cup, + "Ho! comrades, let us gaily dine-- + This night with Pluto we shall sup"; + And if they leant upon a reed, + And if their reed was slight and slim, + There's something good in Spartan creed-- + The lights are growing dim. + + Make merry, comrades, eat and drink + (The sunlight flashes on the sea); + My spirit is rejoiced to think + That even as they were so are we; + For they, like us, were mortals vain, + The slaves to earthly passions wild, + Who slept with heaps of Persians slain + For winding-sheets around them piled. + The dead man's deeds are living still-- + My Festive speech is somewhat grim-- + Their good obliterates their ill-- + The lights are growing dim. + + We eat and drink, we come and go + (The sunlight dies upon the open sea). + I speak in riddles. Is it so? + My riddles need not mar your glee; + For I will neither bid you share + My thoughts, nor will I bid you shun, + Though I should see in yonder chair + Th' Egyptian's muffled skeleton. + One toast with me your glasses fill, + Aye, fill them level with the brim, + De mortuis, nisi bonum, nil! + The lights are growing dim. + + + + +Delilah + + [From a Picture] + + + + The sun has gone down, spreading wide on + The sky-line one ray of red fire; + Prepare the soft cushions of Sidon, + Make ready the rich loom of Tyre. + The day, with its toil and its sorrow, + Its shade, and its sunshine, at length + Has ended; dost fear for the morrow, + Strong man, in the pride of thy strength? + + Like fire-flies, heavenward clinging, + They multiply, star upon star; + And the breeze a low murmur is bringing + From the tents of my people afar. + Nay, frown not, I am but a Pagan, + Yet little for these things I care; + 'Tis the hymn to our deity Dagon + That comes with the pleasant night air. + + It shall not disturb thee, nor can it; + See, closed are the curtains, the lights + Gleam down on the cloven pomegranate, + Whose thirst-slaking nectar invites; + The red wine of Hebron glows brightly + In yon goblet--the draught of a king; + And through the silk awning steals lightly + The sweet song my handmaidens sing. + + Dost think that thy God, in His anger, + Will trifle with nature's great laws, + And slacken those sinews in languor + That battled so well in His cause? + Will He take back that strength He has given, + Because to the pleasures of youth + Thou yieldest? Nay, Godlike, in heaven, + He laughs at such follies, forsooth. + + Oh! were I, for good or for evil, + As great and as gifted as thou, + Neither God should restrain me, nor devil, + To none like a slave would I bow. + If fate must indeed overtake thee, + And feebleness come to thy clay, + Pause not till thy strength shall forsake thee, + Enjoy it the more in thy day. + + Oh, fork'd-tongue of adder, by her pent + In smooth lips!--oh, Sybarite blind! + Oh, woman allied to the serpent! + Oh, beauty with venom combined! + Oh, might overcoming the mighty! + Oh, glory departing! oh, shame! + Oh, altar of false Aphrodite, + What strength is consumed in thy flame! + + Strong chest, where her drapery rustles, + Strong limbs by her black tresses hid! + Not alone by the might of your muscles + Yon lion was rent like a kid! + The valour from virtue that sunders, + Is 'reft of its nobler part; + And Lancelot's arm may work wonders, + But braver is Galahad's heart. + + Sleep sound on that breast fair and ample; + Dull brain, and dim eyes, and deaf ears, + Feel not the cold touch on your temple, + Heed not the faint clash of the shears. + It comes!--with the gleam of the lamps on + The curtains--that voice--does it jar + On thy soul in the night-watch? Ho! Samson, + Upon thee the Philistines are. + + + + +From Lightning and Tempest + + + + The spring-wind pass'd through the forest, and whispered low in the leaves, + And the cedar toss'd her head, and the oak stood firm in his pride; + The spring-wind pass'd through the town, + through the housetops, casements, and eaves, + And whisper'd low in the hearts of the men, and the men replied, + Singing--"Let us rejoice in the light + Of our glory, and beauty, and might; + Let us follow our own devices, and foster our own desires. + As firm as our oaks in our pride, as our cedars fair in our sight, + We stand like the trees of the forest + that brave the frosts and the fires." + + The storm went forth to the forest, the plague went forth to the town, + And the men fell down to the plague, as the trees fell down to the gale; + And their bloom was a ghastly pallor, and their smile was a ghastly frown, + And the song of their hearts was changed to a wild, disconsolate wail, + Crying--"God! we have sinn'd, we have sinn'd, + We are bruis'd, we are shorn, we are thinn'd, + Our strength is turn'd to derision, our pride laid low in the dust, + Our cedars are cleft by Thy lightnings, our oaks are strew'd by Thy wind, + And we fall on our faces seeking Thine aid, though Thy wrath is just." + + + + +Wormwood and Nightshade + + + + The troubles of life are many, + The pleasures of life are few; + When we sat in the sunlight, Annie, + I dreamt that the skies were blue-- + When we sat in the sunlight, Annie, + I dreamt that the earth was green; + There is little colour, if any, + 'Neath the sunlight now to be seen. + + Then the rays of the sunset glinted + Through the blackwoods' emerald bough + On an emerald sward, rose-tinted, + And spangled, and gemm'd;--and now + The rays of the sunset redden + With a sullen and lurid frown, + From the skies that are dark and leaden, + To earth that is dusk and brown. + + To right and to left extended + The uplands are blank and drear, + And their neutral tints are blended + With the dead leaves sombre and sere; + The cold grey mist from the still side + Of the lake creeps sluggish and sure, + Bare and bleak is the hill-side, + Barren and bleak the moor. + + Bright hues and shapes intertwisted, + Fair forms and rich colours;--now + They have flown--if e'er they existed-- + It matters not why or how. + It matters not where or when, dear, + They have flown, the blue and the green, + I thought on what might be then, dear, + Now I think on what might have been. + + What might have been!--words of folly; + What might be!--speech for a fool; + With mistletoe round me, and holly, + Scarlet and green, at Yule. + With the elm in the place of the wattle, + And in lieu of the gum, the oak, + Years back I believed a little, + And as I believed I spoke. + + Have I done with those childish fancies? + They suited the days gone by, + When I pulled the poppies and pansies, + When I hunted the butterfly, + With one who has long been sleeping, + A stranger to doubts and cares, + And to sowing that ends in reaping + Thistles, and thorns, and tares. + + What might be!--the dreams were scatter'd, + As chaff is toss'd by the wind, + The faith has been rudely shattered + That listen'd with credence blind; + Things were to have been, and therefore + They were, and they are to be, + And will be;--we must prepare for + The doom we are bound to dree. + + Ah, me! we believe in evil, + Where once we believed in good, + The world, the flesh, and the devil + Are easily understood; + The world, the flesh, and the devil + Their traces on earth are plain; + Must they always riot and revel + While footprints of man remain? + + Talk about better and wiser, + Wiser and worse are one, + The sophist is the despiser + Of all things under the sun; + Is nothing real but confusion? + Is nothing certain but death? + Is nothing fair save illusion? + Is nothing good that has breath? + + Some sprite, malignant and elfish, + Seems present whispering close, + "All motives of life are selfish, + All instincts of life are gross; + And the song that the poet fashions, + And the love-bird's musical strain, + Are jumbles of animal passions, + Refined by animal pain." + + The restless throbbings and burnings + That hope unsatisfied brings, + The weary longings and yearnings + For the mystical better things, + Are the sands on which is reflected + The pitiless moving lake, + Where the wanderer falls dejected, + By a thirst he never can slake. + + A child blows bubbles that glitter, + He snatches them, they disperse; + Yet childhood's folly is better, + And manhood's folly is worse; + Gilt baubles we grasp at blindly + Would turn in our hands to dross; + 'Tis a fate less cruel than kindly + Denies the gain and the loss. + + And as one who pursues a shadow, + As one who hunts in a dream, + As the child who crosses the meadow, + Enticed by the rainbow's gleam, + I--knowing the course was foolish, + And guessing the goal was pain, + Stupid, and stubborn, and mulish-- + Followed and follow again. + + The sun over Gideon halted, + Holding aloof the night, + When Joshua's arm was exalted, + Yet never retraced his flight; + Nor will he turn back, nor can he, + He chases the future fast; + The future is blank--oh, Annie! + I fain would recall the past. + + There are others toiling and straining + 'Neath burdens graver than mine-- + They are weary, yet uncomplaining-- + I know it, yet I repine; + I know it, how time will ravage, + How time will level, and yet + I long with a longing savage, + I regret with a fierce regret. + + You are no false ideal, + Something is left of you, + Present, perceptible, real, + Palpable, tangible, true; + One shred of your broken necklace, + One tress of your pale, gold hair, + And a heart so utterly reckless, + That the worst it would gladly dare. + + There is little pleasure, if any, + In waking the past anew; + My days and nights have been many; + Lost chances many I rue-- + My days and nights have been many; + Now I pray that they be few, + When I think on the hill-side, Annie, + Where I dreamt that the skies were blue. + + + + +Ars Longa + + [A Song of Pilgrimage] + + + + Our hopes are wild imaginings, + Our schemes are airy castles, + Yet these, on earth, are lords and kings, + And we their slaves and vassals; + Your dream, forsooth, of buoyant youth, + Most ready to deceive is; + But age will own the bitter truth, + "Ars longa, vita brevis." + + The hill of life with eager feet + We climbed in merry morning, + But on the downward track we meet + The shades of twilight warning; + The shadows gaunt they fall aslant, + And those who scaled Ben Nevis, + Against the mole-hills toil and pant, + "Ars longa, vita brevis." + + The obstacles that barr'd our path + We seldom quail'd to dash on + In youth, for youth one motto hath, + "The will, the way must fashion." + Those words, I wot, blood thick and hot, + Too ready to believe is, + But thin and cold our blood hath got, + "Ars longa, vita brevis." + + And "art is long", and "life is short", + And man is slow at learning; + And yet by divers dealings taught, + For divers follies yearning, + He owns at last, with grief downcast + (For man disposed to grieve is)-- + One adage old stands true and fast, + "Ars longa, vita brevis." + + We journey, manhood, youth, and age, + The matron, and the maiden, + Like pilgrims on a pilgrimage, + Loins girded, heavy laden:-- + Each pilgrim strong, who joins our throng, + Most eager to achieve is, + Foredoom'd ere long to swell the song, + "Ars longa, vita brevis." + + At morn, with staff and sandal-shoon, + We travel brisk and cheery, + But some have laid them down ere noon, + And all at eve are weary; + The noontide glows with no repose, + And bitter chill the eve is, + The grasshopper a burden grows, + "Ars longa, vita brevis." + + The staff is snapp'd, the sandal fray'd, + The flint-stone galls and blisters, + Our brother's steps we cannot aid, + Ah me! nor aid our sister's: + The pit prepares its hidden snares, + The rock prepared to cleave is, + We cry, in falling unawares, + "Ars longa, vita brevis." + + Oh! Wisdom, which we sought to win! + Oh! Strength, in which we trusted! + Oh! Glory, which we gloried in! + Oh! puppets we adjusted! + On barren land our seed is sand, + And torn the web we weave is, + The bruised reed hath pierced the hand, + "Ars longa, vita brevis." + + We, too, "Job's comforters" have met, + With steps, like ours, unsteady, + They could not help themselves, and yet + To judge us they were ready; + Life's path is trod at last, and God + More ready to reprieve is, + They know who rest beneath the sod, + "Mors gratum, vita brevis." + + + + +The Last Leap + + + + All is over! fleet career, + Dash of greyhound slipping thongs, + Flight of falcon, bound of deer, + Mad hoof-thunder in our rear, + Cold air rushing up our lungs, + Din of many tongues. + + Once again, one struggle good, + One vain effort;--he must dwell + Near the shifted post, that stood + Where the splinters of the wood, + Lying in the torn tracks, tell + How he struck and fell. + + Crest where cold drops beaded cling, + Small ear drooping, nostril full, + Glazing to a scarlet ring, + Flanks and haunches quivering, + Sinews stiff'ning, void and null, + Dumb eyes sorrowful. + + Satin coat that seems to shine + Duller now, black braided tress, + That a softer hand than mine + Far away was wont to twine, + That in meadows far from this + Softer lips might kiss. + + All is over! this is death, + And I stand to watch thee die, + Brave old horse! with 'bated breath + Hardly drawn through tight-clenched teeth, + Lip indented deep, but eye + Only dull and dry. + + Musing on the husk and chaff + Gather'd where life's tares are sown, + Thus I speak, and force a laugh + That is half a sneer and half + An involuntary groan, + In a stifled tone-- + + "Rest, old friend! thy day, though rife + With its toil, hath ended soon; + We have had our share of strife, + Tumblers in the mask of life, + In the pantomime of noon + Clown and pantaloon. + + "With the flash that ends thy pain + Respite and oblivion blest + Come to greet thee. I in vain + Fall: I rise to fall again: + Thou hast fallen to thy rest-- + And thy fall is best!" + + + + +Quare Fatigasti + + + + Two years ago I was thinking + On the changes that years bring forth; + Now I stand where I then stood drinking + The gust and the salt sea froth; + And the shuddering wave strikes, linking + With the waves subsiding and sinking, + And clots the coast herbage, shrinking, + With the hue of the white cere-cloth. + + Is there aught worth losing or keeping? + The bitters or sweets men quaff? + The sowing or the doubtful reaping? + The harvest of grain or chaff? + Or squandering days or heaping, + Or waking seasons or sleeping, + The laughter that dries the weeping, + Or the weeping that drowns the laugh? + + For joys wax dim and woes deaden, + We forget the sorrowful biers, + And the garlands glad that have fled in + The merciful march of years; + And the sunny skies, and the leaden, + And the faces that pale or redden, + And the smiles that lovers are wed in + Who are born and buried in tears. + + And the myrtle bloom turns hoary, + And the blush of the rose decays, + And sodden with sweat and gory + Are the hard won laurels and bays; + We are neither joyous nor sorry + When time has ended our story, + And blotted out grief and glory, + And pain, and pleasure, and praise. + + Weigh justly, throw good and bad in + The scales, will the balance veer + With the joys or the sorrows had in + The sum of a life's career? + In the end, spite of dreams that sadden + The sad or the sanguine madden, + There is nothing to grieve or gladden, + There is nothing to hope or fear. + + "Thou hast gone astray," quoth the preacher, + "In the gall of thy bitterness," + Thou hast taught me in vain, oh, teacher! + I neither blame thee nor bless; + If bitter is sure and sweet sure, + These vanish with form and feature-- + Can the creature fathom the creature, + Whose Creator is fathomless? + + Is this dry land sure? Is the sea sure? + Is there aught that shall long remain, + Pain, or peril, or pleasure, + Pleasure, or peril, or pain? + Shall we labour or take our leisure, + And who shall inherit treasure, + If the measure with which we measure + Is meted to us again? + + I am slow in learning and swift in + Forgetting, and I have grown + So weary with long sand sifting; + T'wards the mist where the breakers moan + The rudderless bark is drifting, + Through the shoals and the quicksands shifting-- + In the end shall the night-rack lifting, + Discover the shores unknown? + + + + +HIPPODROMANIA; OR, WHIFFS FROM THE PIPE + + In Five Parts + + + + Part I + Visions in the Smoke + + + + Rest, and be thankful! On the verge + Of the tall cliff rugged and grey, + But whose granite base the breakers surge, + And shiver their frothy spray, + Outstretched, I gaze on the eddying wreath + That gathers and flits away, + With the surf beneath, and between my teeth + The stem of the "ancient clay". + + With the anodyne cloud on my listless eyes, + With its spell on my dreamy brain, + As I watch the circling vapours rise + From the brown bowl up to the sullen skies, + My vision becomes more plain, + Till a dim kaleidoscope succeeds + Through the smoke-rack drifting and veering, + Like ghostly riders on phantom steeds + To a shadowy goal careering. + + In their own generation the wise may sneer, + They hold our sports in derision; + Perchance to sophist, or sage, or seer, + Were allotted a graver vision. + Yet if man, of all the Creator plann'd, + His noblest work is reckoned, + Of the works of His hand, by sea or by land, + The horse may at least rank second. + + Did they quail, those steeds of the squadrons light, + Did they flinch from the battle's roar, + When they burst on the guns of the Muscovite, + By the echoing Black Sea shore? + On! on! to the cannon's mouth they stride, + With never a swerve nor a shy, + Oh! the minutes of yonder maddening ride, + Long years of pleasure outvie! + + No slave, but a comrade staunch, in this, + Is the horse, for he takes his share, + Not in peril alone, but in feverish bliss, + And in longing to do and dare. + Where bullets whistle, and round shot whiz, + Hoofs trample, and blades flash bare, + God send me an ending as fair as his + Who died in his stirrups there! + + The wind has slumbered throughout the day, + Now a fitful gust springs over the bay, + My wandering thoughts no longer stray, + I'll fix my overcoat buttons; + Secure my old hat as best I may + (And a shocking bad one it is, by the way), + Blow a denser cloud from my stunted clay, + And then, friend BELL, as the Frenchmen say, + We'll "go back again to our muttons". + + There's a lull in the tumult on yonder hill, + And the clamour has grown less loud, + Though the Babel of tongues is never still, + With the presence of such a crowd. + The bell has rung. With their riders up + At the starting post they muster, + The racers stripp'd for the "Melbourne Cup", + All gloss and polish and lustre; + And the course is seen, with its emerald sheen, + By the bright spring-tide renew'd, + Like a ribbon of green stretched out between + The ranks of the multitude. + + The flag is lowered. "They're off!" "They come!" + The squadron is sweeping on; + A sway in the crowd--a murmuring hum: + "They're here!" "They're past!" "They're gone!" + They came with the rush of the southern surf, + On the bar of the storm-girt bay; + And like muffled drums on the sounding turf + Their hoof-strokes echo away. + + The rose and black draws clear of the ruck, + And the murmur swells to a roar, + As the brave old colours that never were struck, + Are seen with the lead once more. + Though the feathery ferns and grasses wave + O'er the sod where Lantern sleeps, + Though the turf is green on Fisherman's grave, + The stable its prestige keeps. + + Six lengths in front she scours along, + She's bringing the field to trouble; + She's tailing them off, she's running strong, + She shakes her head and pulls double. + Now Minstrel falters and Exile flags, + The Barb finds the pace too hot, + And Toryboy loiters, and Playboy lags, + And the BOLT of Ben Bolt is shot. + + That she never may be caught this day, + Is the worst that the public wish her. + She won't be caught: she comes right away; + Hurrah for Seagull and Fisher! + See, Strop falls back, though his reins are slack, + Sultana begins to tire, + And the top-weight tells on the Sydney crack, + And the pace on "the Gippsland flyer". + + The rowels, as round the turn they sweep, + Just graze Tim Whiffler's flanks; + Like the hunted deer that flies through the sheep, + He strides through the beaten ranks. + Daughter of Omen, prove your birth, + The colt will take lots of choking; + The hot breath steams at your saddle girth, + From his scarlet nostril smoking. + + The shouts of the Ring for a space subside, + And slackens the bookmaker's roar; + Now, Davis, rally; now, Carter, ride, + As man never rode before. + When Sparrowhawk's backers cease to cheer, + When Yattendon's friends are dumb, + When hushed is the clamour for Volunteer-- + Alone in the race they come! + + They're neck and neck; they're head and head; + They're stroke for stroke in the running; + The whalebone whistles, the steel is red, + No shirking as yet nor shunning. + One effort, Seagull, the blood you boast + Should struggle when nerves are strained;-- + With a rush on the post, by a neck at the most, + The verdict for Tim is gained. + + Tim Whiffler wins. Is blood alone + The sine qua non for a flyer? + The breed of his dam is a myth unknown, + And we've doubts respecting his sire. + Yet few (if any) those proud names are, + On the pages of peerage or stud, + In whose 'scutcheon lurks no sinister bar, + No taint of the base black blood. + + Aye, Shorthouse, laugh--laugh loud and long, + For pedigree you're a sticker; + You may be right, I may be wrong, + Wiseacres both! Let's liquor. + Our common descent we may each recall + To a lady of old caught tripping, + The fair one in fig leaves, who d----d us all + For a bite at a golden pippin. + + When first on this rocky ledge I lay, + There was scarce a ripple in yonder bay, + The air was serenely still; + Each column that sailed from my swarthy clay + Hung loitering long ere it passed away, + Though the skies wore a tinge of leaden grey, + And the atmosphere was chill. + But the red sun sank to his evening shroud, + Where the western billows are roll'd, + Behind a curtain of sable cloud, + With a fringe of scarlet and gold; + There's a misty glare in the yellow moon, + And the drift is scudding fast, + There'll be storm, and rattle, and tempest soon, + When the heavens are overcast. + The neutral tint of the sullen sea + Is fleck'd with the snowy foam, + And the distant gale sighs drearilie, + As the wanderer sighs for his home. + The white sea-horses toss their manes + On the bar of the southern reef, + And the breakers moan, and--by Jove, it rains + (I thought I should come to grief); + Though it can't well damage my shabby hat, + Though my coat looks best when it's damp; + Since the shaking I got (no matter where at), + I've a mortal dread of the cramp. + My matches are wet, my pipe's put out, + And the wind blows colder and stronger; + I'll be stiff, and sore, and sorry, no doubt, + If I lie here any longer. + + + + + Part II + The Fields of Coleraine + + + + On the fields of Col'raine there'll be labour in vain + Before the Great Western is ended, + The nags will have toil'd, and the silks will be soil'd, + And the rails will require to be mended. + + For the gullies are deep, and the uplands are steep, + And mud will of purls be the token, + And the tough stringy-bark, that invites us to lark, + With impunity may not be broken. + + Though Ballarat's fast, and they say he can last, + And that may be granted hereafter, + Yet the judge's decision to the Border division + Will bring neither shouting nor laughter. + + And Blueskin, I've heard that he goes like a bird, + And I'm told that to back him would pay me; + He's a good bit of stuff, but not quite good enough, + "Non licuit credere famae." + + Alfred ought to be there, we all of us swear + By the blood of King Alfred, his sire; + He's not the real jam, by the blood of his dam, + So I sha'n't put him down as a flyer. + + Now, Hynam, my boy, I wish you great joy, + I know that when fresh you can jump, sir; + But you'll scarce be in clover, when you're ridden all over, + And punished from shoulder to rump, sir. + + Archer goes like a shot, they can put on their pot, + And boil it to cover expenses; + Their pot will boil over, the run of his dover + He'll never earn over big fences. + + There's a horse in the race, with a blaze on his face, + And we know he can gallop a docker! + He's proved himself stout, of his speed there's no doubt, + And his jumping's according to Cocker. + + When Hynam's outstripp'd, and when Alfred is whipp'd, + To keep him in sight of the leaders, + While Blueskin runs true, but his backers look blue, + For his rider's at work with the bleeders; + + When his carcase of beef brings "the bullock" to grief, + And the rush of the tartan is ended; + When Archer's in trouble--who's that pulling double, + And taking his leaps unextended? + + He wins all the way, and the rest--sweet, they say, + Is the smell of the newly-turned plough, friend, + But you smell it too close when it stops eyes and nose, + And you can't tell your horse from your cow, friend. + + + + + Part III + Credat Judaeus Apella + + + + Dear Bell,--I enclose what you ask in a letter, + A short rhyme at random, no more and no less, + And you may insert it, for want of a better, + Or leave it, it doesn't much matter, I guess; + And as for a tip, why, there isn't much in it, + I may hit the right nail, but first, I declare, + I haven't a notion what's going to win it + (The Champion, I mean), and what's more, I don't care. + Imprimis, there's Cowra--few nags can go quicker + Than she can--and Smith takes his oath she can fly; + While Brown, Jones, and Robinson swear she's a sticker, + But "credat Judaeus Apella", say I. + + There's old Volunteer, I'd be sorry to sneer + At his chance; he'll be there, if he goes at the rate + He went at last year, when a customer queer, + Johnny Higgerson, fancied him lock'd in the straight; + I've heard that the old horse has never been fitter, + I've heard all performances past he'll outvie; + He may gallop a docker, and finish a splitter, + But "credat Judaeus Apella", say I. + + I know what they say, sir, "The Hook" he can stay, sir, + And stick to his work like a sleuth-hound or beagle; + He stays "with a HOOK", and he sticks in the clay, sir; + I'd rather, for choice, pop my money on Seagull; + I'm told that the Sydney division will rue, sir, + Their rashness in front of the stand when they spy, + With a clear lead, the white jacket spotted with blue, sir, + But "credat Judaeus Apella", say I. + + There's The Barb--you may talk of your flyers and stayers, + All bosh--when he strips you can see his eye range + Round his rivals, with much the same look as Tom Sayers + Once wore when he faced the big novice, Bill Bainge. + Like Stow, at our hustings, confronting the hisses + Of roughs, with his queer Mephistopheles' smile; + Like Baker, or Baker's more wonderful MRS., + The terror of blacks at the source of the Nile; + Like Triton 'mid minnows; like hawk among chickens; + Like--anything better than everything else: + He stands at the post. Now they're off! the plot thickens! + Quoth Stanley to Davis, "How is your pulse?" + He skims o'er the smooth turf, he scuds through the mire, + He waits with them, passes them, bids them good-bye! + Two miles and three-quarters, cries Filgate, "He'll tire." + Oh! "credat Judaeus Apella", say I. + + Lest my tale should come true, let me give you fair warning, + You may "shout" some cheroots, if you like, no champagne + For this child--"Oh! think of my head in the morning," + Old chap, you don't get me on that lay again. + The last time those games I look'd likely to try on, + Says Bradshawe, "You'll feel very sheepish and shy + When you are haul'd up and caution'd by D----g----y and L----n," + Oh! "credat Judaeus Apella", say I. + + This writing bad verses is very fatiguing, + The brain and the liver against it combine, + And nerves with digestion in concert are leaguing, + To punish excess in the pen and ink line; + Already I feel just as if I'd been rowing + Hard all--on a supper of onions and tripe + (A thing I abhor), but my steam I've done blowing, + I am, my dear BELL, yours truly, "The Pipe". + + P.S.--Tell J. P., if he fancies a good 'un, + That old chestnut pony of mine is for sale. + N.B.--His forelegs are uncommonly wooden, + I fancy the near one's beginning to fail, + And why shouldn't I do as W----n does oft, + And swear that a cripple is sound--on the Bible-- + Hold hard! though the man I allude to is soft, + He's game to go in for an action of libel. + + + + + Part IV + Banker's Dream + + + + Of chases and courses dogs dream, so do horses-- + Last night I was dozing and dreaming, + The crowd and the bustle were there, and the rustle + Of the silk in the autumn sky gleaming. + + The stand throng'd with faces, the broadcloth and laces, + The booths, and the tents, and the cars, + The bookmakers' jargon, for odds making bargain, + The nasty stale smell of cigars. + + We formed into line, 'neath the merry sunshine, + Near the logs at the end of the railing; + "Are you ready, boys? Go!" cried the starter, and low + Sank the flag, and away we went sailing. + + In the van of the battle we heard the stones rattle, + Some slogging was done, but no slaughter, + A shout from the stand, and the whole of our band + Skimm'd merrily over the water. + + Two fences we clear'd, and the roadway we near'd, + When three of our troop came to trouble; + Like a bird on the wing, or a stone from a sling, + Flew Cadger, first over the double. + + And Western was there, head and tail in the air, + And Pondon was there, too--what noodle + Could so name a horse? I should feel some remorse + If I gave such a name to a poodle. + + In and out of the lane, to the racecourse again, + Craig's pony was first, I was third, + And Ingleside lit in my tracks, with the bit + In his teeth, and came up "like a bird". + + In the van of the battle we heard the rails rattle, + Says he, "Though I don't care for shunning + My share of the raps, I shall look out for gaps, + When the light weight's away with the running." + + At the fence just ahead the outsider still led, + The chestnut play'd follow my leader; + Oh! the devil a gap, he went into it slap, + And he and his jock took a header. + + Says Ingleside, "Mate, should the pony go straight, + You've no time to stop or turn restive;" + Says I, "Who means to stop? I shall go till I drop;" + Says he, "Go it, old cuss, gay and festive." + + The fence stiff and tall, just beyond the log wall, + We cross'd, and the walls, and the water,-- + I took off too near, a small made fence to clear, + And just touch'd the grass with my snorter. + + At the next post and rail up went Western's bang tail, + And down (by the very same token) + To earth went his nose, for the panel he chose + Stood firm and refused to be broken. + + I dreamt someone said that the bay would have made + The race safe if he'd STOOD a while longer; + IF he had,--but, like if, there the panel stands stiff-- + He stood, but the panel stood stronger. + + In and out of the road, with a clear lead still show'd + The violet fluted with amber; + Says Johnson, "Old man, catch him now if you can, + 'Tis the second time round you'll remember." + + At the road once again, pulling hard on the rein, + Craig's pony popp'd in and popp'd out; + I followed like smoke and the pace was no joke, + For his friends were beginning to shout. + + And Ingleside came to my side, strong and game, + And once he appear'd to outstrip me, + But I felt the steel gore, and I shot to the fore, + Only Cadger seem'd likely to whip me. + + In the van of the battle I heard the logs rattle, + His stroke never seem'd to diminish, + And thrice I drew near him, and thrice he drew clear, + For the weight served him well at the finish. + + Ha! Cadger goes down, see, he stands on his crown-- + Those rails take a power of clouting-- + A long sliding blunder--he's up--well, I wonder + If now it's all over but shouting. + + All loosely he's striding, the amateur's riding + All loosely, some reverie locked in + Of a "vision in smoke", or a "wayfaring bloke", + His poetical rubbish concocting. + + Now comes from afar the faint cry, "Here they are," + "The violet winning with ease," + "Fred goes up like a shot," "Does he catch him or not?" + Level money, I'll take the cerise. + + To his haunches I spring, and my muzzle I bring + To his flank, to his girth, to his shoulder; + Through the shouting and yelling I hear my name swelling, + The hearts of my backers grow bolder. + + Neck and neck! head and head! staring eye! nostril spread! + Girth and stifle laid close to the ground! + Stride for stride! stroke for stroke! through one hurdle we've broke! + On the splinters we've lit with one bound. + + And "Banker for choice" is the cry, and one voice + Screams "Six to four once upon Banker;" + "Banker wins," "Banker's beat," "Cadger wins," "A dead heat"-- + Ah! there goes Fred's whalebone a flanker. + + Springs the whip with a crack! nine stone ten on his back, + Fit and light he can race like the devil; + I draw past him--'tis vain; he draws past me again, + Springs the whip! and again we are level. + + Steel and cord do their worst, now my head struggles first! + That tug my last spurt has expended-- + Nose to nose! lip to lip! from the sound of the whip + He strains to the utmost extended. + + How they swim through the air, as we roll to the chair, + Stand, faces, and railings flit past; + Now I spring * * * + from my lair with a snort and a stare, + Rous'd by Fred with my supper at last. + + + + + Part V + Ex Fumo Dare Lucem + ['Twixt the Cup and the Lip] + + + + Prologue + + + Calm and clear! the bright day is declining, + The crystal expanse of the bay, + Like a shield of pure metal, lies shining + 'Twixt headlands of purple and grey, + While the little waves leap in the sunset, + And strike with a miniature shock, + In sportive and infantine onset, + The base of the iron-stone rock. + + Calm and clear! the sea-breezes are laden + With a fragrance, a freshness, a power, + With a song like the song of a maiden, + With a scent like the scent of a flower; + And a whisper, half-weird, half-prophetic, + Comes home with the sigh of the surf;-- + But I pause, for your fancies poetic + Never rise from the level of "Turf". + + Fellow-bungler of mine, fellow-sinner, + In public performances past, + In trials whence touts take their winner, + In rumours that circulate fast, + In strains from Prunella or Priam, + Staying stayers, or goers that go, + You're much better posted than I am, + 'Tis little I care, less I know. + + Alas! neither poet nor prophet + Am I, though a jingler of rhymes-- + 'Tis a hobby of mine, and I'm off it + At times, and I'm on it at times; + And whether I'm off it or on it, + Your readers my counsels will shun, + Since I scarce know Van Tromp from Blue Bonnet, + Though I might know Cigar from the Nun. + + With "visions" you ought to be sated + And sicken'd by this time, I swear + That mine are all myths self-created, + Air visions that vanish in air; + If I had some loose coins I might chuck one, + To settle this question and say, + "Here goes! this is tails for the black one, + And heads for my fav'rite the bay." + + And must I rob Paul to pay Peter, + Or Peter defraud to pay Paul? + My rhymes, are they stale? if my metre + Is varied, one chime rings through all: + One chime--though I sing more or sing less, + I have but one string to my lute, + And it might have been better if, stringless + And songless, the same had been mute. + + Yet not as a seer of visions, + Nor yet as a dreamer of dreams, + I send you these partial decisions + On hackney'd, impoverish'd themes; + But with song out of tune, sung to pass time, + Flung heedless to friends or to foes, + Where the false notes that ring for the last time, + May blend with some real ones, who knows? + + + The Race + + + On the hill they are crowding together, + In the stand they are crushing for room, + Like midge-flies they swarm on the heather, + They gather like bees on the broom; + They flutter like moths round a candle-- + Stale similes, granted, what then? + I've got a stale subject to handle, + A very stale stump of a pen. + + Hark! the shuffle of feet that are many, + Of voices the many-tongued clang-- + "Has he had a bad night?" "Has he any + Friends left?"--How I hate your turf slang; + 'Tis stale to begin with, not witty, + But dull, and inclined to be coarse, + But bad men can't use (more's the pity) + Good words when they slate a good horse. + + Heu! heu! quantus equis (that's Latin + For "bellows to mend" with the weeds), + They're off! lights and shades! silk and satin! + A rainbow of riders and steeds! + And one shows in front, and another + Goes up and is seen in his place, + Sic transit (more Latin)--Oh! bother, + Let's get to the end of the race. + + * * * * * + + See, they come round the last turn careering, + Already Tait's colours are struck, + And the green in the vanguard is steering, + And the red's in the rear of the ruck! + Are the stripes in the shade doom'd to lie long? + Do the blue stars on white skies wax dim? + Is it Tamworth or Smuggler? 'Tis Bylong + That wins--either Bylong or Tim. + + As the shell through the breach that is riven + And sapp'd by the springing of mines, + As the bolt from the thunder-cloud driven, + That levels the larches and pines, + Through yon mass parti-colour'd that dashes + Goal-turn'd, clad in many-hued garb, + From rear to van, surges and flashes + The yellow and black of The Barb. + + Past The Fly, falling back on the right, and + The Gull, giving way on the left, + Past Tamworth, who feels the whip smite, and + Whose sides by the rowels are cleft; + Where Tim and the chestnut together + Still bear of the battle the brunt, + As if eight stone twelve were a feather, + He comes with a rush to the front. + + Tim Whiffler may yet prove a Tartar, + And Bylong's the horse that can stay, + But Kean is in trouble--and Carter + Is hard on the satin-skinn'd bay; + And The Barb comes away unextended, + Hard held, like a second Eclipse, + While behind the hoof-thunder is blended + With the whistling and crackling of whips. + + + Epilogue + + + He wins; yes, he wins upon paper, + He hasn't yet won upon turf, + And these rhymes are but moonshine and vapour, + Air-bubbles and spume from the surf. + So be it, at least they are given + Free, gratis, for just what they're worth, + And (whatever there may be in heaven) + There's little worth much upon earth. + + When, with satellites round them the centre, + Of all eyes, hard press'd by the crowd, + The pair, horse and rider, re-enter + The gate, 'mid a shout long and loud, + You may feel, as you might feel, just landed + Full length on the grass from the clip + Of a vicious cross-counter, right-handed, + Or upper-cut whizzing from hip. + + And that's not so bad if you're pick'd up + Discreetly, and carefully nursed; + Loose teeth by the sponge are soon lick'd up, + And next time you MAY get home first. + Still I'm not sure you'd like it exactly + (Such tastes as a rule are acquired), + And you'll find in a nutshell this fact lie, + Bruised optics are not much admired. + + Do I bore you with vulgar allusions? + Forgive me, I speak as I feel, + I've pondered and made my conclusions-- + As the mill grinds the corn to the meal; + So man striving boldly but blindly, + Ground piecemeal in Destiny's mill, + At his best, taking punishment kindly, + Is only a chopping-block still. + + Are we wise? Our abstruse calculations + Are based on experience long; + Are we sanguine? Our high expectations + Are founded on hope that is strong; + Thus we build an air-castle that crumbles + And drifts till no traces remain, + And the fool builds again while he grumbles, + And the wise one laughs, building again. + + "How came they to pass, these rash blunders, + These false steps so hard to defend?" + Our friend puts the question and wonders, + We laugh and reply, "Ah! my friend, + Could you trace the first stride falsely taken, + The distance misjudged, where or how, + When you pick'd yourself up, stunn'd and shaken, + At the fence 'twixt the turf and the plough?" + + In the jar of the panel rebounding! + In the crash of the splintering wood! + In the ears to the earth shock resounding! + In the eyes flashing fire and blood! + In the quarters above you revolving! + In the sods underneath heaving high! + There was little to aid you in solving + Such questions--the how or the why. + + And destiny, steadfast in trifles, + Is steadfast for better or worse + In great things, it crushes and stifles, + And swallows the hopes that we nurse. + Men wiser than we are may wonder, + When the future they cling to so fast, + To the roll of that destiny's thunder, + Goes down with the wrecks of the past. + + * * * * * + + The past! the dead past! that has swallow'd + All the honey of life and the milk, + Brighter dreams than mere pastimes we've follow'd, + Better things than our scarlet or silk; + Aye, and worse things--that past is it really + Dead to us who again and again + Feel sharply, hear plainly, see clearly, + Past days with their joy and their pain? + + Like corpses embalm'd and unburied + They lie, and in spite of our will, + Our souls on the wings of thought carried, + Revisit their sepulchres still; + Down the channels of mystery gliding, + They conjure strange tales, rarely read, + Of the priests of dead Pharaohs presiding + At mystical feasts of the dead. + + Weird pictures arise, quaint devices, + Rude emblems, baked funeral meats, + Strong incense, rare wines, and rich spices, + The ashes, the shrouds, and the sheets; + Does our thraldom fall short of completeness + For the magic of a charnel-house charm, + And the flavour of a poisonous sweetness, + And the odour of a poisonous balm? + + And the links of the past--but, no matter, + For I'm getting beyond you, I guess, + And you'll call me "as mad as a hatter" + If my thoughts I too freely express; + I subjoin a quotation, pray learn it, + And with the aid of your lexicon tell us + The meaning thereof--"Res discernit + Sapiens, quas confundit asellus." + + Already green hillocks are swelling, + And combing white locks on the bar, + Where a dull, droning murmur is telling + Of winds that have gather'd afar; + Thus we know not the day, nor the morrow, + Nor yet what the night may bring forth, + Nor the storm, nor the sleep, nor the sorrow, + Nor the strife, nor the rest, nor the wrath. + + Yet the skies are still tranquil and starlit, + The sun 'twixt the wave and the west + Dies in purple, and crimson, and scarlet, + And gold; let us hope for the best, + Since again from the earth his effulgence + The darkness and damp-dews shall wipe. + Kind reader, extend your indulgence + To this the last lay of "The Pipe". + + + + +The Roll of the Kettledrum; or, The Lay of the Last Charger + + "You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, + Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? + Of two such lessons, why forget + The nobler and the manlier one?"--Byron. + + + + One line of swart profiles and bearded lips dressing, + One ridge of bright helmets, one crest of fair plumes, + One streak of blue sword-blades all bared for the fleshing, + One row of red nostrils that scent battle-fumes. + + Forward! the trumpets were sounding the charge, + The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran, + That music, like wild-fire spreading at large, + Madden'd the war-horse as well as the man. + + Forward! still forward! we thunder'd along, + Steadily yet, for our strength we were nursing; + Tall Ewart, our sergeant, was humming a song, + Lance-corporal Black Will was blaspheming and cursing. + + Open'd their volley of guns on our right, + Puffs of grey smoke, veiling gleams of red flame, + Curling to leeward, were seen on the height, + Where the batteries were posted, as onward we came. + + Spreading before us their cavalry lay, + Squadron on squadron, troop upon troop; + We were so few, and so many were they-- + Eagles wait calmly the sparrow-hawk's stoop. + + Forward! still forward! steed answering steed + Cheerily neigh'd, while the foam flakes were toss'd + From bridle to bridle--the top of our speed + Was gain'd, but the pride of our order was lost. + + One was there leading by nearly a rood, + Though we were racing he kept to the fore, + Still as a rock in his stirrups he stood, + High in the sunlight his sabre he bore. + + Suddenly tottering, backwards he crash'd, + Loudly his helm right in front of us rung; + Iron hoofs thunder'd, and naked steel flash'd + Over him--youngest, where many were young. + + Now we were close to them, every horse striding + Madly;--St. Luce pass'd with never a groan;-- + Sadly my master look'd round--he was riding + On the boy's right, with a line of his own. + + Thrusting his hand in his breast or breast-pocket, + While from his wrist the sword swung by a chain, + Swiftly he drew out some trinket or locket, + Kiss'd it (I think) and replaced it again. + + Burst, while his fingers reclosed on the haft, + Jarring concussion and earth shaking din, + Horse 'counter'd horse, and I reel'd, but he laugh'd, + Down went his man, cloven clean to the chin! + + Wedged in the midst of that struggling mass, + After the first shock, where each his foe singled, + Little was seen, save a dazzle, like glass + In the sun, with grey smoke and black dust intermingled. + + Here and there redden'd a pistol shot, flashing + Through the red sparkle of steel upon steel! + Redder the spark seem'd, and louder the clashing, + Struck from the helm by the iron-shod heel! + + Over fallen riders, like wither'd leaves strewing + Uplands in autumn, we sunder'd their ranks; + Steeds rearing and plunging, men hacking and hewing, + Fierce grinding of sword-blades, sharp goading of flanks. + + Short was the crisis of conflict soon over, + Being too good (I suppose) to last long; + Through them we cut, as the scythe cuts the clover, + Batter'd and stain'd we emerg'd from their throng. + + Some of our saddles were emptied, of course; + To heaven (or elsewhere) Black Will had been carried! + Ned Sullivan mounted Will's riderless horse, + His mare being hurt, while ten seconds we tarried. + + And then we re-formed, and went at them once more, + And ere they had rightly closed up the old track, + We broke through the lane we had open'd before, + And as we went forward e'en so we came back. + + Our numbers were few, and our loss far from small, + They could fight, and, besides, they were twenty to one; + We were clear of them all when we heard the recall, + And thus we returned, but my tale is not done. + + For the hand of my rider felt strange on my bit, + He breathed once or twice like one partially choked, + And sway'd in his seat, then I knew he was hit;-- + He must have bled fast, for my withers were soak'd, + + And scarcely an inch of my housing was dry; + I slacken'd my speed, yet I never quite stopp'd, + Ere he patted my neck, said, "Old fellow, good-bye!" + And dropp'd off me gently, and lay where he dropp'd! + + Ah, me! after all, they may call us dumb creatures-- + I tried hard to neigh, but the sobs took my breath, + Yet I guess'd gazing down at those still, quiet features, + He was never more happy in life than in death. + + * * * * * + + Two years back, at Aldershot, Elrington mentioned + My name to our colonel one field-day. He said, + "'Count', 'Steeltrap', and 'Challenger' ought to be pension'd;" + "Count" died the same week, and now "Steeltrap" is dead. + + That morning our colonel was riding "Theresa", + The filly by "Teddington" out of "Mistake"; + His girls, pretty Alice and fair-haired Louisa, + Were there on the ponies he purchased from Blake. + + I remember he pointed me out to his daughters, + Said he, "In this troop I may fairly take pride, + But I've none left like him in my officers' quarters, + Whose life-blood the mane of old 'Challenger' dyed." + + Where are they? the war-steeds who shared in our glory, + The "Lanercost" colt, and the "Acrobat" mare, + And the Irish division, "Kate Kearney" and "Rory", + And rushing "Roscommon", and eager "Kildare", + + And "Freeny", a favourite once with my master, + And "Warlock", a sluggard, but honest and true, + And "Tancred", as honest as "Warlock", but faster, + And "Blacklock", and "Birdlime", and "Molly Carew"?-- + + All vanish'd, what wonder! twelve summers have pass'd + Since then, and my comrade lies buried this day,-- + Old "Steeltrap", the kicker,--and now I'm the last + Of the chargers who shared in that glorious fray. + + * * * * * + + Come, "Harlequin", keep your nose out of my manger, + You'll get your allowance, my boy, and no more; + Snort! "Silvertail", snort! when you've seen as much danger + As I have, you won't mind the rats in the straw. + + * * * * * + + Our gallant old colonel came limping and halting, + The day before yesterday, into my stall; + Oh! light to the saddle I've once seen him vaulting, + In full marching order, steel broadsword and all. + + And now his left leg than his right is made shorter + Three inches, he stoops, and his chest is unsound; + He spoke to me gently, and patted my quarter, + I laid my ears back, and look'd playfully round. + + For that word kindly meant, that caress kindly given, + I thank'd him, though dumb, but my cheerfulness fled; + More sadness I drew from the face of the living + Than years back I did from the face of the dead. + + For the dead face, upturn'd, tranquil, joyous, and fearless, + Look'd straight from green sod to blue fathomless sky + With a smile; but the living face, gloomy and tearless, + And haggard and harass'd, look'd down with a sigh. + + Did he think on the first time he kiss'd Lady Mary? + On the morning he wing'd Horace Greville the beau? + On the winner he steer'd in the grand military? + On the charge that he headed twelve long years ago? + + Did he think on each fresh year, of fresh grief the herald? + On lids that are sunken, and locks that are grey? + On Alice, who bolted with Brian Fitzgerald? + On Rupert, his first-born, dishonour'd by "play"? + + On Louey, his darling, who sleeps 'neath the cypress, + That shades her and one whose last breath gave her life? + 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, unobservant, + Since I with man's grief dare to sympathise thus; + Why scoff?--fellow-creature I am, fellow-servant + Of God, can man fathom God'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 shimmer 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, flashing 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 flashing 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 muffled, + 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, + God'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 God 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 passion-- + Here rhyme was first framed without fashion, + 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 cluster by cluster, + Dim stars and dull planets that muster, + Wax wan in a world of white lustre + 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 shine, + 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. + 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 grass, + To wander as we've wandered many a mile, + And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass, + 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 sturdy 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 shoreward + On shallows sheeted with flaming foam. + + A grim, grey coast and a seaboard ghastly, + And shores 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, + God surely loved us a little then. + + The skies were fairer and shores 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-god's rosy splendour, + A tithe 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 shielding a weary lover, + I would have her shield me with shining breast. + + When light in the realms of space 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 cumber'd, + The time he served or the space 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 ship 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 shore. + Ride straight with the news--they may send some relief + From the township; 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, God help them! the ship 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 grasses spoiling with deadwood that day, + Where the blackwood, the box, and the bastard 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 shirt 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 passed him, and led. + + We neared the new fence, we were wide of the track; + I look'd right and left--she had never been tried + At a stiff leap; 'twas little he cared on the black. + "You're more than a mile from the gateway," he cried. + I hung to her head, touched her flank with the spurs + (In the red streak of rail not the ghost of a gap); + She shortened her long stroke, she pricked her sharp ears, + She flung it behind her with hardly a rap-- + I saw the post quiver where Bolingbroke struck, + And guessed that the pace we had come the last mile + Had blown him a bit (he could jump like a buck). + We galloped more steadily then for a while. + + The heath was soon pass'd, in the dim distance lay + The mountain. The sun was just clearing the tips + Of the ranges to eastward. The mare--could she stay? + She was bred very nearly as clean as Eclipse; + She led, and as oft as he came to her side, + She took the bit free and untiring as yet; + Her neck was arched double, her nostrils were wide, + And the tips of her tapering ears nearly met-- + "You're lighter than I am," said Alec at last; + "The horse is dead beat and the mare isn't blown. + She must be a good one--ride on and ride fast, + You know your way now." So I rode on alone. + + Still galloping forward we pass'd the two flocks + At M'Intyre's hut and M'Allister's hill-- + She was galloping strong at the Warrigal Rocks-- + On the Wallaby Range she was galloping still-- + And over the wasteland and under the wood, + By down and by dale, and by fell and by flat, + She gallop'd, and here in the stirrups I stood + To ease her, and there in the saddle I sat + To steer her. We suddenly struck the red loam + Of the track near the troughs--then she reeled on the rise-- + From her crest to her croup covered over with foam, + And blood-red her nostrils, and bloodshot her eyes, + A dip in the dell where the wattle fire bloomed-- + A bend round a bank that had shut out the view-- + Large framed in the mild light the mountain had loomed, + With a tall, purple peak bursting out from the blue. + + I pull'd her together, I press'd her, and she + Shot down the decline to the Company's yard, + And on by the paddocks, yet under my knee + I could feel her heart thumping the saddle-flaps hard. + Yet a mile and another, and now we were near + The goal, and the fields and the farms flitted past; + And 'twixt the two fences I turned with a cheer, + For a green grass-fed mare 'twas a far thing and fast; + And labourers, roused by her galloping hoofs, + Saw bare-headed rider and foam-sheeted steed; + And shone the white walls and the slate-coloured roofs + Of the township. I steadied her then--I had need-- + Where stood the old chapel (where stands the new church-- + Since chapels to churches have changed in that town). + A short, sidelong stagger, a long, forward lurch, + A slight, choking sob, and the mare had gone down. + I slipp'd off the bridle, I slacken'd the girth, + I ran on and left her and told them my news; + I saw her soon afterwards. What was she worth? + How much for her hide? She had never worn shoes. + + + + +No Name + + + "A stone upon her heart and head, + But no name written on that stone; + Sweet neighbours whisper low instead, + This sinner was a loving one."--Mrs. Browning. + + + + 'Tis a nameless stone that stands at your head-- + The gusts in the gloomy gorges whirl + Brown leaves and red till they cover your bed-- + Now I trust that your sleep is a sound one, girl! + + I said in my wrath, when his shadow cross'd + From your garden gate to your cottage door, + "What does it matter for one soul lost? + Millions of souls have been lost before." + + Yet I warn'd you--ah! but my words came true-- + "Perhaps some day you will find him out." + He who was not worthy to loosen your shoe, + Does his conscience therefore prick him? I doubt. + + You laughed and were deaf to my warning voice-- + Blush'd and were blind to his cloven hoof-- + You have had your chance, you have taken your choice + How could I help you, standing aloof? + + He has prosper'd well with the world--he says + I am mad--if so, and if he be sane, + I, at least, give God thanksgiving and praise + That there lies between us one difference plain. + + * * * * * + + You in your beauty above me bent + In the pause of a wild west country ball-- + Spoke to me--touched me without intent-- + Made me your servant for once and all. + + Light laughter rippled your rose-red lip, + And you swept my cheek with a shining curl, + That stray'd from your shoulder's snowy tip-- + Now I pray that your sleep is a sound one, girl! + + From a long way off to look at your charms + Made my blood run redder in every vein, + And he--he has held you long in his arms, + And has kiss'd you over and over again. + + Is it well that he keeps well out of my way? + If we met, he and I--we alone--we two-- + Would I give him one moment's grace to pray? + Not I, for the sake of the soul he slew. + + A life like a shuttlecock may be toss'd + With the hand of fate for a battledore; + But it matters much for your sweet soul lost, + As much as a million souls and more. + + And I know that if, here or there, alone, + I found him, fairly and face to face, + Having slain his body, I would slay my own, + That my soul to Satan his soul might chase. + + He hardens his heart in the public way-- + Who am I? I am but a nameless churl; + But God will put all things straight some day-- + Till then may your sleep be a sound one, girl! + + + + +Wolf and Hound + + + "The hills like giants at a hunting lay + Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay."--Browning. + + + + You'll take my tale with a little salt, + But it needs none, nevertheless, + I was foil'd completely, fairly at fault, + Dishearten'd, too, I confess. + At the splitters' tent I had seen the track + Of horse-hoofs fresh on the sward, + And though Darby Lynch and Donovan Jack + (Who could swear through a ten-inch board) + Solemnly swore he had not been there, + I was just as sure that they lied, + For to Darby all that is foul was fair, + And Jack for his life was tried. + + We had run him for seven miles and more + As hard as our nags could split; + At the start they were all too weary and sore, + And his was quite fresh and fit. + Young Marsden's pony had had enough + On the plain, where the chase was hot; + We breasted the swell of the Bittern's Bluff, + And Mark couldn't raise a trot; + When the sea, like a splendid silver shield, + To the south-west suddenly lay; + On the brow of the Beetle the chestnut reel'd, + And I bid good-bye to M'Crea-- + And I was alone when the mare fell lame, + With a pointed flint in her shoe, + On the Stony Flats: I had lost the game, + And what was a man to do? + + I turned away with no fixed intent + And headed for Hawthorndell; + I could neither eat in the splitters' tent, + Nor drink at the splitters' well; + I knew that they gloried in my mishap, + And I cursed them between my teeth-- + A blood-red sunset through Brayton's Gap + Flung a lurid fire on the heath. + + Could I reach the Dell? I had little reck, + And with scarce a choice of my own + I threw the reins on Miladi's neck-- + I had freed her foot from the stone. + That season most of the swamps were dry, + And after so hard a burst, + In the sultry noon of so hot a sky, + She was keen to appease her thirst-- + Or by instinct urged or impelled by fate-- + I care not to solve these things-- + Certain it is that she took me straight + To the Warrigal water springs. + + I can shut my eyes and recall the ground + As though it were yesterday-- + With a shelf of the low, grey rocks girt round, + The springs in their basin lay; + Woods to the east and wolds to the north + In the sundown sullenly bloom'd; + Dead black on a curtain of crimson cloth + Large peaks to the westward loomed. + I led Miladi through weed and sedge, + She leisurely drank her fill; + There was something close to the water's edge, + And my heart with one leap stood still, + + For a horse's shoe and a rider's boot + Had left clean prints on the clay; + Someone had watered his beast on foot. + 'Twas he--he had gone. Which way? + Then the mouth of the cavern faced me fair, + As I turned and fronted the rocks; + So, at last, I had pressed the wolf to his lair, + I had run to his earth the fox. + + I thought so. Perhaps he was resting. Perhaps + He was waiting, watching for me. + I examined all my revolver caps, + I hitched my mare to a tree-- + I had sworn to have him, alive or dead, + And to give him a chance was loth. + He knew his life had been forfeited-- + He had even heard of my oath. + In my stocking soles to the shelf I crept, + I crawl'd safe into the cave-- + All silent--if he was there he slept + Not there. All dark as the grave. + + Through the crack I could hear the leaden hiss! + See the livid face through the flame! + How strange it seems that a man should miss + When his life depends on his aim! + There couldn't have been a better light + For him, nor a worse for me. + We were coop'd up, caged like beasts for a fight, + And dumb as dumb beasts were we. + + Flash! flash! bang! bang! and we blazed away, + And the grey roof reddened and rang; + Flash! flash! and I felt his bullet flay + The tip of my ear. Flash! bang! + Bang! flash! and my pistol arm fell broke; + I struck with my left hand then-- + Struck at a corpse through a cloud of smoke-- + I had shot him dead in his den! + + + + +De Te + + + + A burning glass of burnished brass, + The calm sea caught the noontide rays, + And sunny slopes of golden grass + And wastes of weed-flower seem to blaze. + Beyond the shining silver-greys, + Beyond the shades of denser bloom, + The sky-line girt with glowing haze + The farthest, faintest forest gloom, + And the everlasting hills that loom. + + We heard the hound beneath the mound, + We scared the swamp hawk hovering nigh-- + We had not sought for that we found-- + He lay as dead men only lie, + With wan cheek whitening in the sky, + Through the wild heath flowers, white and red, + The dumb brute that had seen him die, + Close crouching, howl'd beside the head, + Brute burial service o'er the dead. + + The brow was rife with seams of strife-- + A lawless death made doubly plain + The ravage of a reckless life; + The havoc of a hurricane + Of passions through that breadth of brain, + Like headlong horses that had run + Riot, regardless of the rein-- + "Madman, he might have lived and done + Better than most men," whispered one. + + The beams and blots that Heaven allots + To every life with life begin. + Fool! would you change the leopard's spots, + Or blanch the Ethiopian's skin? + What more could he have hoped to win, + What better things have thought to gain, + So shapen--so conceived in sin? + No life is wholly void and vain, + Just and unjust share sun and rain. + + Were new life sent, and life misspent, + Wiped out (if such to God seemed good), + Would he (being as he was) repent, + Or could he, even if he would, + Who heeded not things understood + (Though dimly) even in savage lands + By some who worship stone or wood, + Or bird or beast, or who stretch hands + Sunward on shining Eastern sands? + + And crime has cause. Nay, never pause + Idly to feel a pulseless wrist; + Brace up the massive, square-shaped jaws, + Unclench the stubborn, stiff'ning fist, + And close those eyes through film and mist + That kept the old defiant glare; + And answer, wise Psychologist, + Whose science claims some little share + Of truth, what better things lay there? + + Aye! thought and mind were there,--some kind + Of faculty that men mistake + For talent when their wits are blind,-- + An aptitude to mar and break + What others diligently make. + This was the worst and best of him-- + Wise with the cunning of the snake, + Brave with the she wolf's courage grim, + Dying hard and dumb, torn limb from limb. + + And you, Brown, you're a doctor; cure + You can't, but you can kill, and he-- + "WITNESS HIS MARK"--he signed last year, + And now he signs John Smith, J.P. + We'll hold our inquest NOW, we three; + I'll be your coroner for once; + I think old Oswald ought to be + Our foreman--Jones is such a dunce,-- + There's more brain in the bloodhound's sconce. + + No man may shirk the allotted work, + The deed to do, the death to die; + At least I think so,--neither Turk, + Nor Jew, nor infidel am I,-- + And yet I wonder when I try + To solve one question, may or must, + And shall I solve it by-and-by, + Beyond the dark, beneath the dust? + I trust so, and I only trust. + + Aye, what they will, such trifles kill. + Comrade, for one good deed of yours, + Your history shall not help to fill + The mouths of many brainless boors. + It may be death absolves or cures + The sin of life. 'Twere hazardous + To assert so. If the sin endures, + Say only, "God, who has judged him thus, + Be merciful to him and us." + + + + +How we Beat the Favourite + + A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup + + + + "Aye, squire," said Stevens, "they back him at evens; + The race is all over, bar shouting, they say; + The Clown ought to beat her; Dick Neville is sweeter + Than ever--he swears he can win all the way. + + "A gentleman rider--well, I'm an outsider, + But if he's a gent who the mischief's a jock? + You swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for the plunder, + He rides, too, like thunder--he sits like a rock. + + "He calls 'hunted fairly' a horse that has barely + Been stripp'd for a trot within sight of the hounds, + A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and Yorick, + And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds. + + "They say we have no test to warrant a protest; + Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward; + The light of their faces they show him--his case is + Prejudged and his verdict already secured. + + "But none can outlast her, and few travel faster, + She strides in her work clean away from The Drag; + You hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter, + Whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag. + + "And p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though they back it, + May fall, or there's no knowing what may turn up; + The mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady, + Keep cool; and I think you may just win the Cup." + + Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle, + Stood Iseult, arching her neck to the curb, + A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry, + A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb. + + Some parting injunction, bestowed with great unction, + I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce, + When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White Surrey, + Came down in a hurry to start us at once. + + "Keep back in the yellow! Come up on Othello! + Hold hard on the chestnut! Turn round on The Drag! + Keep back there on Spartan! Back you, sir, in tartan! + So, steady there, easy!" and down went the flag. + + We started, and Kerr made strong running on Mermaid, + Through furrows that led to the first stake-and-bound, + The crack, half extended, look'd bloodlike and splendid, + Held wide on the right where the headland was sound. + + I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle, + Before her two-thirds of the field got away, + All through the wet pasture where floods of the last year + Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with clay. + + The fourth fence, a wattle, floor'd Monk and Bluebottle; + The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn and ditch, + The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover, + The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire Witch. + + She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock Sparrow, + And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone wall; + And Giles on The Greyling came down at the paling, + And I was left sailing in front of them all. + + I took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed her + Until the Black Bullfinch led into the plough, + And through the strong bramble we bored with a scramble-- + My cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree bough. + + Where furrows looked lighter I drew the rein tighter-- + Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of white foam, + Her flanks mud-bespattered, a weak rail she shattered-- + We landed on turf with our heads turn'd for home. + + Then crash'd a low binder, and then close behind her + The sward to the strokes of the favourite shook; + His rush roused her mettle, yet ever so little + She shortened her stride as we raced at the brook. + + She rose when I hit her. I saw the stream glitter, + A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee, + Between sky and water The Clown came and caught her, + The space that he cleared was a caution to see. + + And forcing the running, discarding all cunning, + A length to the front went the rider in green; + A long strip of stubble, and then the big double, + Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset between. + + She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her, + I found my hands give to her strain on the bit; + She rose when The Clown did--our silks as we bounded + Brush'd lightly, our stirrups clash'd loud as we lit. + + A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone coping-- + The last--we diverged round the base of the hill; + His path was the nearer, his leap was the clearer, + I flogg'd up the straight, and he led sitting still. + + She came to his quarter, and on still I brought her, + And up to his girth, to his breastplate she drew; + A short prayer from Neville just reach'd me, "The devil!" + He mutter'd--lock'd level the hurdles we flew. + + A hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd careering, + All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely heard; + "The green wins!" "The crimson!" The multitude swims on, + And figures are blended and features are blurr'd. + + "The horse is her master!" "The green forges past her!" + "The Clown will outlast her!" "The Clown wins!" "The Clown!" + The white railing races with all the white faces, + The chestnut outpaces, outstretches the brown. + + On still past the gateway she strains in the straightway, + Still struggles, "The Clown by a short neck at most," + He swerves, the green scourges, the stand rocks and surges, + And flashes, and verges, and flits the white post. + + Aye! so ends the tussle,--I knew the tan muzzle + Was first, though the ring-men were yelling "Dead heat!" + A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said, "The mare by + A short head." And that's how the favourite was beat. + + + + +Fragmentary Scenes from the Road to Avernus + + An Unpublished Dramatic Lyric + + + + Scene I + "Discontent" + + LAURENCE RABY. + + + + Laurence: + I said to young Allan M'Ilveray, + Beside the swift swirls of the North, + When, in lilac shot through with a silver ray, + We haul'd the strong salmon fish forth-- + Said only, "He gave us some trouble + To land him, and what does he weigh? + Our friend has caught one that weighs double, + The game for the candle won't pay + Us to-day, + We may tie up our rods and away." + + I said to old Norman M'Gregor, + Three leagues to the west of Glen Dhu-- + I had drawn, with a touch of the trigger, + The best BEAD that ever I drew-- + Said merely, "For birds in the stubble + I once had an eye--I could swear + He's down--but he's not worth the trouble + Of seeking. You once shot a bear + In his lair-- + 'Tis only a buck that lies there." + + I said to Lord Charles only last year, + The time that we topp'd the oak rail + Between Wharton's plough and Whynne's pasture, + And clear'd the big brook in Blakesvale-- + We only--at Warburton's double + He fell, then I finish'd the run + And kill'd clean--said, "So bursts a bubble + That shone half an hour in the sun-- + What is won? + Your sire clear'd and captured a gun." + + I said to myself, in true sorrow, + I said yestere'en, "A fair prize + Is won, and it may be to-morrow + 'Twill not seem so fair in thine eyes-- + Real life is a race through sore trouble, + That gains not an inch on the goal, + And bliss an intangible bubble + That cheats an unsatisfied soul, + And the whole + Of the rest an illegible scroll." + + + + + Scene VII + "Two Exhortations" + + A Shooting-box in the West of Ireland. A Bedchamber. + LAURENCE RABY and MELCHIOR. Night. + + + + Melchior: + Surely in the great beginning God made all things good, and still + That soul-sickness men call sinning entered not without His will. + Nay, our wisest have asserted that, as shade enhances light, + Evil is but good perverted, wrong is but the foil of right. + Banish sickness, then you banish joy for health to all that live; + Slay all sin, all good must vanish, good being but comparative. + Sophistry, you say--yet listen: look you skyward, there 'tis known + Worlds on worlds in myriads glisten--larger, lovelier than our own-- + This has been, and this still shall be, here as there, in sun or star; + These things are to be and will be, those things were to be and are. + Man in man's imperfect nature is by imperfection taught: + Add one cubit to your stature if you can by taking thought. + + Laurence: + Thus you would not teach that peasant, though he calls you "father". + + Melchior: True, + I should magnify this present, mystify that future, too-- + We adapt our conversation always to our hearer's light. + + Laurence: + I am not of your persuasion. + + Melchior: Yet the difference is but slight. + + Laurence: + I, EVEN I, say, "He who barters worldly weal for heavenly worth + He does well"--your saints and martyrs were examples here on earth. + + Melchior: + Aye, in earlier Christian ages, while the heathen empire stood, + When the war 'twixt saints and sages cried aloud for saintly blood, + Christ was then their model truly. Now, if all were meek and pure, + Save the ungodly and the unruly, would the Christian Church endure? + Shall the toiler or the fighter dream by day and watch by night, + Turn the left cheek to the smiter, smitten rudely on the right? + Strong men must encounter bad men--so-called saints of latter days + Have been mostly pious madmen, lusting after righteous praise-- + Or the thralls of superstition, doubtless worthy some reward, + Since they came by their condition hardly of their free accord. + 'Tis but madness, sad and solemn, that these fakir-Christians feel-- + Saint Stylites on his column gratified a morbid zeal. + + Laurence: + By your showing, good is really on a par (of worth) with ill. + + Melchior: + Nay, I said not so; I merely tell you both some ends fulfil-- + Priestly vows were my vocation, fast and vigil wait for me. + You must work and face temptation. Never should the strong man flee, + Though God wills the inclination with the soul at war to be. (Pauses.) + In the strife 'twixt flesh and spirit, while you can the spirit aid. + Should you fall not less your merit, be not for a fall afraid. + Whatsoe'er most right, most fit is you shall do. When all is done + Chaunt the noble Nunc Dimittis--Benedicimur, my son. + [Exit MELCHIOR.] + + Laurence (alone): + Why do I provoke these wrangles? Melchior talks (as well he may) + With the tongues of men and angels. + (Takes up a pamphlet.) What has this man got to say? + (Reads.) Sic sacerdos fatur (ejus nomen quondam erat Burgo.) + Mala mens est, caro pejus, anima infirma, ergo + I nunc, ora, sine mora--orat etiam Sancta Virgo. + (Thinks.) + (Speaks.) So it seems they mean to make her wed the usurer, Nathan Lee. + Poor Estelle! her friends forsake her; what has this to do with me? + Glad I am, at least, that Helen still refuses to discard + Her, through tales false gossips tell + in spite or heedlessness.--'Tis hard!-- + Lee, the Levite!--some few years back Herbert horsewhipp'd him--the cur + Show'd his teeth and laid his ears back. Now his wealth has purchased her. + Must his baseness mar her brightness? Shall the callous, cunning churl + Revel in the rosy whiteness of that golden-headed girl? + (Thinks and smokes.) + (Reads.) Cito certe venit vitae finis (sic sacerdos fatur), + Nunc audite omnes, ite, vobis fabula narratur + Nunc orate et laudate, laudat etiam Alma Mater. + (Muses.) Such has been, and such shall still be, + here as there, in sun or star; + These things are to be and will be, those things were to be and are. + If I thought that speech worth heeding I should--Nay, it seems to me + More like Satan's special pleading than like Gloria Domine. + (Lies down on his couch.) + (Reads.) Et tuquoque frater meus facta mala quod fecisti + Denique confundit Deus omnes res quas tetegisti. + Nunc si unquam, nunc aut nunquam, sanguine adjuro Christi. + + + + + Scene IX + "In the Garden" + + Aylmer's Garden, near the Lake. LAURENCE RABY and ESTELLE. + + + + He: + Come to the bank where the boat is moor'd to the willow-tree low; + Bertha, the baby, won't notice, Brian, the blockhead, won't know. + + She: + Bertha is not such a baby, sir, as you seem to suppose; + Brian, a blockhead he may be, more than you think for he knows. + + He: + This much, at least, of your brother, from the beginning he knew + Somewhat concerning that other made such a fool of by you. + + She: + Firmer those bonds were and faster, Frank was my spaniel, my slave. + You! you would fain be my master; mark you! the difference is grave. + + He: + Call me your spaniel, your starling, take me and treat me as these, + I would be anything, darling! aye, whatsoever you please. + Brian and Basil are "punting", leave them their dice and their wine, + Bertha is butterfly 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 vassal? 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 God 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 breasts 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 passionate prayer + For the soul that he cast away; + Was there nothing that once was created fair + In the potter's perishing 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 assurance 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? + + For nothing on earth is sadder + Than the dream that cheated the grasp, + The flower that turned to the adder, + The fruit that changed to the asp; + When the day-spring in darkness closes, + As the sunset fades from the hills, + With the fragrance of perish'd roses, + With the music of parch'd-up rills. + + When the sands on the sea-shore nourish + Red clover and yellow corn; + When figs on the thistle flourish, + And grapes grow thick on the thorn; + When the dead branch, blighted and blasted, + Puts forth green leaves in the spring, + Then the dream that life has outlasted + Dead comfort to life may bring. + + I have changed the soil and the season, + But whether skies freeze or flame, + The soil they flame on or freeze on + Is changed in little save name; + The loadstone points to the nor'ward, + The river runs to the sea; + And you would have me look forward, + And backward I fain would flee. + + I remember the bright spring garlands, + The gold that spangled the green, + And the purple on fairy far lands, + And the white and the red bloom, seen + From the spot where we last lay dreaming + Together--yourself and I-- + The soft grass beneath us gleaming, + Above us the great grave sky. + + And we spoke thus: "Though we have trodden + Rough paths in our boyish years; + And some with our sweat are sodden, + And some are salt with our tears; + Though we stumble still, walking blindly, + Our paths shall be made all straight; + We are weak, but the heavens are kindly, + The skies are compassionate." + + Is the clime of the old land younger, + Where the young dreams longer are nursed? + With the old insatiable hunger, + With the old unquenchable thirst, + Are you longing, as in the old years + We have longed so often in vain; + Fellow-toilers still, fellow-soldiers, + Though the seas have sundered us twain? + + But the young dreams surely have faded! + Young dreams!--old dreams of young days-- + Shall the new dream vex us as they did? + Or as things worth censure or praise? + Real toil is ours, real trouble, + Dim dreams of pleasure and pride; + Let the dreams disperse like a bubble, + So the toil like a dream subside. + + Vain toil! men better and braver + Rose early and rested late, + Whose burdens than ours were graver, + And sterner than ours their hate. + What fair reward had Achilles? + What rest could Alcides win? + Vain toil!"Consider the lilies, + They toil not neither do spin." + + Nor for mortal toiling nor spinning + Will the matters of mortals mend; + As it was so in the beginning, + It shall be so in the end. + The web that the weavers weave ill + Shall not be woven aright + Till the good is brought forth from evil, + As day is brought forth from night. + + Vain dreams! for our fathers cherish'd + High hopes in the days that were; + And these men wonder'd and perish'd, + Nor better than these we fare; + And our due at last is their due, + They fought against odds and fell; + "En avant, les enfants perdus!" + We fight against odds as well. + + The skies! Will the great skies care for + Our footsteps, straighten our path, + Or strengthen our weakness? Wherefore? + We have rather incurr'd their wrath; + When against the Captain of Hazor + The stars in their courses fought, + Did the skies shed merciful rays, or + With love was the sunshine fraught? + + Can they favour man? Can they wrong man? + The unapproachable skies? + Though these gave strength to the strong man, + And wisdom gave to the wise; + When strength is turn'd to derision, + And wisdom brought to dismay, + Shall we wake from a troubled vision, + Or rest from a toilsome day? + + Nay! I cannot tell. Peradventure + Our very toil is a dream, + And the works that we praise or censure, + It may be, they only seem. + If so, I would fain awaken, + Or sleep more soundly than so, + Or by dreamless sleep overtaken, + The dream I would fain forego. + + For the great things of earth are small things, + The longest life is a span, + And there is an end to all things, + A season to every man, + Whose glory is dust and ashes, + Whose spirit is but a spark, + That out from the darkness flashes, + And flickers out in the dark. + + We remember the pangs that wrung us + When some went down to the pit, + Who faded as leaves among us, + Who flitted as shadows flit; + What visions under the stone lie? + What dreams in the shroud sleep dwell? + For we saw the earth pit only, + And we heard only the knell. + + We know not whether they slumber + Who waken on earth no more, + As the stars of the heights in number, + As sands on the deep sea-shore. + Shall stiffness bind them, and starkness + Enthral them, by field and flood, + Till "the sun shall be turn'd to darkness, + And the moon shall be turn'd to blood." + + We know not!--worse may enthral men-- + "The wages of sin are death"; + And so death passed upon all men, + For sin was born with man's breath. + Then the labourer spent with sinning, + His hire with his life shall spend; + For it was so in the beginning, + And shall be so in the end. + + There is life in the blacken'd ember + While a spark is smouldering yet; + In a dream e'en now I remember + That dream I had lief forget-- + I had lief forget, I had e'en lief + That dream with THIS doubt should die-- + "IF WE DID THESE THINGS IN THE GREEN LEAF, + WHAT SHALL BE DONE IN THE DRY?" + + + + +The Rhyme of Joyous Garde + + + + Through the lattice rushes the south wind, dense + With fumes of the flowery frankincense + From hawthorn blossoming thickly; + And gold is shower'd on grass unshorn, + And poppy-fire on shuddering corn, + With May-dew flooded and flush'd with morn, + And scented with sweetness sickly. + + The bloom and brilliance of summer days, + The buds that brighten, the fields that blaze, + The fruits that ripen and redden, + And all the gifts of a God-sent light + Are sadder things in my shameful sight + Than the blackest gloom of the bitterest night, + When the senses darken and deaden. + + For the days recall what the nights efface, + Scenes of glory and seasons of grace, + For which there is no returning-- + Else the days were even as the nights to me, + Now the axe is laid to the root of the tree, + And to-morrow the barren trunk may be + Cut down--cast forth for the burning. + + Would God I had died the death that day + When the bishop blessed us before the fray + At the shrine of the Saviour's Mother; + We buckled the spur, we braced the belt, + Arthur and I--together we knelt, + And the grasp of his kingly hand I felt + As the grasp of an only brother. + + The body and the blood of Christ we shared, + Knees bended and heads bow'd down and bared, + We listened throughout the praying. + Eftsoon the shock of the foe we bore, + Shoulder to shoulder on Severn's shore, + Till our hilts were glued to our hands with gore, + And our sinews slacken'd with slaying. + + Was I far from Thy Kingdom, gracious Lord, + With a shattered casque and a shiver'd sword, + On the threshold of Mary's chapel? + Pardie! I had well-nigh won that crown + Which endureth more than a knight's renown, + When the pagan giant had got me down, + Sore spent in the deadly grapple. + + May his craven spirit find little grace, + He was seal'd to Satan in any case, + Yet the loser had been the winner; + Had I waxed fainter or he less faint, + Then my soul was free from this loathsome taint, + I had died as a Christian knight--no saint + Perchance, yet a pardon'd sinner. + + But I strove full grimly beneath his weight, + I clung to his poignard desperate, + I baffled the thrust that followed, + And writhing uppermost rose, to deal, + With bare three inches of broken steel, + One stroke--Ha! the headpiece crash'd piecemeal, + And the knave in his black blood wallow'd. + + So I lived for worse--in fulness of time, + When peace for a season sway'd the clime, + And spears for a space were idle, + Trusted and chosen of all the court, + A favoured herald of fair report, + I travell'd eastward, and duly brought + A bride to a queenly bridal. + + Pardie! 'twas a morning even as this + (The skies were warmer if aught, I wis, + Albeit the fields were duller; + Or it may be that the envious spring, + Abash'd at the sight of a fairer thing, + Wax'd somewhat sadder of colouring + Because of her faultless colour). + + With her through the Lyonesse I rode, + Till the woods with the noontide fervour glow'd, + And there for a space we halted, + Where the intertwining branches made + Cool carpets of olive-tinted shade, + And the floors with fretwork of flame inlaid + From leafy lattices vaulted. + + And scarf and mantle for her I spread, + And strewed them over the grassiest bed, + And under the greenest awning, + And loosen'd latch and buckle, and freed + From selle and housing the red roan steed, + And the jennet of swift Iberian breed, + That had carried us since the dawning. + + The brown thrush sang through the briar and bower, + All flush'd or frosted with forest flower + In the warm sun's wanton glances; + And I grew deaf to the song bird--blind + To blossom that sweeten'd the sweet spring wind-- + I saw her only--a girl reclined + In her girlhood's indolent trances. + + And the song and the scent and sense wax'd weak, + The wild rose withered beside the cheek + She poised on her fingers slender; + The soft spun gold of her glittering hair + Ran rippling into a wondrous snare, + That flooded the round arm bright and bare, + And the shoulder's silvery splendour. + + The deep dusk fires in those dreamy eyes, + Like seas clear-coloured in summer skies, + Were guiltless of future treason; + And I stood watching her, still and mute, + Yet the evil seed in my soul found root, + And the sad plant throve, and the sinful fruit + Grew ripe in the shameful season. + + Let the sin be mine as the shame was hers, + In desolate days of departed years + She had leisure for shame and sorrow-- + There was light repentance and brief remorse, + When I rode against Saxon foes or Norse, + With clang of harness and clatter of horse, + And little heed for the morrow. + + And now she is dead, men tell me, and I, + In this living death must I linger and lie + Till my cup to the dregs is drunken? + I looked through the lattice worn and grim, + With eyelids darken'd and eyesight dim, + And weary body and wasted limb, + And sinew slacken'd and shrunken. + + She is dead! Gone down to the burial-place, + Where the grave-dews cleave to her faultless face; + Where the grave-sods crumble around her; + And that bright burden of burnish'd gold, + That once on those waxen shoulders roll'd, + Will it spoil with the damps of the deadly mould? + Was it shorn when the church vows bound her? + + Now I know full well that the fair spear shaft + Shall never gladden my hand, nor the haft + Of the good sword grow to my fingers; + Now the maddest fray, the merriest din, + Would fail to quicken this life-stream thin, + Yet the sleepy poison of that sweet sin + In the sluggish current still lingers. + + Would God I had slept with the slain men, long + Or ever the heart conceived a wrong + That the innermost soul abhorred-- + Or ever these lying lips were strained + To her lids, pearl-tinted and purple-vein'd, + Or ever those traitorous kisses stained + The snows of her spotless forehead. + + Let me gather a little strength to think, + As one who reels on the outermost brink, + To the innermost gulf descending. + In that truce the longest and last of all, + In the summer nights of that festival-- + Soft vesture of samite and silken pall-- + The beginning came of the ending. + + And one trod softly with sandal'd feet-- + Ah! why are the stolen waters sweet?-- + And one crept stealthily after; + I would I had taken him there and wrung + His knavish neck when the dark door swung, + Or torn by the roots his treacherous tongue, + And stifled his hateful laughter. + + So the smouldering scandal blazed--but he, + My king, to the last put trust in me-- + Aye, well was his trust requited! + Now priests may patter, and bells may toll, + He will need no masses to aid his soul; + When the angels open the judgment scroll, + His wrong will be tenfold righted. + + Then dawn'd the day when the mail was donn'd, + And the steed for the strife caparison'd, + But not 'gainst the Norse invader. + Then was bloodshed--not by untoward chance, + As the blood that is drawn by the jouster's lance, + The fray in the castle of Melegrance, + The fight in the lists with Mador. + + Then the guilt made manifest, then the siege, + When the true men rallying round the liege + Beleaguer'd his base betrayer; + Then the fruitless parleys, the pleadings vain, + And the hard-fought battles with brave Gawaine, + Twice worsted, and once so nearly slain, + I may well be counted his slayer. + + Then the crime of Modred--a little sin + At the side of mine, though the knave was kin + To the king by the knave's hand stricken. + And the once-loved knight, was he there to save + That knightly king who that knighthood gave? + Ah, Christ! will he greet me as knight or knave + In the day when the dust shall quicken. + + Had he lightly loved, had he trusted less, + I had sinn'd perchance with the sinfulness + That through prayer and penance is pardoned. + Oh, love most loyal! Oh, faith most sure! + In the purity of a soul so pure + I found my safeguard--I sinn'd secure, + Till my heart to the sin grew harden'd. + + We were glad together in gladsome meads, + When they shook to the strokes of our snorting steeds; + We were joyful in joyous lustre + When it flush'd the coppice or fill'd the glade, + Where the horn of the Dane or the Saxon bray'd, + And we saw the heathen banner display'd, + And the heathen lances cluster. + + Then a steel-shod rush and a steel-clad ring, + And a crash of the spear staves splintering, + And the billowy battle blended. + Riot of chargers, revel of blows, + And fierce, flush'd faces of fighting foes, + From croup to bridle, that reel'd and rose, + In a sparkle of sword-play splendid. + + And the long, lithe sword in the hand became + As a leaping light, as a falling flame, + As a fire through the flax that hasted; + Slender, and shining, and beautiful, + How it shore through shivering casque and skull, + And never a stroke was void and null, + And never a thrust was wasted. + + I have done for ever with all these things-- + Deeds that were joyous to knights and kings, + In days that with songs were cherish'd. + The songs are ended, the deeds are done, + There shall none of them gladden me now, not one; + There is nothing good for me under the sun, + But to perish as these things perish'd. + + Shall it profit me aught that the bishop seeks + My presence daily, and duly speaks + Soft words of comfort and kindness? + Shall it aught avail me?"Certes," he said, + "Though thy soul is darken'd, be not afraid-- + God hateth nothing that He hath made-- + His light shall disperse thy blindness." + + I am not afraid for myself, although + I know I have had that light, and I know + The greater my condemnation. + When I well-nigh swoon'd in the deep-drawn bliss + Of that first long, sweet, slow, stolen kiss, + I would gladly have given, for less than this, + Myself, with my soul's salvation. + + I would languish thus in some loathsome den, + As a thing of naught in the eyes of men, + In the mouths of men as a by-word, + Through years of pain, and when God saw fit, + Singing his praises my soul should flit + To the darkest depth of the nethermost pit, + If HERS could be wafted skyward. + + Lord Christ! have patience a little while, + I have sinn'd because I am utterly vile, + Having light, loving darkness rather. + And I pray Thee deal with me as Thou wilt, + Yet the blood of Thy foes I have freely spilt, + And, moreover, mine is the greater guilt + In the sight of Thee and Thy Father. + + That saint, Thy servant, was counted dear + Whose sword in the garden grazed the ear + Of Thine enemy, Lord Redeemer! + Not thus on the shattering visor jarr'd + In this hand the iron of the hilt cross-barr'd, + When the blade was swallow'd up to the guard + Through the teeth of the strong blasphemer. + + If ever I smote as a man should smite, + If I struck one stroke that seem'd good in Thy sight, + By Thy loving mercy prevailing, + Lord! let her stand in the light of Thy face, + Cloth'd with Thy love and crown'd with Thy grace, + When I gnash my teeth in the terrible place + That is fill'd with weeping and wailing. + + Shall I comfort my soul on account of this? + In the world to come, whatsoever it is, + There is no more earthly ill-doing-- + For the dusty darkness shall slay desire, + And the chaff may burn with unquenchable fire, + But for green wild growth of thistle and briar + At least there is no renewing. + + And this grievous burden of life shall change + In the dim hereafter, dreamy and strange, + And sorrows and joys diurnal. + And partial blessings and perishing ills + Shall fade in the praise, or the pang that fills + The glory of God's eternal hills, + Or the gloom of His gulf eternal. + + Yet if all things change to the glory of One + Who for all ill-doers gave His Own sweet Son, + To His goodness so shall He change ill, + When the world as a wither'd leaf shall be, + And the sky like a shrivell'd scroll shall flee, + And souls shall be summon'd from land and sea, + At the blast of His bright archangel. + + + + +Thora's Song + + ("Ashtaroth") + + + + 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 moist'ning 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. + + + + +The Three Friends + + (From the French) + + + + The sword slew one in deadly strife; + One perish'd by the bowl; + The third lies self-slain by the knife; + For three the bells may toll-- + I loved her better than my life, + And better than my soul. + + Aye, father! hast thou come at last? + 'Tis somewhat late to pray; + Life's crimson tides are ebbing fast, + They drain my soul away; + Mine eyes with film are overcast, + The lights are waning grey. + + This curl from her bright head I shore, + And this her hands gave mine; + See, one is stained with purple gore, + And one with poison'd wine; + Give these to her when all is o'er-- + How serpent-like they twine! + + We three were brethren in arms, + And sworn companions we; + We held this motto, "Whoso harms + The one shall harm the three!" + Till, matchless for her subtle charms, + Beloved of each was she. + + (These two were slain that I might kiss + Her sweet mouth. I did well; + I said, "There is no greater bliss + For those in heaven that dwell;" + I lost her; then I said, "There is + No fiercer pang in hell!") + + We have upheld each other's rights, + Shared purse, and borrow'd blade; + Have stricken side by side in fights; + And side by side have prayed + In churches. We were Christian knights, + And she a Christian maid. + + We met at sunrise, he and I, + My comrade--'twas agreed + The steel our quarrel first should try, + The poison should succeed; + For two of three were doom'd to die, + And one was doom'd to bleed. + + We buckled to the doubtful fray, + At first with some remorse; + But he who must be slain, or slay, + Soon strikes with vengeful force. + He fell; I left him where he lay, + Among the trampled gorse. + + Did passion warp my heart and head + To madness? And, if so, + Can madness palliate bloodshed?-- + It may be--I shall know + When God shall gather up the dead + From where the four winds blow. + + We met at sunset, he and I-- + My second comrade true; + Two cups with wine were brimming high, + And one was drugg'd--we knew + Not which, nor sought we to descry; + Our choice by lot we drew. + + And there I sat with him to sup; + I heard him blithely speak + Of by-gone days--the fatal cup + Forgotten seem'd--his cheek + Was ruddy: father, raise me up, + My voice is waxing weak. + + We drank; his lips turned livid white, + His cheeks grew leaden ash; + He reel'd--I heard his temples smite + The threshold with a crash! + And from his hand, in shivers bright, + I saw the goblet flash. + + The morrow dawn'd with fragrance rare, + The May breeze, from the west, + Just fann'd the sleepy olives, where + She heard and I confess'd; + My hair entangled with her hair, + Her breast strained to my breast. + + On the dread verge of endless gloom + My soul recalls that hour; + Skies languishing with balm of bloom, + And fields aflame with flower; + And slow caresses that consume, + And kisses that devour. + + Ah! now with storm the day seems rife, + My dull ears catch the roll + Of thunder, and the far sea strife, + On beach and bar and shoal-- + I loved her better than my life, + And better than my soul. + + She fled! I cannot prove her guilt, + Nor would I an I could; + See, life for life is fairly spilt! + And blood is shed for blood; + Her white hands neither touched the hilt, + Nor yet the potion brew'd. + + Aye! turn me from the sickly south, + Towards the gusty north; + The fruits of sin are dust and drouth, + The end of crime is wrath-- + The lips that pressed her rose-like mouth + Are choked with blood-red froth. + + Then dig the grave-pit deep and wide, + Three graves thrown into one, + And lay three corpses side by side, + And tell their tale to none; + But bring her back in all her pride + To see what she hath done. + + + + +A Song of Autumn + + + + "Where shall we go for our garlands glad + At the falling of the year, + When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad, + When the boughs are yellow and sere? + Where are the old ones that once we had, + And when are the new ones near? + What shall we do for our garlands glad + At the falling of the year?" + + "Child! can I tell where the garlands go? + Can I say where the lost leaves veer + On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow, + When they drift through the dead-wood drear? + Girl! when the garlands of next year glow, + YOU may gather again, my dear-- + But I go where the last year's lost leaves go + At the falling of the year." + + + + +The Romance of Britomarte + + As related by Sergeant Leigh on the night he got his captaincy + at the Restoration. + + + + I'll tell you a story; but pass the "jack", + And let us make merry to-night, my men. + Aye, those were the days when my beard was black-- + I like to remember them now and then-- + Then Miles was living, and Cuthbert there, + On his lip was never a sign of down; + But I carry about some braided hair, + That has not yet changed from the glossy brown + That it showed the day when I broke the heart + Of that bravest of destriers, "Britomarte". + + Sir Hugh was slain (may his soul find grace!) + In the fray that was neither lost nor won + At Edgehill--then to St. Hubert's Chase + Lord Goring despatched a garrison-- + But men and horses were ill to spare, + And ere long the soldiers were shifted fast. + As for me, I never was quartered there + Till Marston Moor had been lost; at last, + As luck would have it, alone, and late + In the night, I rode to the northern gate. + + I thought, as I passed through the moonlit park, + On the boyish days I used to spend + In the halls of the knight lying stiff and stark-- + Thought on his lady, my father's friend + (Mine, too, in spite of my sinister bar, + But with that my story has naught to do)-- + She died the winter before the war-- + Died giving birth to the baby Hugh. + He pass'd ere the green leaves clothed the bough, + And the orphan girl was the heiress now. + + When I was a rude and a reckless boy, + And she a brave and a beautiful child, + I was her page, her playmate, her toy-- + I have crown'd her hair with the field-flowers wild, + Cowslip and crow-foot and colt's-foot bright-- + I have carried her miles when the woods were wet, + I have read her romances of dame and knight; + She was my princess, my pride, my pet, + There was then this proverb us twain between, + For the glory of God and of Gwendoline. + + She had grown to a maiden wonderful fair, + But for years I had scarcely seen her face. + Now, with troopers Holdsworth, Huntly, and Clare, + Old Miles kept guard at St. Hubert's Chase, + And the chatelaine was a Mistress Ruth, + Sir Hugh's half-sister, an ancient dame, + But a mettlesome soul had she forsooth, + As she show'd when the time of her trial came. + I bore despatches to Miles and to her, + To warn them against the bands of Kerr. + + And mine would have been a perilous ride + With the rebel horsemen--we knew not where + They were scattered over that country side,-- + If it had not been for my brave brown mare. + She was iron-sinew'd and satin-skinn'd, + Ribb'd like a drum and limb'd like a deer, + Fierce as the fire and fleet as the wind-- + There was nothing she couldn't climb or clear-- + Rich lords had vex'd me, in vain, to part, + For their gold and silver, with Britomarte. + + Next morn we muster'd scarce half a score, + With the serving men, who were poorly arm'd-- + Five soldiers, counting myself, no more, + And a culverin, which might well have harm'd + Us, had we used it, but not our foes, + When, with horses and foot, to our doors they came, + And a psalm-singer summon'd us (through his nose), + And deliver'd--"This, in the people's name, + Unto whoso holdeth this fortress here, + Surrender! or bide the siege--John Kerr." + + 'Twas a mansion built in a style too new, + A castle by courtesy, he lied + Who called it a fortress--yet, 'tis true, + It had been indifferently fortified-- + We were well provided with bolt and bar-- + And while I hurried to place our men, + Old Miles was call'd to a council of war + With Mistress Ruth and with HER, and when + They had argued loudly and long, those three, + They sent, as a last resource, for me. + + In the chair of state sat erect Dame Ruth; + She had cast aside her embroidery; + She had been a beauty, they say, in her youth, + There was much fierce fire in her bold black eye. + "Am I deceived in you both?" quoth she. + "If one spark of her father's spirit lives + In this girl here--so, this Leigh, Ralph Leigh, + Let us hear what counsel the springald gives." + Then I stammer'd, somewhat taken aback-- + (Simon, you ale-swiller, pass the "jack"). + + The dame wax'd hotter--"Speak out, lad, say, + Must we fall in that canting caitiff's power? + Shall we yield to a knave and a turncoat? Nay, + I had liever leap from our topmost tower. + For a while we can surely await relief; + Our walls are high and our doors are strong." + This Kerr was indeed a canting thief-- + I know not rightly, some private wrong + He had done Sir Hugh, but I know this much, + Traitor or turncoat, he suffer'd as such. + + Quoth Miles--"Enough! your will shall be done; + Relief may arrive by the merest chance, + But your house ere dusk will be lost and won; + They have got three pieces of ordnance." + Then I cried, "Lord Guy, with four troops of horse, + Even now is biding at Westbrooke town; + If a rider could break through the rebel force, + He would bring relief ere the sun goes down; + Through the postern door could I make one dart, + I could baffle them all upon Britomarte." + + Miles mutter'd "Madness!" Dame Ruth look'd grave, + Said, "True, though we cannot keep one hour + The courtyard, no, nor the stables save, + They will have to batter piecemeal the tower, + And thus----" But suddenly she halted there. + With a shining hand on my shoulder laid + Stood Gwendoline. She had left her chair, + And, "Nay, if it needs must be done," she said, + "Ralph Leigh will gladly do it, I ween, + For the glory of God and of Gwendoline." + + I had undertaken a heavier task + For a lighter word. I saddled with care, + Nor cumber'd myself with corselet nor casque + (Being loth to burden the brave brown mare). + Young Clare kept watch on the wall--he cried, + "Now, haste, Ralph! this is the time to seize; + The rebels are round us on every side, + But here they straggle by twos and threes." + Then out I led her, and up I sprung, + And the postern door on its hinges swung. + + I had drawn this sword--you may draw it and feel, + For this is the blade that I bore that day-- + There's a notch even now on the long grey steel, + A nick that has never been rasp'd away. + I bow'd my head and I buried my spurs, + One bound brought the gliding green beneath; + I could tell by her back-flung, flatten'd ears, + She had fairly taken the bit in her teeth-- + (What, Jack, have you drain'd your namesake dry, + Left nothing to quench the thirst of a fly?) + + These things are done, and are done with, lad, + In far less time than your talker tells; + The sward with their hoof-strokes shook like mad, + And rang with their carbines and petronels; + And they shouted, "Cross him and cut him off," + "Surround him," "Seize him," "Capture the clown, + Or kill him," "Shall he escape to scoff + In your faces?" "Shoot him or cut him down." + And their bullets whistled on every side; + Many were near us and more were wide. + + Not a bullet told upon Britomarte; + Suddenly snorting, she launched along; + So the osprey dives where the seagulls dart, + So the falcon swoops where the kestrels throng. + And full in my front one pistol flash'd, + And right in my path their sergeant got. + How are jack-boots jarr'd, how are stirrups clash'd, + While the mare like a meteor past him shot; + But I clove his skull with a backstroke clean, + For the glory of God and of Gwendoline. + + And as one whom the fierce wind storms in the face, + With spikes of hail and with splinters of rain, + I, while we fled through St. Hubert's Chase, + Bent till my cheek was amongst her mane. + To the north, full a league of the deer-park lay, + Smooth, springy turf, and she fairly flew, + And the sound of their hoof-strokes died away, + And their far shots faint in the distance grew. + Loudly I laughed, having won the start, + At the folly of following Britomarte. + + They had posted a guard at the northern gate-- + Some dozen of pikemen and musketeers. + To the tall park palings I turn'd her straight; + She veer'd in her flight as the swallow veers. + And some blew matches and some drew swords, + And one of them wildly hurl'd his pike, + But she clear'd by inches the oaken boards, + And she carried me yards beyond the dyke; + Then gaily over the long green down + We gallop'd, heading for Westbrooke town. + + The green down slopes to the great grey moor, + The grey moor sinks to the gleaming Skelt-- + Sudden and sullen, and swift and sure, + The whirling water was round my belt. + She breasted the bank with a savage snort, + And a backward glance of her bloodshot eye, + And "Our Lady of Andover's" flash'd like thought, + And flitted St. Agatha's nunnery, + And the firs at "The Ferngrove" fled on the right, + And "Falconer's Tower" on the left took flight. + + And over "The Ravenswold" we raced-- + We rounded the hill by "The Hermit's Well"-- + We burst on the Westbrooke Bridge--"What haste? + What errand?" shouted the sentinel. + "To Beelzebub with the Brewer's knave!" + "Carolus Rex and he of the Rhine!" + Galloping past him, I got and gave + In the gallop password and countersign, + All soak'd with water and soil'd with mud, + With the sleeve of my jerkin half drench'd in blood. + + Now, Heaven be praised that I found him there-- + Lord Guy. He said, having heard my tale, + "Leigh, let my own man look to your mare, + Rest and recruit with our wine and ale; + But first must our surgeon attend to you; + You are somewhat shrewdly stricken, no doubt." + Then he snatched a horn from the wall and blew, + Making "Boot and Saddle" ring sharply out. + "Have I done good service this day?" quoth I. + "Then I will ride back in your troop, Lord Guy." + + In the street I heard how the trumpets peal'd, + And I caught the gleam of a morion + From the window--then to the door I reel'd; + I had lost more blood than I reckon'd upon; + He eyed me calmly with keen grey eyes-- + Stern grey eyes of a steel-blue grey-- + Said, "The wilful man can never be wise, + Nathless, the wilful must have his way," + And he pour'd from a flagon some fiery wine; + I drain'd it, and straightway strength was mine. + + * * * * * + + I was with them all the way on the brown-- + "Guy to the rescue!" "God and the king!" + We were just in time, for the doors were down; + And didn't our sword-blades rasp and ring, + And didn't we hew and didn't we hack? + The sport scarce lasted minutes ten-- + (Aye, those were the days when my beard was black; + I like to remember them now and then). + Though they fought like fiends, we were four to one, + And we captured those that refused to run. + + We have not forgotten it, Cuthbert, boy! + That supper scene when the lamps were lit; + How the women (some of them) sobb'd for joy, + How the soldiers drank the deeper for it; + How the dame did honours, and Gwendoline, + How grandly she glided into the hall, + How she stoop'd with the grace of a girlish queen, + And kiss'd me gravely before them all; + And the stern Lord Guy, how gaily he laugh'd, + Till more of his cup was spilt than quaff'd. + + Brown Britomarte lay dead in her straw + Next morn--we buried her--brave old girl! + John Kerr, we tried him by martial law, + And we twisted some hemp for the trait'rous churl; + And she--I met her alone--said she, + "You have risk'd your life, you have lost your mare, + And what can I give in return, Ralph Leigh?" + I replied, "One braid of that bright brown hair." + And with that she bow'd her beautiful head, + "You can take as much as you choose," she said. + + And I took it--it may be, more than enough-- + And I shore it rudely, close to the roots. + The wine or wounds may have made me rough, + And men at the bottom are merely brutes. + Three weeks I slept at St. Hubert's Chase; + When I woke from the fever of wounds and wine, + I could scarce believe that the ghastly face + That the glass reflected was really mine. + I sought the hall--where a wedding HAD BEEN-- + The wedding of Guy and of Gwendoline. + + The romance of a grizzled old trooper's life + May make you laugh in your sleeves: laugh out, + Lads; we have most of us seen some strife; + We have all of us had some sport, no doubt. + I have won some honour and gain'd some gold, + Now that our king returns to his own; + If the pulses beat slow, if the blood runs cold, + And if friends have faded and loves have flown, + Then the greater reason is ours to drink, + And the more we swallow the less we shall think. + + At the battle of Naseby, Miles was slain, + And Huntly sank from his wounds that week; + We left young Clare upon Worcester plain-- + How the "Ironside" gash'd his girlish cheek. + Aye, strut, and swagger, and ruffle anew, + Gay gallants, now that the war is done! + They fought like fiends (give the fiend his due)-- + We fought like fops, it was thus they won. + Holdsworth is living for aught I know, + At least he was living two years ago, + + And Guy--Lord Guy--so stately and stern, + He is changed, I met him at Winchester; + He has grown quite gloomy and taciturn. + Gwendoline!--why do you ask for her? + Died as her mother had died before-- + Died giving birth to the baby Guy! + Did my voice shake? Then am I fool the more. + Sooner or later we all must die; + But, at least, let us live while we live to-night. + The DAYS may be dark, but the LAMPS are bright. + + For to me the sunlight seems worn and wan: + The sun, he is losing his splendour now-- + He can never shine as of old he shone + On her glorious hair and glittering brow. + Ah! those DAYS THAT WERE, when my beard was black, + NOW I have only the NIGHTS THAT ARE. + What, landlord, ho! bring in haste burnt sack, + And a flask of your fiercest usquebaugh. + You, Cuthbert! surely you know by heart + The story of HER and of Britomarte. + + + + +Laudamus + + + + The Lord shall slay or the Lord shall save! + He is righteous whether He save or slay-- + Brother, give thanks for the gifts He gave, + Though the gifts He gave He hath taken away. + Shall we strive for that which is nothing? Nay. + Shall we hate each other for that which fled? + She is but a marvel of modelled clay, + And the smooth, clear white, and the soft, pure red, + That we coveted, shall endure no day. + + Was it wise or well that I hated you + For the fruit that hung too high on the tree? + For the blossom out of our reach that grew, + Was it well or wise that you hated me?-- + My hate has flown, and your hate shall flee. + Let us veil our faces like children chid-- + Can that violet orb we swore by see + Through that violet-vein'd, transparent lid?-- + Now the Lord forbid that this strife should be. + + Would you knit the forehead or clench the fist, + For the curls that never were well caress'd-- + For the red that never was fairly kiss'd-- + For the white that never was fondly press'd? + Shall we nourish wrath while she lies at rest + Between us? Surely our wrath shall cease. + We would fain know better--the Lord knows best-- + Is there peace between us? Yea, there is peace, + In the soul's release she at least is blest. + + Let us thank the Lord for His bounties all, + For the brave old days of pleasure and pain, + When the world for both of us seem'd too small-- + Though the love was void and the hate was vain-- + Though the word was bitter between us twain, + And the bitter word was kin to the blow, + For her gloss and ripple of rich gold rain, + For her velvet crimson and satin snow-- + Though we never shall know the old days again. + + The Lord!--His mercy is great, men say; + His wrath, men say, is a burning brand-- + Let us praise Him whether He save or slay, + And above her body let hand join hand. + We shall meet, my friend, in the spirit land-- + Will our strife renew? Nay, I dare not trust, + For the grim, great gulf that cannot be spann'd + Will divide us from her. The Lord is just, + She shall not be thrust where our spirits stand. + + + + +A Basket of Flowers + + from Dawn to Dusk + + + + Dawn + + + On skies still and starlit + White lustres take hold, + And grey flushes scarlet, + And red flashes gold. + And sun-glories cover + The rose shed above her, + Like lover and lover + They flame and unfold. + + * * * * * + + Still bloom in the garden + Green grass-plot, fresh lawn, + Though pasture lands harden + And drought fissures yawn. + While leaves not a few fall, + Let rose leaves for you fall, + Leaves pearl-strung with dew-fall, + And gold shot with dawn. + + Does the grass-plot remember + The fall of your feet + In autumn's red ember, + When drought leagues with heat, + When the last of the roses + Despairingly closes + In the lull that reposes + Ere storm winds wax fleet? + + Love's melodies languish + In "Chastelard's" strain, + And "Abelard's" anguish + Is love's pleasant pain! + And "Sappho" rehearses + Love's blessings and curses + In passionate verses + Again and again. + + And I!--I have heard of + All these long ago, + Yet never one word of + Their song-lore I know; + Not under my finger + In songs of the singer + Love's litanies linger, + Love's rhapsodies flow. + + Fresh flowers in a basket-- + An offering to you-- + Though you did not ask it, + Unbidden I strew; + With heat and drought striving, + Some blossoms still living + May render thanksgiving + For dawn and for dew. + + The garlands I gather, + The rhymes I string fast, + Are hurriedly rather + Than heedlessly cast. + Yon tree's shady awning + Is short'ning, and warning + Far spent is the morning, + And I must ride fast. + + Songs empty, yet airy, + I've striven to write, + For failure, dear Mary! + Forgive me--Good-night! + Songs and flowers may beset you, + I can only regret you, + While the soil where I met you + Recedes from my sight. + + For the sake of past hours, + For the love of old times, + Take "A Basket of Flowers", + And a bundle of rhymes; + Though all the bloom perish + E'en YOUR hand can cherish, + While churlish and bearish + The verse-jingle chimes. + + And Eastward by Nor'ward + Looms sadly MY track, + And I must ride forward, + And still I look back,-- + Look back--ah, how vainly! + For while I see plainly, + My hands on the reins lie + Uncertain and slack. + + The warm wind breathes strong breath, + The dust dims mine eye, + And I draw one long breath, + And stifle one sigh. + Green slopes, softly shaded, + Have flitted and faded-- + My dreams flit as they did-- + Good-night!--and--Good-bye! + + * * * * * + + + Dusk + + + Lost rose! end my story! + Dead core and dry husk-- + Departed thy glory + And tainted thy musk. + Night spreads her dark limbs on + The face of the dim sun, + So flame fades to crimson + And crimson to dusk. + + + + +A Fragment + + + + They say that poison-sprinkled flowers + Are sweeter in perfume + Than when, untouched by deadly dew, + They glowed in early bloom. + + They say that men condemned to die + Have quaffed the sweetened wine + With higher relish than the juice + Of the untampered vine. + + They say that in the witch's song, + Though rude and harsh it be, + There blends a wild, mysterious strain + Of weirdest melody. + + And I believe the devil's voice + Sinks deeper in our ear + Than any whisper sent from Heaven, + However sweet and clear. + + + [End of Bush Ballads.] + + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS + + + +To My Sister + + Lines written by the late A. L. Gordon + On 4th August, 1853, + Being three days before he sailed for Australia. + + + + Across the trackless seas I go, + No matter when or where, + And few my future lot will know, + And fewer still will care. + My hopes are gone, my time is spent, + I little heed their loss, + And if I cannot feel content, + I cannot feel remorse. + + My parents bid me cross the flood, + My kindred frowned at me; + They say I have belied my blood, + And stained my pedigree. + But I must turn from those who chide, + And laugh at those who frown; + I cannot quench my stubborn pride, + Nor keep my spirits down. + + I once had talents fit to win + Success in life's career, + And if I chose a part of sin, + My choice has cost me dear. + But those who brand me with disgrace + Will scarcely dare to say + They spoke the taunt before my face, + And went unscathed away. + + My friends will miss a comrade's face, + And pledge me on the seas, + Who shared the wine-cup or the chase, + Or follies worse than these. + A careless smile, a parting glass, + A hand that waves adieu, + And from my sight they soon will pass, + And from my memory too. + + I loved a girl not long ago, + And, till my suit was told, + I thought her breast as fair as snow, + 'Twas very near as cold; + And yet I spoke, with feelings more + Of recklessness than pain, + Those words I never spoke before, + Nor never shall again. + + Her cheek grew pale, in her dark eye + I saw the tear-drop shine; + Her red lips faltered in reply, + And then were pressed to mine. + A quick pulsation of the heart! + A flutter of the breath! + A smothered sob--and thus we part, + To meet no more till death. + + And yet I may at times recall + Her memory with a sigh; + At times for me the tears may fall + And dim her sparkling eye. + But absent friends are soon forgot, + And in a year or less + 'Twill doubtless be another's lot + Those very lips to press! + + With adverse fate we best can cope + When all we prize has fled; + And where there's little left to hope, + There's little left to dread! + Oh, time glides ever quickly by! + Destroying all that's dear; + On earth there's little worth a sigh, + And nothing worth a tear! + + What fears have I? What hopes in life? + What joys can I command? + A few short years of toil and strife + In a strange and distant land! + When green grass sprouts above this clay + (And that might be ere long), + Some friends may read these lines and say, + The world has judged him wrong. + + There is a spot not far away + Where my young sister sleeps, + Who seems alive but yesterday, + So fresh her memory keeps; + For we have played in childhood there + Beneath the hawthorn's bough, + And bent our knee in childish prayer + I cannot utter now! + + Of late so reckless and so wild, + That spot recalls to me + That I was once a laughing child, + As innocent as she; + And there, while August's wild flow'rs wave, + I wandered all alone, + Strewed blossoms on her little grave, + And knelt beside the stone. + + I seem to have a load to bear, + A heavy, choking grief; + Could I have forced a single tear + I might have felt relief. + I think my hot and restless heart + Has scorched the channels dry, + From which those sighs of sorrow start + To moisten cheek and eye. + + Sister, farewell! farewell once more + To every youthful tie! + Friends! parents! kinsmen! native shore! + To each and all good-bye! + And thoughts which for the moment seem + To bind me with a spell, + Ambitious hope! love's boyish dream! + To you a last farewell! + + + + +"The Old Leaven" + + A Dialogue + + + + Mark: + So, Maurice, you sail to-morrow, you say? + And you may or may not return? + Be sociable, man! for once in a way, + Unless you're too old to learn. + The shadows are cool by the water side + Where the willows grow by the pond, + And the yellow laburnum's drooping pride + Sheds a golden gleam beyond. + For the blended tints of the summer flowers, + For the scents of the summer air, + For all nature's charms in this world of ours, + 'Tis little or naught you care. + Yet I know for certain you haven't stirred + Since noon from your chosen spot; + And you've hardly spoken a single word-- + Are you tired, or cross, or what? + You're fretting about those shares you bought, + They were to have gone up fast; + But I heard how they fell to nothing--in short, + They were given away at last. + + Maurice: + No, Mark, I'm not so easily cross'd; + 'Tis true that I've had a run + Of bad luck lately; indeed, I've lost; + Well! somebody else has won. + + Mark: + The glass has fallen, perhaps you fear + A return of your ancient stitch-- + That souvenir of the Lady's Mere, + Park palings and double ditch. + + Maurice: + You're wrong. I'm not in the least afraid + Of that. If the truth be told, + When the stiffness visits my shoulder-blade, + I think on the days of old; + It recalls the rush of the freshening wind, + The strain of the chestnut springing, + And the rolling thunder of hoofs behind, + Like the Rataplan chorus ringing. + + Mark: + Are you bound to borrow, or loth to lend? + Have you purchased another screw? + Or backed a bill for another friend? + Or had a bad night at loo? + + Maurice: + Not one of those, you're all in the dark, + If you choose you can guess again; + But you'd better give over guessing, Mark, + It's only labour in vain. + + Mark: + I'll try once more; does it plague you still, + That trifle of lead you carry? + A guest that lingers against your will, + Unwelcome, yet bound to tarry. + + Maurice: + Not so! That burden I'm used to bear, + 'Tis seldom it gives me trouble; + And to earn it as I did then and there, + I'd carry a dead weight double. + A shock like that for a splintered rib + Can a thousand-fold repay-- + As the swallow skims through the spider's web, + We rode through their ranks that day! + + Mark: + Come, Maurice, you sha'n't escape me so! + I'll hazard another guess: + That girl that jilted you long ago, + You're thinking of her, confess! + + Maurice: + Tho' the blue lake flush'd with a rosy light, + Reflected from yonder sky, + Might conjure a vision of Aphrodite + To a poet's or painter's eye; + Tho' the golden drop, with its drooping curl, + Between the water and wood, + Hangs down like the tress of a wayward girl + In her dreamy maidenhood: + Such boyish fancies seem out of date + To one half inclined to censure + Their folly, and yet--your shaft flew straight, + Though you drew your bow at a venture. + I saw my lady the other night + In the crowded opera hall, + When the boxes sparkled with faces bright, + I knew her amongst them all. + Tho' little for these things now I reck, + I singled her from the throng + By the queenly curves of her head and neck, + By the droop of her eyelash long. + Oh! passionless, placid, and calm, and cold, + Does the fire still lurk within + That lit her magnificent eyes of old, + And coloured her marble skin? + For a weary look on the proud face hung, + While the music clash'd and swell'd, + And the restless child to the silk skirt clung + Unnoticed tho' unrepelled. + They've paled, those rosebud lips that I kist, + That slim waist has thickened rather, + And the cub has the sprawling mutton fist, + And the great splay foot of the father. + May the blight---- + + Mark: Hold hard there, Maurice, my son, + Let her rest, since her spell is broken; + We can neither recall deeds rashly done, + Nor retract words hastily spoken. + + Maurice: + Time was when to pleasure her girlish whim, + In my blind infatuation, + I've freely endangered life and limb; + Aye, perilled my soul's salvation. + + Mark: + With the best intentions we all must work + But little good and much harm; + Be a Christian for once, not a Pagan Turk, + Nursing wrath and keeping it warm. + + Maurice: + If our best intentions pave the way + To a place that is somewhat hot, + Can our worst intentions lead us, say, + To a still more sultry spot? + + Mark: + 'Tis said that charity makes amends + For a multitude of transgressions. + + Maurice: + But our perjured loves and our faithless friends + Are entitled to no concessions. + + Mark: + Old man, these many years side by side + Our parallel paths have lain; + Now, in life's long journey, diverging wide, + They can scarcely unite again; + And tho', from all that I've seen and heard, + You're prone to chafe and to fret + At the least restraint, not one angry word + Have we two exchanged as yet. + We've shared our peril, we've shared our sport, + Our sunshine and gloomy weather, + Feasted and flirted, and fenced and fought, + Struggled and toiled together; + In happier moments lighter of heart, + Stouter of heart in sorrow; + We've met and we've parted, and now we part + For ever, perchance, to-morrow. + She's a matron now; when you knew her first + She was but a child, and your hate, + Fostered and cherished, nourished and nursed, + Will it never evaporate? + Your grievance is known to yourself alone, + But, Maurice, I say, for shame, + If in ten long years you haven't outgrown + Ill-will to an ancient flame. + + Maurice: + Well, Mark, you're right; if I spoke in spite, + Let the shame and the blame be mine; + At the risk of a headache we'll drain this night + Her health in a flask of wine; + For a castle in Spain, tho' it never was built; + For a dream, tho' it never came true; + For a cup, just tasted, tho' rudely spilt, + At least she can hold me due. + Those hours of pleasure she dealt of yore, + As well as those hours of pain, + I ween they would flit as they flitted before, + If I had them over again. + Against her no word from my lips shall pass, + Betraying the grudge I've cherished, + Till the sand runs down in my hour-glass, + And the gift of my speech has perished. + Say! why is the spirit of peace so weak, + And the spirit of wrath so strong, + That the right we must steadily search and seek, + Tho' we readily find the wrong? + + Mark: + Our parents of old entailed the curse + Which must to our children cling; + Let us hope, at least, that we're not much worse + Than the founder from whom we spring. + Fit sire was he of a selfish race, + Who first to temptation yielded, + Then to mend his case tried to heap disgrace + On the woman he should have shielded. + Say! comrade mine, the forbidden fruit + We'd have plucked, that I well believe, + But I trust we'd rather have suffered mute + Than have laid the blame upon Eve. + + Maurice (yawning): + Who knows? not I; I can hardly vouch + For the truth of what little I see; + And now, if you've any weed in your pouch, + Just hand it over to me. + + + + +An Exile's Farewell + + + + The ocean heaves around us still + With long and measured swell, + The autumn gales our canvas fill, + Our ship rides smooth and well. + The broad Atlantic's bed of foam + Still breaks against our prow; + I shed no tears at quitting home, + Nor will I shed them now! + + Against the bulwarks on the poop + I lean, and watch the sun + Behind the red horizon stoop-- + His race is nearly run. + Those waves will never quench his light, + O'er which they seem to close, + To-morrow he will rise as bright + As he this morning rose. + + How brightly gleams the orb of day + Across the trackless sea! + How lightly dance the waves that play + Like dolphins in our lee! + The restless waters seem to say, + In smothered tones to me, + How many thousand miles away + My native land must be! + + Speak, Ocean! is my Home the same + Now all is new to me?-- + The tropic sky's resplendent flame, + The vast expanse of sea? + Does all around her, yet unchanged, + The well-known aspect wear? + Oh! can the leagues that I have ranged + Have made no difference there? + + How vivid Recollection's hand + Recalls the scene once more! + I see the same tall poplars stand + Beside the garden door; + I see the bird-cage hanging still; + And where my sister set + The flowers in the window-sill-- + Can they be living yet? + + Let woman's nature cherish grief, + I rarely heave a sigh + Before emotion takes relief + In listless apathy; + While from my pipe the vapours curl + Towards the evening sky, + And 'neath my feet the billows whirl + In dull monotony! + + The sky still wears the crimson streak + Of Sol's departing ray, + Some briny drops are on my cheek, + 'Tis but the salt sea spray! + Then let our barque the ocean roam, + Our keel the billows plough; + I shed no tears at quitting home, + Nor will I shed them now! + + + + +"Early Adieux" + + + + Adieu to kindred hearts and home, + To pleasure, joy, and mirth, + A fitter foot than mine to roam + Could scarcely tread the earth; + For they are now so few indeed + (Not more than three in all), + Who e'er will think of me or heed + What fate may me befall. + + For I through pleasure's paths have run + My headlong goal to win, + Nor pleasure's snares have cared to shun + When pleasure sweetened sin. + Let those who will their failings mask, + To mine I frankly own; + But for them pardon will I ask + Of none--save Heaven alone. + + From carping friends I turn aside; + At foes defiance frown; + Yet time may tame my stubborn pride, + And break my spirit down. + Still, if to error I incline, + Truth whispers comfort strong, + That never reckless act of mine + E'er worked a comrade wrong. + + My mother is a stately dame, + Who oft would chide with me; + She saith my riot bringeth shame, + And stains my pedigree. + I'd reck not what my friends might know, + Or what the world might say, + Did I but think some tears would flow + When I am far away. + + Perchance my mother will recall + My mem'ry with a sigh; + My gentle sister's tears may fall, + And dim her laughing eye; + Perhaps a loving thought may gleam, + And fringe its saddened ray, + When, like a nightmare's troubled dream, + I, outcast, pass away. + + Then once again farewell to those + Whoe'er for me have sighed; + For pleasures melt away like snows, + And hopes like shadows glide. + Adieu, my mother! if no more + Thy son's face thou may'st see, + At least those many cares are o'er + So ofttimes caused by me. + + My lot is fixed! The die is cast! + For me home hath no joy! + Oh, pardon then all follies past, + And bless your wayward boy! + And thou, from whom for aye to part + Grieves more than tongue can tell, + May Heaven preserve thy guileless heart, + Sweet sister, fare thee well! + + Thou, too, whose loving-kindness makes + My resolution less, + While from the bitter past it takes + One half its bitterness, + If e'er you held my mem'ry dear, + Grant this request, I pray-- + Give to that mem'ry one bright tear, + And let it pass away. + + + + +A Hunting Song + + + + Here's a health to every sportsman, be he stableman or lord, + If his heart be true, I care not what his pocket may afford; + And may he ever pleasantly each gallant sport pursue, + If he takes his liquor fairly, and his fences fairly, too. + + He cares not for the bubbles of Fortune's fickle tide, + Who like Bendigo can battle, and like Olliver can ride. + He laughs at those who caution, at those who chide he'll frown, + As he clears a five-foot paling, or he knocks a peeler down. + + The dull, cold world may blame us, boys! but what care we the while, + If coral lips will cheer us, and bright eyes on us smile? + For beauty's fond caresses can most tenderly repay + The weariness and trouble of many an anxious day. + + Then fill your glass, and drain it, too, with all your heart and soul, + To the best of sports--The Fox-hunt, The Fair Ones, and The Bowl, + To a stout heart in adversity through every ill to steer, + And when Fortune smiles a score of friends like those around us here. + + + + +To a Proud Beauty + + "A Valentine" + + + + Though I have loved you well, I ween, + And you, too, fancied me, + Your heart hath too divided been + A constant heart to be. + And like the gay and youthful knight, + Who loved and rode away, + Your fleeting fancy takes a flight + With every fleeting day. + + So let it be as you propose, + Tho' hard the struggle be; + 'Tis fitter far--that goodness knows!-- + Since we cannot agree. + Let's quarrel once for all, my sweet, + Forget the past--and then + I'll kiss each pretty girl I meet, + While you'll flirt with the men. + + + + +Thick-headed Thoughts + + + + No. I + + + I've something of the bull-dog in my breed, + The spaniel is developed somewhat less; + While life is in me I can fight and bleed, + But never the chastising hand caress. + You say the stroke was well intended. "True." + You mention "It was meant to do me good." + "That may be." "You deserve it." "Granted, too." + "Then take it kindly." "No--I never could." + + * * * * * + + How many a resolution to amend + Is made, and broken, as the years run round! + And how can others on your word depend, + When faithless to ourselves we're often found? + I've often swore--"Henceforward I'll reform, + And bid my vices, follies, all take wing." + To keep my promise, 'mid temptation's storm, + I've always found was quite another thing. + + * * * * * + + I saw a donkey going down the road + The other day; a boy was on his back, + Who on the long-eared quadruped bestowed, + With a stout cudgel, many a hearty thwack; + But lazier and lazier grew the beast, + Until he dwindled to a step so slow + That I felt sure 'twould take him, at the least, + Full half-an-hour one blessed mile to go. + + Soliloquising on this state of things, + "That moke's like me," I muttered, with a sigh; + "He might go faster if he'd got some wings, + But Nature's made him better off than I; + For though I've all his obstinacy--aye! all-- + His sullen spirit, and his dogged ways, + I've not one particle, however small, + Of that praiseworthy patience he displays." + + + No. II + + + A man is independent of the world, + And little recks of strife or angry brawl, + If 'gainst a host his banner be unfurled, + Be his heart stout, it matters not at all. + With woman 'tis not so; for she seems hurled + From hand to hand, as is a tennis ball. + How queer that such a difference should be + Between a human he and human she. + + + No. III + + + 'Tis a wicked world we live in; + Wrong in reason, wrong in rhyme; + But no matter: we'll not give in + While we still can come to time. + + Strength's a shadow; Hope is madness, + Love, delusion; Friendship, sham; + Pleasure fades away to sadness, + None of these are worth a d----n. + + There is naught on earth to please us; + All things at the crisis fail. + Friends desert us, bailiffs tease us-- + (To such foes we give leg-bail). + + But a stout heart still maintaining, + Quells the ills we all must meet, + And a spirit fear disdaining + Lays our troubles at our feet. + + So we'll ne'er surrender tamely + To the ills that throng us fast. + If we must die, let's die gamely; + Luck may take a turn at last. + + + [End of Miscellaneous Poems.] + + + + + + +ASHTAROTH: A Dramatic Lyric + + + + Dramatis Personae + + + + HUGO, a Norman Baron and a Scholar. + ERIC, a friend of Hugo's. + THURSTON, | + EUSTACE, | + RALPH, | Followers of Hugo. + HENRY, a Page. + LUKE, | + HUBERT, | Monks living in a Norman Chapel. + BASIL, Abbot of a Convent on the Rhine. + CYRIL, a Monk of the same Convent. + OSRIC, a Norwegian Adventurer, and formerly a Corsair. + RUDOLPH, an Outlawed Count, and the Captain of a Band of Robbers. + DAGOBERT, the Captain of some predatory Soldiers called "Free Lances". + HAROLD, a Danish Knight. + ORION. + THORA, | + AGATHA, | + ELSPETH, a Nurse of Thora's, | + URSULA, Abbess of the Convent on the Rhine, | + NUNS, etc. | Women. + + Men-at-arms, Soldiers, and Robbers; Monks, Friars, and Churchmen, Spirits, + etc. + + + + + Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric + + + + SCENE--A Castle in Normandy. + + A Study in a Tower; HUGO seated at a table covered with maps and charts + of the heavens, astronomical instruments, books, manuscripts, &c. + + + Enter HENRY, a Page. + + Hugo: + Well, boy, what is it? + + Henry: The feast is spread. + + Hugo: + Why tarry the guests for me? + Let Eric sit at the table's head; + Alone I desire to be. [Henry goes out.] + What share have I at their festive board? + Their mirth I can only mar; + To me no pleasure their cups afford, + Their songs on my silence jar. + With an aching eye and a throbbing brain, + And yet with a hopeful heart, + I must toil and strain with the planets again + When the rays of the sun depart; + He who must needs with the topers tope, + And the feasters feast in the hall, + How can he hope with a matter to cope + That is immaterial? + + Orion: + He who his appetite stints and curbs, + Shut up in the northern wing, + With his rye-bread flavoured with bitter herbs, + And his draught from the tasteless spring, + Good sooth, he is but a sorry clown. + There are some good things upon earth-- + Pleasure and power and fair renown, + And wisdom of worldly worth! + There is wisdom in follies that charm the sense, + In follies that light the eyes, + But the folly to wisdom that makes pretence + Is alone by the fool termed wise. + + Hugo: + Thy speech, Orion, is somewhat rude; + Perchance, having jeer'd and scoff'd + To thy fill, thou wilt curb thy jeering mood; + I wot thou hast served me oft. + This plan of the skies seems fairly traced; + What errors canst thou detect? + + Orion: + Nay, the constellations are misplaced, + And the satellites incorrect; + Leave the plan to me; you have time to seek + An hour of needful rest, + The night is young and the planets are weak; + See, the sun still reddens the west. + + Hugo: + I fear I shall sleep too long. + + Orion: If you do + It matters not much; the sky + Is cloudy, the stars will be faint and few; + Now, list to my lullaby. + [Hugo reclines on a couch.] + (Sings.) + Still the darkling skies are red, + Though the day-god's course is run; + Heavenly night-lamps overhead + Flash and twinkle one by one. + Idle dreamer--earth-born elf! + Vainly grasping heavenly things, + Wherefore weariest thou thyself + With thy vain imaginings? + + From the tree of knowledge first, + Since his parents pluck'd the fruit, + Man, with partial knowledge curs'd, + Of the tree still seeks the root; + Musty volumes crowd thy shelf-- + Which of these true knowledge brings? + Wherefore weariest thou thyself + With thy vain imaginings? + + Will the stars from heaven descend? + Can the earth-worm soar and rise? + Can the mortal comprehend + Heaven's own hallow'd mysteries? + Greed and glory, power and pelf-- + These are won by clowns and kings; + Wherefore weariest thou thyself + With thy vain imaginings? + + Sow and reap, and toil and spin; + Eat and drink, and dream and die; + Man may strive, yet never win, + And I laugh the while and cry-- + Idle dreamer, earth-born elf! + Vainly grasping heavenly things, + Wherefore weariest thou thyself + With thy vain imaginings? + + He sleeps, and his sleep appears serene, + Whatever dreams it has brought him-- + [Looks at the plans.] + If he knows what those hieroglyphics mean, + He's wiser than one who taught him. + Why does he number the Pole-star thus? + Or the Pleiades why combine? + And what is he doing with Sirius, + In the devil's name or in mine? + Man thinks, discarding the beaten track, + That the sins of his youth are slain, + When he seeks fresh sins, but he soon comes back + To his old pet sins again. + + + SCENE--The Same. + + HUGO waking, ORION seated near him. Daybreak. + + + Hugo: + Oh, weary spirit! oh, cloudy eyes! + Oh, heavy and misty brain! + Yon riddle that lies 'twixt earth and skies, + Ye seek to explore in vain! + See, the east is grey; put those scrolls away, + And hide them far from my sight; + I will toil and study no more by day, + I will watch no longer by night; + I have labour'd and long'd, and now I seem + No nearer the mystic goal; + Orion, I fain would devise some scheme + To quiet this restless soul; + To distant climes I would fain depart-- + I would travel by sea or land. + + Orion: + Nay, I warn'd you of this, "Short life, long art", + The proverb, though stale, will stand; + Full many a sage from youth to age + Has toil'd to obtain what you + Would master at once. In a pilgrimage, + Forsooth, there is nothing new; + Though virtue, I ween, in change of scene, + And vigour in change of air, + Will always be, and has always been, + And travel is a tonic rare. + Still, the restless, discontented mood + For the time alone is eased; + It will soon return with hunger renew'd, + And appetite unappeased. + Nathless I could teach a shorter plan + To win that wisdom you crave, + That lore that is seldom attain'd by man + From the cradle down to the grave. + + Hugo: + Such lore I had rather do without, + It hath nothing mystic nor awful + In my eye. Nay, I despise and doubt + The arts that are term'd unlawful; + 'Twixt science and magic the line lies plain, + I shall never wittingly pass it; + There is now no compact between us twain. + + Orion: But an understanding tacit. + You have prospered much since the day we met; + You were then a landless knight; + You now have honour and wealth, and yet + I never can serve you right. + + Hugo: + Enough; we will start this very day, + Thurston, Eric, and I, + And the baffled visions will pass away, + And the restless fires will die. + + Orion: + Till the fuel expires that feeds those fires + They smoulder and live unspent; + Give a mortal all that his heart desires, + He is less than ever content. + + + SCENE--A Cliff on the Breton Coast, Overhanging the Sea. + + HUGO. + + + Hugo: + Down drops the red sun; through the gloaming + They burst--raging waves of the sea, + Foaming out their own shame--ever foaming + Their leprosy up with fierce glee; + Flung back from the stone, snowy fountains + Of feathery flakes, scarcely flag + Where, shock after shock, the green mountains + Explode on the iron-grey crag. + + The salt spray with ceaseless commotion + Leaps round me. I sit on the verge + Of the cliff--'twixt the earth and the ocean-- + With feet overhanging the surge. + In thy grandeur, oh, sea! we acknowledge, + In thy fairness, oh, earth! we confess, + Hidden truths that are taught in no college, + Hidden songs that no parchments express. + + Were they wise in their own generations, + Those sages and sagas of old? + They have pass'd; o'er their names and their nations + Time's billows have silently roll'd; + They have pass'd, leaving little to their children, + Save histories of a truth far from strict; + Or theories more vague and bewildering, + Since three out of four contradict. + + Lost labour! vain bookworms have sat in + The halls of dull pedants who teach + Strange tongues, the dead lore of the Latin, + The scroll that is god-like and Greek: + Have wasted life's springtide in learning + Things long ago learnt all in vain; + They are slow, very slow, in discerning + That book lore and wisdom are twain. + + Pale shades of a creed that was mythic, + By time or by truth overcome, + Your Delphian temples and Pythic + Are ruins deserted and dumb; + Your Muses are hush'd, and your Graces + Are bruised and defaced; and your gods, + Enshrin'd and enthron'd in high places + No longer, are powerless as clods; + + By forest and streamlet, where glisten'd + Fair feet of the Naiads that skimm'd + The shallows; where the Oreads listen'd, + Rose-lipp'd, amber-hair'd, marble-limb'd, + No lithe forms disport in the river, + No sweet faces peer through the boughs, + Elms and beeches wave silent for ever, + Ever silent the bright water flows. + + (Were they duller or wiser than we are, + Those heathens of old? Who shall say? + Worse or better? Thy wisdom, O "Thea + Glaucopis", was wise in thy day; + And the false gods alluring to evil, + That sway'd reckless votaries then, + Were slain to no purpose; they revel + Re-crowned in the hearts of us men.) + + Dead priests of Osiris and Isis, + And Apis! that mystical lore, + Like a nightmare, conceived in a crisis + Of fever, is studied no more; + Dead Magian! yon star-troop that spangles + The arch of yon firmament vast + Looks calm, like a host of white angels, + On dry dust of votaries past. + + On seas unexplored can the ship shun + Sunk rocks? Can man fathom life's links, + Past or future, unsolved by Egyptian + Or Theban, unspoken by Sphinx? + The riddle remains still unravell'd + By students consuming night oil. + Oh, earth! we have toil'd, we have travail'd, + How long shall we travail and toil? + + How long? The short life that fools reckon + So sweet, by how much is it higher + Than brute life?--the false gods still beckon, + And man, through the dust and the mire, + Toils onward, as toils the dull bullock, + Unreasoning, brutish, and blind, + With Ashtaroth, Mammon, and Moloch + In front, and Alecto behind. + + The wise one of earth, the Chaldean, + Serves folly in wisdom's disguise; + And the sensual Epicurean, + Though grosser, is hardly less wise; + 'Twixt the former, half pedant, half pagan, + And the latter, half sow and half sloth, + We halt, choose Astarte or Dagon, + Or sacrifice freely to both. + + With our reason that seeks to disparage, + Brute instinct it fails to subdue; + With our false illegitimate courage, + Our sophistry, vain and untrue; + Our hopes that ascend so and fall so, + Our passions, fierce hates and hot loves, + We are wise (aye, the snake is wise also)-- + Wise as serpents, NOT harmless as doves. + + Some flashes, like faint sparks from heaven, + Come rarely with rushing of wings; + We are conscious at times we have striven, + Though seldom, to grasp better things; + These pass, leaving hearts that have falter'd, + Good angels with faces estranged, + And the skin of the Ethiop unalter'd, + And the spots of the leopard unchanged. + + 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 God, + 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 passion, 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 God's goodness, + Exceeding God's infinite space. + + 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 God'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 assuage + 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 shores 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---- + + Eustace: Hush! + Ralph has persuaded our guest to sing. + + Thurston: + I have known the day when his voice would ring + Till the rafters echoed. + + Eustace: 'Tis pleasant still, + Though far too feeble this hall to fill. + + Harold (sings): + On the current, where the wide + Windings of the river + Eddy to the North Sea tide, + Shall I in my shallop glide, + As I have done at her side? + Never! never! never! + + In the forest, where the firs, + Pines, and larches quiver + To the northern breeze that stirs, + Shall my lips be press'd to hers, + As they were in by-gone years? + Never! never! never! + + In the battle on the plain, + Where the lance-shafts shiver, + And the sword-strokes fall like rain, + Shall I bear her scarf again + As I have done--not in vain? + Never! never! never! + + In a fairer, brighter land, + Where the saints rest ever, + Shall I once more see her stand, + White, amidst a white-robed band, + Harp and palm-branch in her hand? + Never! never! never! + + + SCENE--The Same. + + EUSTACE, THURSTON, and followers of HUGO. HAROLD. + + + Enter, by the hall door, HUGO, ERIC, and THORA. + + Eustace (and others standing up): + Welcome, Lord Hugo! + + Hugo: Welcome or not, + Thanks for your greeting all. + Ha, Eustace! what complaints hast thou got? + What grievances to recall? + + Eustace: + Count William came with a numerous band, + Ere the snows began to fall, + And slew a buck on your lordship's land, + Within a league of the wall. + + Hugo: + Count William has done to us no more + Than we to him. In his vineyard + Last summer, or later, maybe, a boar + Was slaughter'd by Thurston's whinyard. + + Thurston: + Aye, Hugo! But William kept the buck, + I will wager marks a score, + Though the tale is new to me; and, worse luck, + You made me give back the boar. + + Harold (advancing): + Lord Hugo! + + Hugo: What! Art thou living yet? + I scarcely knew thee, Sir Dane! + And 'tis not so very long since we met. + + Harold: + 'Twill be long ere we meet again. (gives a letter) + This letter was traced by one now dead + In the Holy Land; and I + Must wait till his dying request is read, + And in his name ask the reply. + + Thora (aside): + Who is that stranger, Hugo? + + Hugo: By birth + He is a countryman of thine, + Thora. What writing is this on earth? + I can scarce decipher a line. + + Harold: + The pen in the clutch of death works ill. + + Hugo: + Nay, I read now; the letters run + More clearly. + + Harold: Wilt grant the request? + + Hugo: I will. + + Harold: + Enough! Then my task is done. (He holds out his hand.) + Hugo, I go to a far-off land, + Wilt thou say, "God speed thee!" now? + + Hugo: + Sir Harold, I cannot take thy hand, + Because of my ancient vow. + + Harold: + Farewell, then. + + Thora: Friend, till the morning wait. + On so wild a night as this + Thou shalt not go from my husband's gate; + The path thou wilt surely miss. + + Harold: + I go. Kind lady, some future day + Thy care will requited be. + + Thora: + Speak, Hugo, speak. + + Hugo: He may go or stay, + It matters little to me. + [Harold goes out.] + + Thora: + Husband, that man is ill and weak; + On foot he goes and alone + Through a barren moor in a night-storm bleak. + + Eric: + Now I wonder where he has gone! + + Hugo: + Indeed, I have not the least idea; + The man is certainly mad. + He wedded my sister, Dorothea, + And used her cruelly bad. + He was once my firmest and surest friend, + And once my deadliest foe; + But hate and friendship both find their end-- + Now I heed not where he may go. + + + SCENE--A Chamber in the Castle. + + HUGO, THORA, and ERIC. + + + Hugo: + That letter that came from Palestine, + By the hands of yon wandering Dane, + Will cost me a pilgrimage to the Rhine. + + Thora: + Wilt thou travel so soon again? + + Hugo: + I can scarce refuse the dying request + Of my comrade, Baldwin, now; + His bones are dust. May his soul find rest + He once made a foolish vow, + That at Englemehr, 'neath the watchful care + Of the Abbess, his child should stay, + For a season at least. To escort her there + I must start at the break of day. + + Thora: + Is it Agatha that goes, or Clare? + + Hugo: + Nay, Clare is dwelling in Spain + With her spouse. + + Thora: 'Tis Agatha. She is fair, + I am told; but giddy and vain. + + Eric: + Some musty tales on my memory grow + Concerning Count Baldwin's vow; + Thou knew'st his daughter? + + Hugo: Aye, years ago. + I should scarcely know her now. + It seems, when her father's vow was made, + She was taken sorely ill; + Then he travell'd, and on his return was stay'd; + He could never his oath fulfil. + + Eric: + If rightly I've heard, 'twas Agatha + That fled with some Danish knight-- + I forget the name. + + Hugo: Nay, she fled not far; + She returned again that night. + + Thora: + For a nun, I fear, she is too self-willed. + + Hugo: + That is no affair of mine. + My task is over, my word fulfilled, + Should I bring her safe to the Rhine. + Come, Thora, sing. + + Thora: Nay, I cannot sing, + Nor would I now if I could. + Sing thou. + + Hugo: I will, though my voice should bring + No sound save a discord rude. + (Sings.) + Where the storm in its wrath hath lighted, + The pine lies low in the dust; + And the corn is withered and blighted, + Where the fields are red with the rust; + Falls the black frost, nipping and killing, + Where its petals the violet rears, + And the wind, though tempered, is chilling + To the lamb despoiled by the shears. + + The strong in their strength are shaken, + The wise in their wisdom fall; + And the bloom of beauty is taken-- + Strength, wisdom, beauty, and all, + They vanish, their lot fulfilling, + Their doom approaches and nears, + But the wind, though tempered, is chilling + To the lamb despoiled by the shears. + + 'Tis the will of a Great Creator, + He is wise, His will must be done, + And it cometh sooner or later; + And one shall be taken, and one + Shall be left here, toiling and tilling, + In this vale of sorrows and tears, + Where the wind, though tempered, is chilling + To the lamb despoiled by the shears. + + Tell me, mine own one, tell me, + The shadows of life and the fears + Shall neither daunt me nor quell me, + While I can avert thy tears: + Dost thou shrink, as I shrink, unwilling + To realise lonely years? + Since the wind, though tempered, is chilling + To the lamb despoiled by the shears. + + Enter HENRY. + + Henry: + My lord, Father Luke craves audience straight, + He has come on foot from the chapel; + Some stranger perished beside his gate + When the dawn began to dapple. + + + SCENE--A Chapel Not Very Far from Hugo's Castle. + + HUGO, ERIC, and two Monks (LUKE and HUBERT). The dead body of HAROLD. + + + Luke: + When the dawn was breaking, + Came a faint sound, waking + Hubert and myself; we hurried to the door, + Found the stranger lying + At the threshold, dying. + Somewhere have I seen a face like his before. + + Hugo: + Harold he is hight. + Only yester-night + From our gates he wander'd, in the driving hail; + Well his face I know, + Both as friend and foe; + Of my followers only Thurston knows his tale. + + Luke: + Few the words he said, + Faint the signs he made, + Twice or thrice he groaned; quoth Hubert, "Thou hast sinn'd. + This is retribution, + Seek for absolution; + Answer me--then cast thy sorrows to the wind. + Do their voices reach thee, + Friends who failed to teach thee, + In thine earlier days, to sunder right from wrong? + Charges 'gainst thee cited, + Cares all unrequited, + Counsels spurned and slighted--do they press and throng?" + But he shook his head. + "'Tis not so," he said; + "They will scarce reproach me who reproached of yore. + If their counsels good, + Rashly I withstood; + Having suffered longer, I have suffered more." + + "Do their curses stun thee? + Foes who failed to shun thee, + Stricken by rash vengeance, in some wild career, + As the barbed arrow + Cleaveth bone and marrow, + From those chambers narrow--do they pierce thine ear?" + And he made reply, + Laughing bitterly, + "Did I fear them living--shall I fear them dead? + Blood that I have spilt + Leaveth little guilt; + On the hand it resteth, scarcely on the head." + + "Is there one whom thou + May'st have wronged ere now, + Since remorse so sorely weigheth down thine heart? + By some saint in heaven, + Sanctified and shriven, + Would'st thou be forgiven ere thy soul depart?" + Not a word he said, + But he bowed his head + Till his temples rested on the chilly sods + And we heard him groan-- + "Ah! mine own, mine own! + If I had thy pardon I might ask for God's." + + Hubert raised him slowly, + Sunrise, faint and holy, + Lit the dead face, placid as a child's might be. + May the troubled spirit, + Through Christ's saving merit, + Peace and rest inherit. Thus we sent for thee. + + Hugo: + God o'erruleth fate. + I had cause for hate; + In this very chapel, years back, proud and strong, + Joined by priestly vows, + He became the spouse + Of my youngest sister, to her bitter wrong. + And he wrought her woe, + Making me his foe; + Not alone unfaithful--brutal, too, was he. + She had scarce been dead + Three months, ere he fled + With Count Baldwin's daughter, then betrothed to me. + Fortune straight forsook him, + Vengeance overtook him; + Heavy crimes will bring down heavy punishment. + All his strength was shatter'd, + Even his wits were scatter'd, + Half-deranged, half-crippled, wandering he went. + We are unforgiving + While our foes are living; + Yet his retribution weigh'd so heavily + That I feel remorse, + Gazing on his corpse, + For my rudeness when he left our gates to die. + And his grave shall be + 'Neath the chestnut tree, + Where he met my sister many years ago; + Leave that tress of hair + On his bosom there-- + Wrap the cerecloth round him! Eric, let us go. + + + SCENE--A Room in the Castle. + + HUGO and ERIC. Early morning. + + + Hugo: + The morn is fair, the weary miles + Will shorten 'neath the summer's wiles; + Pomona in the orchard smiles, + And in the meadow, Flora! + And I have roused a chosen band + For escort through the troubled land; + And shaken Elspeth by the hand, + And said farewell to Thora. + Comrade and kinsman--for thou art + Comrade and kin to me--we part + Ere nightfall, if at once we start, + We gain the dead Count's castle. + The roads are fair, the days are fine, + Ere long I hope to reach the Rhine. + Forsooth, no friend to me or mine + Is that same Abbot Basil; + I thought he wronged us by his greed. + My father sign'd a foolish deed + For lack of gold in time of need, + And thus our lands went by us; + Yet wrong on our side may have been: + As far as my will goes, I ween, + 'Tis past, the grudge that lay between + Us twain. Men call him pious-- + And I have prosper'd much since then, + And gain'd for one lost acre ten; + And even the ancient house and glen + Rebought with purchase-money. + He, too, is wealthy; he has got + By churchly rights a fertile spot, + A land of corn and wine, I wot, + A land of milk and honey. + Now, Eric, change thy plans and ride + With us; thou hast no ties, no bride. + + Eric: + Nay, ties I have, and time and tide, + Thou knowest, wait for no man; + And I go north; God's blessing shuns + The dwellings of forgetful sons, + That proverb he may read who runs, + In Christian lore or Roman. + My good old mother she hath heard, + For twelve long months, from me no word; + At thought of her my heart is stirr'd, + And even mine eyes grow moister. + Greet Ursula from me; her fame + Is known to all. A nobler dame, + Since days of Clovis, ne'er became + The inmate of a cloister. + Our paths diverge, yet we may go + Together for a league or so; + I, too, will join thy band below + When thou thy bugle windest. + [Eric goes out.] + + Hugo: + From weaknesses we stand afar, + On us unpleasantly they jar; + And yet the stoutest-hearted are + The gentlest and the kindest. + My mother loved me tenderly; + Alas! her only son was I. + I shudder'd, but my lids were dry, + By death made orphan newly. + A braver man than me, I swear, + Who never comprehended fear, + Scarce names his mother, and the tear, + Unbidden, springs unruly. + + + SCENE--A Road on the Norman Frontiers. + + HUGO, AGATHA, ORION, THURSTON, and armed attendants, riding slowly. + + + Agatha: + Sir Knight, what makes you so grave and glum? + At times I fear you are deaf or dumb, + Or both. + + Hugo: And yet, should I speak the truth, + There is little in common 'twixt us, forsooth; + You would think me duller, and still more vain, + If I uttered the thoughts that fill my brain; + Since the matters with which my mind is laden + Would scarcely serve to amuse a maiden. + + Agatha: + I am so foolish and you are so wise, + 'Tis the meaning your words so ill disguise. + Alas! my prospects are sad enough: + I had rather listen to speeches rough + Than muse and meditate silently + On the coming loss of my liberty. + Sad hope to me can my future bring, + Yet, while I may, I would prattle and sing, + Though it only were to try and assuage + The dreariness of my pilgrimage. + + Hugo: + Prattle and sing to your heart's content, + And none will offer impediment. + + Agatha (sings): + We were playmates in childhood, my sister and I, + Whose playtime with childhood is done; + Through thickets where briar and bramble grew high, + Barefooted I've oft seen her run. + + I've known her, when mists on the moorland hung white, + Bareheaded past nightfall remain; + She has followed a landless and penniless knight + Through battles and sieges in Spain. + + But I pulled the flower, and shrank from the thorn, + Sought the sunshine, and fled from the mist; + My sister was born to face hardship with scorn-- + I was born to be fondled and kiss'd. + + Hugo (aside): + She has a sweet voice. + + Orion: And a sweet face, too-- + Be candid for once, and give her her due. + + Agatha: + Your face grows longer, and still more long, + Sir Scholar! how did you like my song? + + Hugo: + I thought it rather a silly one. + + Agatha: + You are far from a pleasant companion. + + + SCENE--An Apartment in a Wayside Inn. + + HUGO and AGATHA. Evening. + + + Hugo: + I will leave you now--we have talked enough, + And for one so tenderly reared and nursed + This journey is wearisome, perhaps, and rough. + + Agatha: Will you not finish your story first? + + Hugo: + I repent me that I began it now, + 'Tis a dismal tale for a maiden's ears; + Your cheek is pale already, your brow + Is sad, and your eyes are moist with tears. + + Agatha: + It may be thus, I am lightly vexed, + But the tears will lightly come and go; + I can cry one moment and laugh the next, + Yet I have seen terrors, as well you know. + I remember that flight through moss and fern, + The moonlit shadows, the hoofs that rolled + In fierce pursuit, and the ending stern, + And the hawk that left his prey on the wold. + + Hugo: + I have sorrowed since that I left you there: + Your friends were close behind on the heath, + Though not so close as I thought they were. + (Aside.) Now I will not tell her of Harold's death. + + Agatha: + 'Tis true, I was justly punished, and men, + As a rule, of pity have little share; + Had I died you had cared but little then. + + Hugo: But little then, yet now I should care + More than you think for. Now, good-night. + Tears still? Ere I leave you, child, alone, + Must I dry your cheeks? + + Agatha: Nay, I am not quite + Such a child but what I can dry my own. + [Hugo goes out. Agatha retires.] + + Orion (singing outside the window of Agatha's chamber): + + 'Neath the stems with blossoms laden, + 'Neath the tendrils curling, + I, thy servant, sing, oh, maiden! + I, thy slave, oh, darling! + Lo! the shaft that slew the red deer, + At the elk may fly too. + Spare them not! The dead are dead, dear, + Let the living die too. + + Where the wiles of serpent mingle, + And the looks of dove lie, + Where small hands in strong hands tingle, + Loving eyes meet lovely: + Where the harder natures soften, + And the softer harden-- + Certes! such things have been often + Since we left Eve's garden. + + Sweeter follies herald sadder + Sins--look not too closely; + Tongue of asp and tooth of adder + Under leaf of rose lie. + Warned, advised in vain, abandon + Warning and advice too, + Let the child lay wilful hand on + Den of cockatrice too. + + I, thy servant, or thy master, + One or both--no matter; + If the former--firmer, faster, + Surer still the latter-- + Lull thee, soothe thee with my singing, + Bid thee sleep, and ponder + On my lullabies still ringing + Through thy dreamland yonder. + + + SCENE--A Wooded Rising Ground, Near the Rhine. + + HUGO and AGATHA resting under the trees. THURSTON, EUSTACE, + and followers a little apart. ORION. (Noonday.) + The Towers of the Convent in the distance. + + + Agatha: + I sit on the greensward, and hear the bird sing, + 'Mid the thickets where scarlet and white blossoms cling; + And beyond the sweet uplands all golden with flower, + It looms in the distance, the grey convent tower. + And the emerald earth and the sapphire-hued sky + Keep telling me ever my spring has gone by; + Ah! spring premature, they are tolling thy knell, + In the wind's soft adieu, in the bird's sweet farewell. + Oh! why is the greensward with garlands so gay, + That I quail at the sight of my prison-house grey? + Oh! why is the bird's note so joyous and clear? + The caged bird must pine in a cage doubly drear. + + Hugo: + May the lances of Dagobert harry their house, + If they coax or intimidate thee to take vows; + May the freebooters pillage their shrines, should they dare + Touch with their scissors thy glittering hair. + Our short and sweet journey now draws to an end, + And homeward my sorrowful way I must wend; + Oh, fair one! oh, loved one! I would I were free, + To squander my life in the greenwood with thee. + + Orion (aside): + Ho! seeker of knowledge, so grave and so wise, + Touch her soft curl again--look again in her eyes; + Forget for the nonce musty parchments, and learn + How the slow pulse may quicken--the cold blood may burn. + Ho! fair, fickle maiden, so blooming and shy! + The old love is dead, let the old promise die! + Thou dost well, thou dost wise, take the word of Orion, + "A living dog always before a dead lion!" + + * * * * * + + Thurston: + Ye varlets, I would I knew which of ye burst + Our wine-skin--what, ho! must I perish with thirst! + Go, Henry, thou hast a glib tongue, go and ask + Thy lord to send Ralph to yon inn for a flask. + + Henry: + Nay, Thurston, not so; I decline to disturb + Our lord for the present; go thou, or else curb + Thy thirst, or drink water, as I do. + + Thurston: Thou knave + Of a page, dost thou wish me the colic to have? + + Orion (aside): + That clown is a thoroughbred Saxon. He thinks + With pleasure on naught save hard blows and strong drinks; + In hell he will scarce go athirst if once given + An inkling of any good liquors in heaven. + + * * * * * + + Hugo: + Our Pontiff to manhood at Englemehr grew, + The priests there are many, the nuns are but few. + I love not the Abbot--'tis needless to tell + My reason; but all of the Abbess speak well. + + Agatha: + Through vineyards and cornfields beneath us, the Rhine + Spreads and winds, silver-white, in the merry sunshine; + And the air, overcharged with a subtle perfume, + Grows faint from the essence of manifold bloom. + + Hugo: + And the tinkling of bells, and the bleating of sheep, + And the chaunt from the fields, where the labourers reap + The earlier harvest, comes faint on the breeze, + That whispers so faintly in hedgerows and trees. + + Orion: + And a waggon wends slow to those turrets and spires, + To feed the fat monks and the corpulent friars; + It carries the corn, and the oil, and the wine, + The honey and milk from the shores of the Rhine. + The oxen are weary and spent with their load, + They pause, but the driver doth recklessly goad; + Up yon steep, flinty rise they have staggered and reeled, + Even devils may pity dumb beasts of the field. + + Agatha (sings): + + Oh! days and years departed, + Vain hopes, vain fears that smarted, + I turn to you sad-hearted-- + I turn to you in tears! + Your daily sun shone brightly, + Your happy dreams came nightly, + Flowers bloomed and birds sang lightly, + Through all your hopes and fears! + + You halted not, nor tarried, + Your hopes have all miscarried, + And even your fears are buried, + Since fear with hope must die. + You halted not, but hasted, + And flew past, childhood wasted, + And girlhood scarcely tasted, + Now womanhood is nigh. + + Yet I forgive your wronging, + Dead seasons round me thronging, + With yearning and with longing, + I call your bitters sweet. + Vain longing, and vain yearning, + There now is no returning; + Oh! beating heart and burning, + Forget to burn and beat! + + Oh! childish suns and showers, + Oh! girlish thorns and flowers, + Oh! fruitless days and hours, + Oh! groundless hopes and fears: + The birds still chirp and twitter, + And still the sunbeams glitter: + Oh! barren years and bitter, + Oh! bitter, barren years! + + + SCENE--The Summit of a Burning Mountain. + + Night. A terrific storm. ORION (undisguised). + + + Orion (sings): + From fathomless depths of abysses, + Where fires unquenchable burst, + From the blackness of darkness, where hisses + The brood of the serpent accurs'd; + From shrines where the hymns are the weeping + And wailing and gnashing of teeth, + Where the palm is the pang never sleeping, + Where the worm never dying is the wreath; + Where all fruits save wickedness wither, + Whence naught save despair can be gleaned-- + Come hither! come hither! come hither! + Fall'n angel, fell sprite, and foul fiend. + Come hither! the bands are all broken, + And loosed in hell's innermost womb, + When the spell unpronounceable spoken + Divides the unspeakable gloom. + + Evil Spirits approach. The storm increases. + + Evil Spirits (singing): + We hear thee, we seek thee, on pinions + That darken the shades of the shade; + Oh! Prince of the Air, with dominions + Encompass'd, with powers array'd, + With majesty cloth'd as a garment, + Begirt with a shadowy shine, + Whose feet scorch the hill-tops that are meant + As footstools for thee and for thine. + + Orion (sings): + How it swells through each pause of the thunder, + And mounts through each lull of the gust, + Through the crashing of crags torn asunder, + And the hurtling of trees in the dust; + With a chorus of loud lamentations, + With its dreary and hopeless refrain! + 'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations, + That suffer and shudder in vain. + + Evil Spirits (singing): + 'Tis the cry of all tongues and all nations; + Our song shall chime in with their strain; + Lost spirits blend their wild exultations + With the sighing of mortals in pain. + + Orion (sings): + With just light enough to see sorrows + In this world, and terrors beyond, + 'Twixt the day's bitter pangs and the morrow's + Dread doubts, to despair and despond, + Man lingers through toils unavailing + For blessings that baffle his grasp; + To his cradle he comes with a wailing, + He goes to his grave with a gasp. + + Evil Spirits (singing): + His birth is a weeping and wailing, + His death is a groan and a gasp; + O'er the seed of the woman prevailing, + Thus triumphs the seed of the asp. + + + SCENE--Chamber of a Wayside Inn. + + HUGO sitting alone. Evening. + + + Hugo: + And now the parting is over, + The parting should end the pain; + And the restless heart may recover, + And so may the troubled brain. + I am sitting within the chamber + Whose windows look on the porch, + Where the roses cluster and clamber; + We halted here on our march + With her to the convent going, + And now I go back alone: + Ye roses, budding and blowing, + Ye heed not though she is flown. + + I remember the girlish gesture, + The sportive and childlike grace, + With which she crumpled and pressed your + Rose leaves to her rose-hued face. + Shall I think on her ways hereafter-- + On those flashes of mirth and grief, + On that April of tears and laughter, + On our parting, bitterly brief? + + I remember the bell at sunrise, + That sounded so solemnly, + Bidding monk, and prelate, and nun rise; + I rose ere the sun was high. + Down the long, dark, dismal passage, + To the door of her resting-place + I went, on a farewell message, + I trod with a stealthy pace. + There was no one there to see us + When she opened her chamber door. + "Miserere, mei Deus", + Rang faint from the convent choir. + + I remember the dark and narrow + And scantily-furnished room; + And the gleam, like a golden arrow-- + The gleam that lighted the gloom. + One couch, one seat, and one table, + One window, and only one-- + It stands in the eastern gable, + It faces the rising sun; + One ray shot through it, and one light + On doorway and threshold played. + She stood within in the sunlight, + I stood without in the shade. + + I remember that bright form under + The sheen of that slanting ray. + I spoke--"For life we must sunder, + Let us sunder without delay. + Let us sever without preamble, + As brother and sister part, + For the sake of one pleasant ramble, + That will live in at least one heart." + Still the choir in my ears rang faintly, + In the distance dying away, + Sweetly and sadly and saintly, + Through arch and corridor grey! + + And thus we parted for ever, + Between the shade and the shine; + Not as brother and sister sever-- + I fondled her hands in mine. + Still the choir in my ears rang deaden'd + And dull'd, though audible yet; + And she redden'd, and paled, and redden'd-- + Her lashes and lids grew wet. + Not as brother severs from sister, + My lips clung fast to her lips; + She shivered and shrank when I kissed her. + On the sunbeam drooped the eclipse. + + I remember little of the parting + With the Abbot, down by the gate, + My men were eager for starting; + I think he pressed me to wait. + From the lands where convent and glebe lie, + From manors, and Church's right, + Where I fought temptation so feebly, + I, too, felt eager for flight. + Alas! the parting is over-- + The parting, but not the pain-- + Oh! sweet was the purple clover, + And sweet was the yellow grain; + And sweet were the woody hollows + On the summery Rhineward track; + But a winter untimely swallows + All sweets as I travel back. + + Yet I feel assured, in some fashion, + Ere the hedges are crisp with rime, + I shall conquer this senseless passion, + 'Twill yield to toil and to time. + I will fetter these fancies roaming; + Already the sun has dipped; + I will trim the lamps in the gloaming, + I will finish my manuscript. + Through the nightwatch unflagging study + Shall banish regrets perforce; + As soon as the east is ruddy + Our bugle shall sound "To Horse!" + + + SCENE--Another Wayside House, Near the Norman Frontier. + + HUGO and ORION in a chamber. Evening. + + + Orion: + Your eyes are hollow, your step is slow, + And your cheek is pallid as though from toil, + Watching or fasting, by which I know + That you have been burning the midnight oil. + + Hugo: + Aye, three nights running. + + Orion: 'Twill never do + To travel all day, and study all night; + Will you join in a gallop through mist and dew, + In a flight that may vie with the eagle's flight? + + Hugo: + With all my heart. Shall we saddle "Rollo"? + + Orion: + Nay, leave him undisturb'd in his stall; + I have steeds he would hardly care to follow. + + Hugo: + Follow, forsooth! he can lead them all. + + Orion: + Touching his merits we will not quarrel; + But let me mount you for once; enough + Of work may await your favourite sorrel, + And the paths we must traverse to-night are rough. + But first let me mix you a beverage, + To invigorate your enfeebled frame. + [He mixes a draught and hands it to Hugo.] + All human ills this draught can assuage. + + Hugo: + It hisses and glows like liquid flame; + Say, what quack nostrum is this thou'st brewed? + Speak out; I am learned in the chemist's lore. + + Orion: + There is nothing but what will do you good; + And the drugs are simples; 'tis hellebore, + Nepenthe, upas, and dragon's blood, + Absinthe, and mandrake, and mandragore. + + Hugo: + I will drink it, although, by mass and rood, + I am just as wise as I was before. + + + SCENE--A Rough, Hilly Country. + + HUGO and ORION riding at speed on black horses. + Mountains in the distance. Night. + + + Hugo: + See! the sparks that fly from our hoof-strokes make + A fiery track that gleams in our wake; + Like a dream the dim landscape past us shoots, + Our horses fly. + + Orion: They are useful brutes, + Though somewhat skittish; the foam is whit'ning + The crest and rein of my courser "Lightning"; + He pulls to-night, being short of work, + And takes his head with a sudden jerk; + Still heel and steady hand on the bit, + For that is "Tempest" on which you sit. + + Hugo: + 'Tis the bravest steed that ever I back'd; + Did'st mark how he crossed yon cataract? + From hoof to hoof I should like to measure + The space he clear'd. + + Orion: He can clear at leisure + A greater distance. Observe the chasm + We are nearing. Ha! did you feel a spasm + As we flew over it? + + Hugo: Not at all. + + Orion: + Nathless 'twas an ugly place for a fall. + + Hugo: + Let us try a race to yon mountain high, + That rears its dusky peak 'gainst the sky. + + Orion: + I won't disparage your horsemanship, + But your steed will stand neither spur nor whip, + And is hasty and hard to steer at times. + We must travel far ere the midnight chimes; + We must travel back ere the east is grey. + Ho! "Lightning"! "Tempest"! Away! Away! + [They ride on faster.] + + + SCENE--A Peak in a Mountainous Country Overhanging a Rocky Pass. + + HUGO and ORION on black horses. Midnight. + + + Hugo: + These steeds are sprung from no common race, + Their vigour seems to annihilate space; + What hast thou brought me here to see? + + Orion: + No boisterous scene of unhallow'd glee, + No sabbat of witches coarse and rude, + But a mystic and musical interlude; + You have long'd to explore the scrolls of Fate, + Dismount, as I do, and listen and wait. + [They dismount.] + + Orion (chanting): + Spirits of earth, and air, and sea, + Spirits unclean, and spirits untrue, + By the symbols three that shall nameless be, + One of your masters calls on you. + + Spirits (chanting in the distance): + From the bowels of earth, where gleams the gold; + From the air where the powers of darkness hold + Their court; from the white sea-foam, + Whence the white rose-tinted goddess sprung, + Whom poets of every age have sung, + Ever we come! we come! + + Hugo: + How close to our ears the thunder peals! + How the earth beneath us shudders and reels! + + A Voice (chanting): + Woe to the earth! Where men give death! + And women give birth! + To the sons of Adam, by Cain or Seth! + Plenty and dearth! + To the daughters of Eve, who toil and spin, + Barren of worth! + Let them sigh, and sicken, and suffer sin! + Woe to the earth! + + Hugo: + What is yon phantom large and dim + That over the mountain seems to swim? + + Orion: + 'Tis the scarlet woman of Babylon! + + Hugo: + Whence does she come? Where has she gone? + And who is she? + + Orion: You would know too much; + These are subjects on which I dare not touch; + And if I were to try and enlighten you, + I should probably fail, and possibly frighten you. + You had better ask some learned divine, + Whose opinion is p'rhaps worth as much as mine, + In his own conceit; and who, besides, + Could tell you the brand of the beast she rides. + What can you see in the valley yonder? + Speak out; I can hear you, for all the thunder. + + Hugo: + I see four shadowy altars rise, + They seem to swell and dilate in size; + Larger and clearer now they loom, + Now fires are lighting them through the gloom. + + A Voice (chanting): + The first a golden-hued fire shows, + A blood-red flame on the second glows, + The blaze on the third is tinged like the rose, + From the fourth a column of black smoke goes. + + Orion: + Can you see all this? + + Hugo: I see and hear; + The lights and hues are vivid and clear. + + Spirits (sing at the first altar): + Hail, Mammon! while man buys and barters, + Thy kingdom in this world is sure; + Thy prophets thou hast and thy martyrs, + Great things in thy name they endure; + Thy fetters of gold crush the miser, + The usurer bends at thy shrine, + And the wealthier nations and the wiser + Bow with us at this altar of thine. + + Spirits (sing at the second altar): + Hail, Moloch! whose banner floats blood-red, + From pole to equator unfurl'd, + Whose laws redly written have stood red, + And shall stand while standeth this world; + Clad in purple, with thy diadem gory, + Thy sceptre the blood-dripping steel, + Thy subjects with us give thee glory, + With us at thine altar they kneel. + + Spirits (sing at the third altar): + Hail, Sovereign! whose fires are kindled + By sparks from the bottomless pit, + Has thy worship diminish'd or dwindled? + Do the yokes of thy slaves lightly sit? + Nay, the men of all climes and all races + Are stirr'd by the flames that now stir us; + Then (as we do) they fall on their faces, + Crying, "Hear us! Oh! Ashtaroth, hear us!" + + Spirits (all in chorus): + The vulture her carrion swallows, + Returns to his vomit the dog. + In the slough of uncleanliness wallows + The he-goat, and revels the hog. + Men are wise with their schools and their teachers, + Men are just with their creeds and their priests; + Yet, in spite of their pedants and preachers, + They backslide in footprints of beasts! + + Hugo: + From the smoky altar there seems to come + A stifled murmur, a droning hum. + + Orion: + With that we have nothing at all to do, + Or, at least, not now, neither I nor you; + Though some day or other, possibly + We may see it closer, both you and I; + Let us visit the nearest altar first, + Whence the yellow fires flicker and burst, + Like the flames from molten ore that spring; + We may stand in the pale of the outer ring, + But forbear to trespass within the inner, + Lest the sins of the past should find out the sinner. + [They approach the first altar, and stand within the + outer circle which surrounds it, and near the inner.] + + Spirits (sing): + Beneath us it flashes, + The glittering gold, + Though it turneth to ashes + And dross in the hold; + Yet man will endeavour, + By fraud or by strife, + To grasp it and never + To yield it with life. + + Orion: + What can you see? + + Hugo: Some decrepit shapes, + That are neither dwarfs, nor demons, nor apes; + In the hollow earth they appear to store + And rake together great heaps of ore. + + Orion: + These are the gnomes, coarse sprites and rough; + Come on, of these we have seen enough. + [They approach second altar and stand as before.] + + Spirits (singing): + Above us it flashes, + The glittering steel, + Though the red blood splashes + Where its victims reel; + Yet man will endeavour + To grapple the hilt, + And to wield the blade ever + Till his life be spilt. + + Orion: + What see you now? + + Hugo: A rocky glen, + A horrid jumble of fighting men, + And a face that somewhere I've seen before. + + Orion: + Come on; there is naught worth seeing more, + Except the altar of Ashtaroth. + + Hugo: + To visit that altar I am loth. + + Orion: + Why so? + + Hugo: Nay, I cannot fathom why, + But I feel no curiosity. + + Orion: + Come on. Stand close to the inner ring, + And hear how sweetly these spirits sing. + [They approach third altar.] + + Spirits (sing): + Around us it flashes, + The cestus of one + Born of white foam, that dashes + Beneath the white sun; + Let the mortal take heart, he + Has nothing to dare; + She is fair, Queen Astarte, + Her subjects are fair! + + Orion: + What see you now, friend? + + Hugo: Wood and wold, + And forms that look like the nymphs of old. + There is nothing here worth looking at twice. + I have seen enough. + + Orion: You are far too nice; + Nevertheless, you must look again. + Those forms will fade. + + Hugo: They are growing less plain. + They vanish. I see a door that seems + To open; a ray of sunlight gleams + From a window behind; a vision as fair + As the flush of dawn is standing there. + [He gazes earnestly.] + + Orion (sings): + Higher and hotter the white flames glow, + And the adamant may be thaw'd like snow, + And the life for a single chance may go, + And the soul for a certainty. + Oh! vain and shallow philosopher, + Dost feel them quicken, dost feel them stir, + The thoughts that have stray'd again to HER + From whom thou hast sought to fly? + + Lo! the furnace is heated till sevenfold; + Is thy brain still calm? Is thy blood still cold + To the curls that wander in ripples of gold, + On the shoulders of ivory? + Do the large, dark eyes, and the small, red mouth, + Consume thine heart with a fiery drouth, + Like the fierce sirocco that sweeps from the south, + When the deserts are parch'd and dry? + + Aye, start and shiver and catch thy breath, + The sting is certain, the venom is death, + And the scales are flashing the fruit beneath, + And the fang striketh suddenly. + At the core the ashes are bitter and dead, + But the rind is fair and the rind is red, + It has ever been pluck'd since the serpent said, + Thou shalt NOT SURELY die. + + [Hugo tries to enter the inner ring; + Orion holds him back; they struggle.] + + Hugo: + Unhand me, slave! or quail to the rod! + Agatha! Speak! in the name of God! + + [The vision disappears; the altars vanish. + Hugo falls insensible.] + + + SCENE--The Wayside House. + + HUGO waking in his chamber. ORION unseen at first. Morning. + + + Hugo: + Vanish, fair and fatal vision! + Fleeting shade of fever'd sleep, + Chiding one whose indecision + Waking substance failed to keep; + Picture into life half starting, + As in life once seen before, + Parting somewhat sadly, parting + Slowly at the chamber door. + + Were my waking senses duller? + Have I seen with mental eye + Light and shade, and warmth and colour, + Plainer than reality? + Sunlight that on tangled tresses + Every ripple gilds and tips; + Balm and bloom, and breath of kisses, + Warm on dewy, scarlet lips. + + Dark eyes veiling half their splendour + 'Neath their lashes' darker fringe, + Dusky, dreamy, deep and tender, + Passing smile and passing tinge; + Dimpling fast and flushing faster, + Ivory chin and coral cheek, + Pearly strings, by alabaster + Neck and arms made faint and weak; + + Drooping, downcast lids enduring + Gaze of man unwillingly; + Sudden, sidelong gleams alluring, + Partly arch and partly shy. + Do I bless or curse that beauty? + Am I longing, am I loth? + Is it passion, is it duty + That I strive with, one or both? + + Round about one fiery centre + Wayward thoughts like moths revolve. + [He sees Orion.] + Ha! Orion, thou didst enter + Unperceived. I pray thee solve + These two questions: Firstly, tell me, + Must I strive for wrong or right? + Secondly, what things befell me-- + Facts, or phantasies--last night? + + Orion: + First, your strife is all a sham, you + Know as well as I which wins; + Second, waking sins will damn you, + Never mind your sleeping sins; + Both your questions thus I answer; + Listen, ere you seek or shun: + I at least am no romancer, + What you long for may be won. + Turn again and travel Rhineward, + Tread once more the flowery path. + + Hugo: + Aye, the flowery path that, sinward + Pointing, ends in sin and wrath. + + Orion: + Songs by love-birds lightly caroll'd, + Even the just man may allure. + + Hugo: + To his shame; in this wise Harold + Sinn'd, his punishment was sure. + + Orion: + Nay, the Dane was worse than you are, + Base and pitiless to boot; + Doubtless all are bad, yet few are + Cruel, false, and dissolute. + + Hugo: + Some sins foreign to our nature + Seem; we take no credit when + We escape them. + + Orion: Yet the creature, + Sin-created, lives to sin. + + Hugo: + Be it so; come good, come evil, + Ride we to the Rhine again! + + Orion (aside): + 'Gainst the logic of the devil + Human logic strives in vain. + + + SCENE--A Camp Near the Black Forest. + + RUDOLPH, OSRIC, DAGOBERT, and followers. ORION disguised as + one of the Free-lances. Mid-day. + + + Osric: + Now, by axe of Odin, and hammer of Thor, + And by all the gods of the Viking's war, + I swear we have quitted our homes in vain: + We have nothing to look to, glory nor gain. + Will our galley return to Norway's shore + With heavier gold, or with costlier store? + Will our exploits furnish the scald with a song? + We have travell'd too far, we have tarried too long. + Say, captains all, is there ever a village + For miles around that is worth the pillage? + Will it pay the costs of my men or yours + To harry the homesteads of German boors? + Have we cause for pride in our feats of arms + When we plunder the peasants or sack the farms? + I tell thee, Rudolph of Rothenstein, + That were thy soldiers willing as mine, + And I sole leader of this array, + I would give Prince Otto battle this day. + Dost thou call thy followers men of war? + Oh, Dagobert! thou whose ancestor + On the neck of the Caesar's offspring trod, + Who was justly surnamed "The Scourge of God". + Yet in flight lies safety. Skirmish and run + To forest and fastness, Teuton and Hun, + From the banks of the Rhine to the Danube's shore, + And back to the banks of the Rhine once more; + Retreat from the face of an armed foe, + Robbing garden and hen-roost where'er you go. + Let the short alliance betwixt us cease, + I and my Norsemen will go in peace! + I wot it never will suit with us, + Such existence, tame and inglorious; + I could live no worse, living single-handed, + And better with half my men disbanded. + + Rudolph: + Jarl Osric, what would'st thou have me do? + 'Gainst Otto's army our men count few; + With one chance of victory, fight, say I! + But not when defeat is a certainty. + If Rudiger joins us with his free-lances, + Our chance will be equal to many chances; + For Rudiger is both prompt and wary; + And his men are gallant though mercenary; + But the knave refuses to send a lance + Till half the money is paid in advance. + + Dagobert: + May his avarice wither him like a curse! + I guess he has heard of our late reverse; + But, Rudolph, whether he goes or stays, + There is reason in what Jarl Osric says; + Of provisions we need a fresh supply, + And our butts and flasks are shallow or dry; + My men are beginning to grumble sadly, + 'Tis no wonder, since they must fare so badly. + + Rudolph: + We have plenty of foragers out, and still + We have plenty of hungry mouths to fill; + And, moreover, by some means, foul or fair, + We must raise money; 'tis little I care, + So long as we raise it, whence it comes. + + Osric: + Shall we sit till nightfall biting our thumbs? + The shortest plan is ever the best; + Has anyone here got aught to suggest? + + Orion: + The cornfields are golden that skirt the Rhine, + Fat are the oxen, strong is the wine, + In those pleasant pastures, those cellars deep, + That o'erflow with the tears that those vineyards weep; + Is it silver you stand in need of, or gold? + Ingot or coin? There is wealth untold + In the ancient convent of Englemehr; + That is not so very far from here. + The Abbot, esteem'd a holy man, + Will hold what he has and grasp what he can; + The cream of the soil he loves to skim, + Why not levy a contribution on him? + + Dagobert: + The stranger speaks well; not far away + That convent lies; and one summer's day + Will suffice for a horseman to reach the gate; + The garrison soon would capitulate, + Since the armed retainers are next to none, + And the walls, I wot, may be quickly won. + + Rudolph: + I kept those walls for two months or more, + When they feared the riders of Melchior! + That was little over three years ago. + Their Abbot is thrifty, as well I know; + He haggled sorely about the price + Of our service. + + Dagobert: Rudolph, he paid thee twice. + + Rudolph: + Well, what of that? Since then I've tried + To borrow from him; now I know he lied + When he told me he could not spare the sum + I asked. If we to his gates should come, + He could spare it though it were doubled; and still, + This war with the Church I like it ill. + + Osric: + The creed of our fathers is well-nigh dead, + And the creed of the Christian reigns in its stead + But the creed of the Christian, too, may die, + For your creeds or your churches what care I! + If there be plunder at Englemehr, + Let us strike our tents and thitherward steer. + + + SCENE--A Farm-house on the Rhine (About a mile from the Convent). + + HUGO in chamber alone. Enter ERIC. + + + Eric: + What, Hugo, still at the Rhine! I thought + You were home. You have travell'd by stages short. + + Hugo (with hesitation): + Our homeward march was labour in vain, + We had to retrace our steps again; + It was here or hereabouts that I lost + Some papers of value; at any cost + I must find them; and which way lies your course? + + Eric: + I go to recruit Prince Otto's force. + I cannot study as you do; I + Am wearied with inactivity; + So I carry a blade engrim'd with rust + (That a hand sloth-slacken'd has, I trust, + Not quite forgotten the way to wield), + To strike once more on the tented field. + + Hugo: + Fighting is all a mistake, friend Eric, + And has been so since the age Homeric, + When Greece was shaken and Troy undone, + Ten thousand lives for a worthless one. + Yet I blame you not; you might well do worse; + Better fight and perish than live to curse + The day you were born; and such has been + The lot of many, and shall, I ween, + Be the lot of more. If Thurston chooses + He may go with you. The blockhead abuses + Me and the life I lead. + + Enter ORION. + + Orion: Great news! + The Englemehr monks will shake in their shoes; + In the soles of their callous feet will shake + The barefooted friars. The nuns will quake. + + Hugo: Wherefore? + + Orion: The outlaw of Rothenstein + Has come with his soldiers to the Rhine, + Back'd by those hardy adventurers + From the northern forests of pines and firs, + And Dagobert's horse. They march as straight + As the eagle swoops to the convent gate. + + Hugo: + We must do something to save the place. + + Orion: + They are sure to take it in any case, + Unless the sum that they ask is paid. + + Eric: + Some effort on our part must be made. + + Hugo: + 'Tis not so much for the monks I care. + + Eric: + Nor I; but the Abbess and nuns are there. + + Orion: + 'Tis not our business; what can we do? + They are too many, and we are too few; + And yet, I suppose, you will save, if you can, + That lady, your ward, or your kinswoman. + + Hugo: + She is no kinswoman of mine; + How far is Otto's camp from the Rhine? + + Orion: + Too far for help in such time of need + To be brought, though you used your utmost speed. + + Eric: + Nay, that I doubt. + + Hugo: And how many men + Have they? + + Orion: To your one they could muster ten. + + Eric: + I know Count Rudolph, and terms may be made + With him, I fancy; for though his trade + Is a rough one now, gainsay it who can, + He was once a knight and a gentleman. + And Dagobert, the chief of the Huns, + Bad as he is, will spare the nuns; + Though neither he nor the Count could check + Those lawless men, should they storm and sack + The convent. Jarl Osric, too, I know; + He is rather a formidable foe, + And will likely enough be troublesome; + But the others, I trust, to terms will come. + + Hugo: + Eric, how many men have you? + I can count a score. + + Eric: I have only two. + + Hugo: + At every hazard we must try to save + The nuns. + + Eric: Count Rudolph shall think we have + A force that almost equals his own, + If I can confer with him alone. + + Orion: + He is close at hand; by this time he waits + The Abbot's reply at the convent gates. + + Hugo: + We had better send him a herald. + + Eric: Nay, + I will go myself. [Eric goes out.] + + Hugo: Orion, stay! + So this is the reed on which I've leaned, + These are the hopes thou hast fostered, these + The flames thou hast fanned. Oh, lying fiend! + Is it thus thou dost keep thy promises? + + Orion: + Strong language, Hugo, and most unjust; + You will cry out before you are hurt-- + You will live to recall your words, I trust. + Fear nothing from Osric or Dagobert, + These are your friends, if you only knew it, + And would take the advice of a friend sincere; + Neglect his counsels and you must rue it, + For I know by a sign the crisis is near. + Accept the terms of these outlaws all, + And be thankful that things have fallen out + Exactly as you would have had them fall-- + You may save the one that you care about; + Otherwise, how did you hope to gain + Access to her--on what pretence? + What were the schemes that worried your brain + To tempt her there or to lure her thence? + You must have bungled, and raised a scandal + About your ears, that might well have shamed + The rudest Hun, the veriest Vandal, + Long or ever the bird was tamed. + + Hugo: + The convent is scarce surrounded yet, + We might reach and hold it against their force + Till another sun has risen and set; + And should I despatch my fleetest horse + To Otto---- + + Orion: For Abbot, or Monk, or Friar, + Between ourselves, 'tis little you care + If their halls are harried by steel and fire: + Their avarice left your heritage bare. + Forsake them! Mitres, and cowls, and hoods + Will cover vices while earth endures; + Through the green and gold of the summer woods + Ride out with that pretty bird of yours. + If again you fail to improve your chance, + Why, then, my friend, I can only say + You are duller far than the dullest lance + That rides in Dagobert's troop this day. + "Faemina semper", frown not thus, + The girl was always giddy and wild, + Vain, and foolish, and frivolous, + Since she fled from her father's halls, a child. + I sought to initiate you once + In the mystic lore of the old Chaldean; + But I found you far too stubborn a dunce, + And your tastes are coarser and more plebeian. + Yet mark my words, for I read the stars, + And trace the future in yonder sky; + To the right are wars and rumours of wars, + To the left are peace and prosperity. + Fear naught. The world shall never detect + The cloven hoof, so carefully hid + By the scholar so staid and circumspect, + So wise for once to do as he's bid. + Remember what pangs come year by year + For opportunity that has fled; + And Thora in ignorance. + + Hugo: Name not her! + I am sorely tempted to strike thee dead! + + Orion: + Nay, I hardly think you will take my life, + The angel Michael was once my foe; + He had a little the best of our strife, + Yet he never could deal so stark a blow. + + + SCENE--A Chamber in the Nuns' Apartments of the Convent. + + AGATHA and URSULA. + + + Agatha: + My sire in my childhood pledged my hand + To Hugo--I know not why-- + They were comrades then, 'neath the Duke's command, + In the wars of Lombardy. + I thought, ere my summers had turned sixteen, + That mine was a grievous case; + Save once, for an hour, I had never seen + My intended bridegroom's face; + And maidens vows of their own will plight. + Unknown to my kinsfolk all + My love was vowed to a Danish knight, + A guest in my father's hall. + His foot fell lightest in merry dance, + His shaft never missed the deer; + He could fly a hawk, he could wield a lance, + Our wildest colt he could steer. + His deep voice ringing through hall or glen + Had never its match in song; + And little was known of his past life then, + Or of Dorothea's wrong. + I loved him--Lady Abbess, I know + That my love was foolish now; + I was but a child five years ago, + And thoughtless as bird on bough. + One evening Hugo the Norman came, + And, to shorten a weary tale, + I fled that night (let me bear the blame) + With Harold by down and dale. + He had mounted me on a dappled steed, + And another of coal-black hue + He rode himself; and away at speed + We fled through mist and dew. + + Of miles we had ridden some half a score, + We had halted beside a spring, + When the breeze to our ears through the still night bore + A distant trample and ring; + We listen'd one breathing space, and caught + The clatter of mounted men, + With vigour renewed by their respite short + Our horses dash'd through the glen. + Another league, and we listen'd in vain; + The breeze to our ears came mute; + But we heard them again on the spacious plain, + Faint tidings of hot pursuit. + In the misty light of a moon half hid + By the dark or fleecy rack, + Our shadows over the moorland slid, + Still listening and looking back. + So we fled (with a cheering word to say + At times as we hurried on), + From sounds that at intervals died away, + And at intervals came anon. + Another league, and my lips grew dumb, + And I felt my spirit quailing, + For closer those sounds began to come, + And the speed of my horse was failing. + "The grey is weary and lame to boot," + Quoth Harold; "the black is strong, + And their steeds are blown with their fierce pursuit, + What wonder! our start was long. + Now, lady, behind me mount the black, + The double load he can bear; + We are safe when we reach the forest track, + Fresh horses and friends wait there." + Then I sat behind him and held his waist, + And faster we seemed to go + By moss and moor; but for all our haste + Came the tramp of the nearing foe. + A dyke through the mist before us hover'd, + And, quicken'd by voice and heel, + The black overleap'd it, stagger'd, recover'd; + Still nearer that muffled peal. + And louder on sward the hoof-strokes grew, + And duller, though not less nigh, + On deader sand; and a dark speck drew + On my vision suddenly, + And a single horseman in fleet career, + Like a shadow appear'd to glide + To within six lances' lengths of our rear, + And there for a space to bide. + Quoth Harold, "Speak, has the moon reveal'd + His face?" I replied, "Not so! + Yet 'tis none of my kinsfolk." Then he wheel'd + In the saddle and scanned the foe, + And mutter'd, still gazing in our wake, + "'Tis he; now I will not fight + The brother again, for the sister's sake, + While I can escape by flight." + "Who, Harold?" I asked; but he never spoke. + By the cry of the bittern harsh, + And the bull-frog's dull, discordant croak, + I guess'd that we near'd the marsh; + And the moonbeam flash'd on watery sedge + As it broke from a strip of cloud, + Ragged and jagged about the edge, + And shaped like a dead man's shroud. + And flagg'd and falter'd our gallant steed, + 'Neath the weight of his double burden, + As we splash'd through water and crash'd through reed; + Then the soil began to harden, + And again we gain'd, or we seem'd to gain, + With our foe in the deep morass; + But those fleet hoofs thunder'd, and gain'd again, + When they trampled the firmer grass, + And I cried, and Harold again look'd back, + And bade me fasten mine eyes on + The forest, that loom'd like a patch of black + Standing out from the faint horizon. + "Courage, sweetheart! we are saved," he said; + "With the moorland our danger ends, + And close to the borders of yonder glade + They tarry, our trusty friends." + Where the mossy uplands rise and dip + On the edge of the leafy dell, + With a lurch, like the lurch of a sinking ship, + The black horse toppled and fell. + Unharm'd we lit on the velvet sward, + And even as I lit I lay, + But Harold uprose, unsheath'd his sword, + And toss'd the scabbard away. + And spake through his teeth, "Good brother-in-law, + Forbearance, at last, is spent; + The strife that thy soul hath lusted for + Thou shalt have to thy soul's content!" + While he spoke, our pursuer past us swept, + Ere he rein'd his war-horse proud, + To his haunches flung, then to the earth he leapt, + And my lover's voice rang loud: + "Thrice welcome! Hugo of Normandy, + Thou hast come at our time of need, + This lady will thank thee, and so will I, + For the loan of thy sorrel steed!" + + And never a word Lord Hugo said, + They clos'd 'twixt the wood and the wold, + And the white steel flickered over my head + In the moonlight calm and cold; + 'Mid the feathery grasses crouching low, + With face bow'd down to the dust, + I heard the clash of each warded blow, + The click of each parried thrust, + And the shuffling feet that bruis'd the lawn, + As they traversed here and there, + And the breath through the clench'd teeth heavily drawn + When breath there was none to spare; + Sharp ringing sword play, dull, trampling heel, + Short pause, spent force to regain, + Quick muffled footfall, harsh grating steel, + Sharp ringing rally again; + They seem'd long hours, those moments fleet, + As I counted them one by one, + Till a dead weight toppled across my feet, + And I knew that the strife was done. + + When I looked up, after a little space, + As though from a fearful dream, + The moon was flinging on Harold's face + A white and a weird-like gleam; + And I felt mine ankles moist and warm + With the blood that trickled slow + From a spot on the doublet beneath his arm, + From a ghastly gash on his brow; + I heard the tread of the sorrel's hoof + As he bore his lord away; + They passed me slowly, keeping aloof, + Like spectres, misty and grey. + I thought Lord Hugo had left me there + To die, but it was not so; + Yet then for death I had little care, + My soul seem'd numb'd by the blow; + A faintness follow'd, a sickly swoon, + A long and a dreamless sleep, + And I woke to the light of a sultry noon + In my father's castled keep. + + And thus, Lady Abbess, it came to pass + That my father vow'd his vow; + Must his daughter espouse the Church? Alas! + Is she better or wiser now? + For some are feeble and others strong, + And feeble am I and frail. + Mother! 'tis not that I love the wrong, + 'Tis not that I loathe the veil, + But with heart still ready to go astray, + If assail'd by a fresh temptation, + I could sin again as I sinned that day, + For a girl's infatuation. + See! Harold, the Dane, thou say'st is dead, + Yet I weep NOT BITTERLY; + As I fled with the Dane, so I might have fled + With Hugo of Normandy. + + Ursula: + My child, I advise no hasty vows, + Yet I pray that in life's brief span + Thou may'st learn that our Church is a fairer spouse + Than fickle and erring man; + Though fenced for a time by the Church's pale, + When that time expires thou'rt free; + And we cannot force thee to take the veil, + Nay, we scarce can counsel thee. + + Enter the ABBOT hastily. + + Basil (the Abbot): + I am sorely stricken with shame and grief, + It has come by the self-same sign, + A summons brief from the outlaw'd chief, + Count Rudolph of Rothenstein. + Lady Abbess, ere worse things come to pass, + I would speak with thee alone; + Alack and alas! for by the rood and mass + I fear we are all undone. + + + SCENE--A Farm-house Near the Convent. + + A Chamber furnished with writing materials. HUGO, ERIC, and THURSTON + on one side; on the other OSRIC, RUDOLPH, and DAGOBERT. + + + Osric: + We have granted too much, ye ask for more; + I am not skill'd in your clerkly lore, + I scorn your logic; I had rather die + Than live like Hugo of Normandy: + I am a Norseman, frank and plain; + Ye must read the parchment over again. + + Eric: + Jarl Osric, twice we have read this scroll. + + Osric: + Thou hast read a part. + + Eric: I have read the whole. + + Osric: + Aye, since I attached my signature! + + Eric: + Before and since! + + Rudolph: Nay, of this be sure, + Thou hast signed; in fairness now let it rest. + + Osric: + I had rather have sign'd upon Hugo's crest; + He has argued the question mouth to mouth + With the wordy lore of the subtle south; + Let him or any one of his band + Come and argue the question hand to hand. + With the aid of my battle-axe I will show + That a score of words are not worth one blow. + + Thurston: + To the devil with thee and thy battle-axe; + I would send the pair of ye back in your tracks, + With an answer that even to thy boorish brain + Would scarce need repetition again. + + Osric: + Thou Saxon slave to a milksop knight, + I will give thy body to raven and kite. + + Thurston: + Thou liest; I am a freeborn man, + And thy huge carcase--in cubit and span + Like the giant's of Gath--'neath Saxon steel, + Shall furnish the kites with a fatter meal. + + Osric: + Now, by Odin! + + Rudolph: Jarl Osric, curb thy wrath; + Our names are sign'd, our words have gone forth. + + Hugo: + I blame thee, Thurston. + + Thurston: And I, too, blame + Myself, since I follow a knight so tame! + [Thurston goes out.] + + Osric: + The Saxon hound, he said I lied! + + Rudolph: + I pray thee, good Viking, be pacified. + + Osric: + Why do we grant the terms they ask? + To crush them all were an easy task. + + Dagobert: + That know'st thou not; if it come to war, + They are stronger, perhaps, than we bargain for. + + Eric: + Jarl Osric, thou may'st recall thy words-- + Should we meet again. + + Osric: Should we meet with swords, + Thou, too, may'st recall them to thy sorrow. + + Hugo: + Eric! we dally. Sir Count, good-morrow. + + + SCENE--The Guest Chamber of the Convent. + + HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. + + + Eric: + Hugo, their siege we might have tried; + This place would be easier fortified + Than I thought at first; it is now too late, + They have cut off our access to the gate. + + Hugo: + I have weigh'd the chances and counted the cost, + And I know by the stars that all is lost + If we take up this quarrel. + + Eric: So let it be! + I yield to one who is wiser than me. (Aside.) + Nevertheless, I have seen the day + When the stars would scarcely have bade us stay. + + Enter the ABBOT, CYRIL, and other Monks. + + Hugo: + Lord Abbot, we greet thee. Good fathers all, + We bring you greeting. + + Orion (aside): And comfort small. + + Abbot: + God's benediction on you, my sons. + + Hugo: + May He save you, too, from Norsemen and Huns! + Since the gates are beleaguer'd and walls begirt + By the forces of Osric and Dagobert; + 'Tis a heavy price that the knaves demand. + + Abbot: + Were we to mortgage the Church's land + We never could raise what they would extort. + + Orion (aside): + The price is too long and the notice too short. + + Eric: + And you know the stern alternative. + + Abbot: + If we die we die, if we live we live; + God's will be done; and our trust is sure + In Him, though His chast'nings we endure. + Two messengers rode from here last night, + To Otto they carry news of our plight; + On my swiftest horses I saw them go. + + Orion (aside): + Then his swiftest horses are wondrous slow. + + Eric: + One of these is captive and badly hurt; + By the reckless riders of Dagobert + He was overtaken and well-nigh slain, + Not a league from here on the open plain. + + Abbot: + But the other escap'd. + + Eric: It may be so; + We had no word of him, but we know + That unless you can keep these walls for a day + At least, the Prince is too far away + To afford relief. + + Abbot: Then a hopeless case + Is ours, and with death we are face to face. + + Eric: + You have arm'd retainers. + + Cyril (a Monk): Aye, some half score; + And some few of the brethren, less or more, + Have in youth the brunt of the battle bided, + Yet our armoury is but ill provided. + + Hugo: + We have terms of truce from the robbers in chief, + Though the terms are partial, the truce but brief; + To Abbess, to nuns, and novices all, + And to every woman within your wall, + We can offer escort, and they shall ride + From hence in safety whate'er betide. + + Abbot: + What escort, Hugo, canst thou afford? + + Hugo: + Some score of riders who call me lord + Bide at the farm not a mile from here, + Till we rejoin them they will not stir; + My page and armourer wait below, + And all our movements are watch'd by the foe. + Strict stipulation was made, of course, + That, except ourselves, neither man nor horse + Should enter your gates--they were keen to shun + The chance of increasing your garrison. + + Eric: + I hold safe conduct here in my hand, + Signed by the chiefs of that lawless band; + See Rudolph's name, no disgrace to a clerk, + And Dagobert's scrawl, and Osric's mark; + Jarl signed sorely against his will, + With a scratch like the print of a raven's bill; + But the foe have muster'd in sight of the gate. + For another hour they will scarcely wait; + Bid Abbess and dame prepare with haste. + + Hugo: + Lord Abbot, I tell thee candidly + There is no great love between thou and I, + As well thou know'st; but, nevertheless, + I would we were more, or thy foes were less. + + Abbot: + I will summon the Lady Abbess straight. + [The Abbot and Monks go out.] + + Eric: + 'Tis hard to leave these men to their fate, + Norsemen and Hun will never relent; + Their day of grace upon earth is spent. + [Hugo goes out, followed by Orion.] + + + SCENE--The Corridor Outside the Guest Chamber. + + HUGO pacing up and down. ORION leaning against the wall. + + + Hugo: + My day of grace with theirs is past. + I might have saved them; 'tis too late-- + Too late for both. The die is cast, + And I resign me to my fate. + God's vengeance I await. + + Orion: + The boundary 'twixt right and wrong + Is not so easy to discern; + And man is weak, and fate is strong, + And destiny man's hopes will spurn, + Man's schemes will overturn. + + Hugo: + Thou liest, thou fiend! Not unawares + The sinner swallows Satan's bait, + Nor pits conceal'd nor hidden snares + Seeks blindly; wherefore dost thou prate + Of destiny and fate? + + Orion: + Who first named fate? But never mind, + Let that pass by--to Adam's fall + And Adam's curse look back, and find + Iniquity the lot of all, + And sin original. + + Hugo: + But I have sinn'd, repented, sinn'd, + Till seven times that sin may be + By seventy multiplied; the wind + Is constant when compared with me, + And stable is the sea! + + My hopes are sacrificed, for what? + For days of folly, less or more, + For years to see those dead hopes rot, + Like dead weeds scatter'd on the shore, + Beyond the surfs that roar! + + Orion: + The wiles of Eve are swift to smite; + Aye, swift to smite and not to spare-- + Red lips and round limbs sweet and white, + Dark eyes and sunny, silken hair, + Thy betters may ensnare. + + Hugo: + Not so; the strife 'twixt hell and heaven + I felt last night, and well I knew + The crisis; but my aid was given + To hell. Thou'st known the crisis too, + For once thou'st spoken true. + + Having foretold it, there remains + For grace no time, for hope no room; + Even now I seem to feel the pains + Of hell, that wait beyond the gloom + Of my dishonour'd tomb. + + Thou who hast lived and died to save, + Us sinners, Christ of Galilee! + Thy great love pardon'd and forgave + The dying thief upon the tree, + Thou canst not pardon me! + + Dear Lord! hear Thou my latest prayer, + For prayer must die since hope is dead; + Thy Father's vengeance let me bear, + Nor let my guilt be visited + Upon a guiltless head! + + Ah! God is just! Full sure I am + He never did predestinate + Our souls to hell. Ourselves we damn-- + [To Orion, with sudden passion] + Serpent! I know thee now, too late; + Curse thee! Work out thy hate! + + Orion: + I hate thee not; thy grievous plight + Would move my pity, but I bear + A curse to which thy curse seems light! + Thy wrong is better than my right, + My day is darker than thy night; + Beside the whitest hope I share + How white is thy despair! + + + SCENE--The Chapel of the Convent. + + URSULA, AGATHA, Nuns and Novices. + + + (Hymn of the Nuns): + + Jehovah! we bless Thee, + All works of Thine hand + Extol Thee, confess Thee; + By sea and by land, + By mountain and river, + By forest and glen, + They praise Thee for ever! + And ever! Amen! + + The heathen are raging + Against Thee, O Lord! + The ungodly are waging + Rash war against God! + Arise, and deliver + Us, sheep of Thy pen, + Who praise Thee for ever! + And ever! Amen! + + Thou Shepherd of Zion! + Thy firstlings didst tear + From jaws of the lion, + From teeth of the bear; + Thy strength to deliver + Is strong now as then. + We praise Thee for ever! + And ever! Amen! + + Thine arm hath delivered + Thy servants of old, + Hath scatter'd and shiver'd + The spears of the bold, + Hath emptied the quiver + Of bloodthirsty men. + We praise Thee for ever! + And ever! Amen! + + Nathless shall Thy right hand + Those counsels fulfil + Most wise in Thy sight, and + We bow to Thy will; + Thy children quail never + For dungeon or den, + They praise Thee for ever! + And ever! Amen! + + Though fierce tribulation + Endure for a space, + Yet God! our salvation! + We gain by Thy grace, + At end of life's fever, + Bliss passing man's ken; + There to praise Thee for ever! + And ever! Amen! + + + SCENE--The Guest Room of the Convent. + + HUGO, ERIC, and ORION. Enter URSULA, AGATHA, and Nuns. + + + Ursula: + Hugo, we reject thine offers, + Not that we can buy + Safety from the Church's coffers, + Neither can we fly. + Far too great the price they seek is, + Let their lawless throng + Come, we wait their coming; weak is + Man, but God is strong. + + Eric: + Think again on our proposals: + It will be too late + When the robbers hold carousals + On this side the gate. + + Ursula: + For myself I speak and others + Weak and frail as I; + We will not desert our brothers + In adversity. + + Hugo (to the Nuns): + Does the Abbess thus advance her + Will before ye all? + + A Nun: + We will stay. + + Hugo: Is this thine answer, + Agatha? The wall + Is a poor protection truly, + And the gates are weak, + And the Norsemen most unruly. + Come, then. + + A Nun (to Agatha): Sister, speak! + + Orion (aside to Hugo): + Press her! She her fears dissembling, + Stands irresolute; + She will yield--her limbs are trembling, + Though her lips are mute. + [A trumpet is heard without.] + + Eric: + Hark! their savage war-horn blowing + Chafes at our delay. + + Hugo: + Agatha, we must be going. + Come, girl! + + Agatha (clinging to Ursula): Must I stay? + + Ursula: + Nay, my child, thou shalt not make me + Judge; I cannot give + Orders to a novice. + + Agatha: Take me, + Hugo! Let me live! + + Eric (to Nuns): + Foolish women! will ye tarry, + Spite of all we say? + + Hugo: + Must we use our strength and carry + You by force away? + + Ursula: + Bad enough thou art, Sir Norman, + Yet thou wilt not do + This thing. Shame!--on men make war, man, + Not on women few. + + Eric: + Heed her not--her life she barters, + Of her free accord, + For her faith; and, doubtless, martyrs + Have their own reward. + + Ursula: + In the Church's cause thy father + Never grudged his blade-- + Hugo, did he rue it? + + Orion: Rather! + He was poorly paid. + + Hugo: + Abbess, this is not my doing; + I have said my say; + How can I avert the ruin, + Even for a day, + Since they count two hundred fairly, + While we count a score; + And thine own retainers barely + Count a dozen more? + + Agatha (kneeling to Ursula): + Ah! forgive me, Lady Abbess, + Bless me ere I go; + She who under sod and slab is + Lying, cold and low, + Scarce would turn away in anger + From a child so frail; + Not dear life, but deadly danger, + Makes her daughter quail. + + Hugo: + Eric, will those faces tearful + To God's judgment seat + Haunt us? + + Eric: Death is not so fearful. + + Hugo: No, but life is sweet-- + Sweet for once, to me, though sinful. + + Orion (to Hugo): Earth is scant of bliss; + Wisest he who takes his skinful + When the chance is his. + + (To Ursula): + Lady Abbess! stay and welcome + Osric's savage crew; + Yet when pains of death and hell come, + Thou thy choice may'st rue. + + Ursula (to Orion): + What dost thou 'neath roof-trees sacred? + Man or fiend, depart! + + Orion: + Dame, thy tongue is sharp and acrid, + Yet I bear the smart. + + Ursula (advancing and raising up a crucifix): + I conjure thee by this symbol + Leave us! + [Orion goes out hastily.] + + Hugo: Ha! the knave, + He has made an exit nimble; + Abbess! thou art brave. + Yet once gone, we're past recalling, + Let no blame be mine. + See, thy sisters' tears are falling + Fast, and so are thine. + + Ursula: + Fare you well! The teardrop splashes + Vainly on the ice. + Ye will sorrow o'er our ashes + And your cowardice. + + Eric: + Sorry am I, yet my sorrow + Cannot alter fate; + Should Prince Otto come to-morrow, + He will come too late. + + Hugo: + Nay, old comrade, she hath spoken + Words we must not hear; + Shall we pause for sign or token-- + Taunted twice with fear? + Yonder, hilt to hilt adjusted, + Stand the swords in which we trusted + Years ago. Their blades have rusted, + So, perchance, have we. + Ursula! thy words may shame us, + Yet we once were counted famous, + Morituri, salutamus, + Aut victuri, te! [They go out.] + + + SCENE--The Outskirts of Rudolph's Camp. + + RUDOLPH, OSRIC, and DAGOBERT. HUGO. + + + Rudolph: + Lord Hugo! thy speech is madness; + Thou hast tax'd our patience too far; + We offer'd thee peace--with gladness, + We gladly accept thy war. + + Dagobert: + And the clemency we extended + To thee and thine we recall; + And the treaty 'twixt us is ended-- + We are ready to storm the wall. + + Osric: + Now tear yon parchment to tatters; + Thou shalt make no further use + Of our safeguard; the wind that scatters + The scroll shall scatter the truce. + + Hugo: + Jarl Osric, to save the spilling + Of blood, and the waste of life, + I am willing, if thou art willing, + With thee to decide this strife; + Let thy comrades draw their force back; + I defy thee to single fight, + I will meet thee on foot or horseback, + And God shall defend the right. + + Rudolph: + No single combat shall settle + This strife; thou art overbold-- + Thou hast put us all on our mettle, + Now the game in our hands we hold. + + Dagobert: + Our lances round thee have hover'd, + Have seen where thy fellows bide; + Thy weakness we have discover'd, + Thy nakedness we have spied. + + Osric: + And hearken, knight, to my story-- + When sack'd are the convent shrines, + When the convent thresholds are gory, + And quaff'd are the convent wines: + When our beasts with pillage are laden, + And the clouds of our black smoke rise + From yon tower, one fair-haired maiden + Is singled as Osric's prize. + I will fit her with chain and collar + Of red gold, studded with pearls; + With bracelet of gold, Sir Scholar, + The queen of my captive girls. + + Hugo (savagely): + May the Most High God of battles + The Lord and Ruler of fights, + Who breaketh the shield that rattles, + Who snappeth the sword that smites, + In whose hands are footmen and horsemen, + At whose breath they conquer or flee, + Never show me His mercy, Norseman! + If I show mercy to thee. + + Osric: + What, ho! art thou drunk, Sir Norman? + Has the wine made thy pale cheek red? + Now, I swear by Odin and Thor, man, + Already I count thee dead. + + Rudolph: + I crave thy pardon for baulking + The flood of thine eloquence, + But thou canst not scare us with talking, + I therefore pray thee go hence. + + Osric: + Though I may not take up thy gauntlet, + Should we meet where the steel strikes fire, + 'Twixt thy casque and thy charger's frontlet + The choice will perplex thy squire. + + Hugo: + When the Norman rowels are goading, + When glitters the Norman glaive, + Thou shalt call upon Thor and Odin: + They shall not hear thee nor save. + "Should we meet!" Aye, the chance may fall so, + In the furious battle drive, + So may God deal with me--more, also! + If we separate, both alive! + + + SCENE--The Court-yard of the Old Farm. + + EUSTACE and other followers of HUGO and ERIC lounging about. + Enter THURSTON hastily, with swords under his arm. + + + Thurston: + Now saddle your horses and girth them tight, + And see that your weapons are sharp and bright. + Come, lads, get ready as fast as you can. + + Eustace: + Why, what's this bustle about, old man? + + Thurston: + Well, it seems Lord Hugo has changed his mind, + As the weathercock veers with the shifting wind; + He has gone in person to Osric's camp, + To tell him to pack up his tents and tramp! + But I guess he won't. + + Eustace: Then I hope he will, + They are plenty to eat us, as well as to kill. + + Ralph: + And I hope he won't--I begin to feel + A longing to moisten my thirsty steel. + [They begin to saddle and make preparations + for a skirmish.] + + Thurston: + I've a couple of blades to look to here. + In their scabbards I scarcely could make them stir + At first, but I'll sharpen them both ere long. + + A Man-at-arms: + Hurrah for a skirmish! Who'll give us a song? + + Thurston (sings, cleaning and sharpening): + Hurrah! for the sword! I hold one here, + And I scour at the rust and say, + 'Tis the umpire this, and the arbiter, + That settles in the fairest way; + For it stays false tongues and it cools hot blood, + And it lowers the proud one's crest; + And the law of the land is sometimes good, + But the law of the sword is best. + In all disputes 'tis the shortest plan, + The surest and best appeal;-- + What else can decide between man and man? + + (Chorus of all): + Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! + + Thurston (sings): + Hurrah! for the sword of Hugo, our lord! + 'Tis a trusty friend and a true; + It has held its own on a grassy sward, + When its blade shone bright and blue, + Though it never has stricken in anger hard, + And has scarcely been cleansed from rust, + Since the day when it broke through Harold's guard + With our favourite cut and thrust; + Yet Osric's crown will look somewhat red, + And his brain will be apt to reel, + Should the trenchant blade come down on his head-- + + (Chorus of all): + Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! + + Thurston (sings): + Hurrah! for the sword of our ally bold, + It has done good service to him; + It has held its own on an open wold, + When its edge was in keener trim. + It may baffle the plots of the wisest skull, + It may slacken the strongest limb, + Make the brains full of forethought void and null, + And the eyes full of far-sight dim; + And the hasty hands are content to wait, + And the knees are compelled to kneel, + Where it falls with the weight of a downstroke straight-- + + (Chorus of all): + Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! + + Thurston (sings): + Hurrah! for the sword--I've one of my own; + And I think I may safely say, + Give my enemy his, let us stand alone, + And our quarrel shall end one way; + One way or the other--it matters not much, + So the question be fairly tried. + Oh! peacemaker good, bringing peace with a touch, + Thy clients will be satisfied. + As a judge, thou dost judge--as a witness, attest, + And thou settest thy hand and seal, + And the winner is blest, and the loser at rest-- + + (Chorus of all): + Hurrah! for the bright blue steel! + [Hugo and Eric enter during the last verse + of the song.] + + Hugo: + Boot and saddle, old friend, + Their defiance they send; + Time is short--make an end + Of thy song. + Let the sword in this fight + Strike as hard for the right + As it once struck for might + Leagued with wrong. + + Ha! Rollo, thou champest + Thy bridle and stampest, + For the rush of the tempest + Dost long? + Ho! the kites will grow fatter + On the corpses we scatter, + In the paths where we shatter + Their throng. + + Where Osric, the craven, + Hath reared the black raven + 'Gainst monks that are shaven + And cowl'd: + Where the Teuton and Hun sit, + In the track of our onset, + Will the wolves, ere the sunset, + Have howl'd. + + Retribution is good, + They have revell'd in blood, + Like the wolves of the wood + They have prowl'd. + Birds of prey they have been, + And of carrion unclean, + And their own nests (I ween) + They have foul'd. + + Eric: + Two messengers since + Yestermorn have gone hence, + And ere long will the Prince + Bring relief. + Shall we pause?--they are ten + To our one, but their men + Are ill-arm'd, and scarce ken + Their own chief; + And for this we give thanks: + Their disorderly ranks, + If assail'd in the flanks, + Will as lief + Run as fight--loons and lords. + + Hugo: + Mount your steeds! draw your swords! + Take your places! My words + Shall be brief: + Ride round by the valley, + Through pass and gorge sally-- + The linden trees rally + Beneath. + Then, Eric and Thurston, + Their ranks while we burst on, + Try which will be first on + The heath. + + (Aside) + Look again, mother mine, + Through the happy starshine, + For my sins dost thou pine? + With my breath, + See! thy pangs are all done, + For the life of thy son: + Thou shalt never feel one + For his death. + + [They all go out but Hugo, who lingers to tighten + his girths. Orion appears suddenly in the gateway.] + + Orion: + Stay, friend! I keep guard on + Thy soul's gates; hold hard on + Thy horse. Hope of pardon + Hath fled! + Bethink once, I crave thee, + Can recklessness save thee? + Hell sooner will have thee + Instead. + + Hugo: + Back! My soul, tempest-toss'd, + Hath her Rubicon cross'd, + She shall fly--saved or lost! + Void of dread! + Sharper pang than the steel, + Thou, oh, serpent! shalt feel, + Should I set the bruised heel + On thy head. + [He rides out.] + + + SCENE--A Room in the Convent Tower Overlooking the Gate. + + URSULA at the window. AGATHA and Nuns crouching or kneeling in a corner. + + + Ursula: + See, Ellinor! Agatha! Anna! + While yet for the ladders they wait, + Jarl Osric hath rear'd the black banner + Within a few yards of the gate; + It faces our window, the raven, + The badge of the cruel sea-kings, + That has carried to harbour and haven + Destruction and death on its wings. + Beneath us they throng, the fierce Norsemen, + The pikemen of Rudolph behind + Are mustered, and Dagobert's horsemen + With faces to rearward inclined; + Come last, on their coursers broad-chested, + Rough-coated, short-pastern'd and strong, + Their casques with white plumes thickly crested, + Their lances barb-headed and long: + They come through the shades of the linden, + Fleet riders and war-horses hot: + The Normans, our friends--we have sinn'd in + Our selfishness, sisters, I wot-- + They come to add slaughter to slaughter, + Their handful can ne'er stem the tide + Of our foes, and our fate were but shorter + Without them. How fiercely they ride! + And "Hugo of Normandy!" "Hugo!" + "A rescue! a rescue!" rings loud, + And right on the many the few go! + A sway and a swerve of the crowd! + A springing and sparkling of sword-blades! + A crashing and 'countering of steeds! + And the white feathers fly 'neath their broad blades + Like foam-flakes! the spear-shafts like reeds! + + A Nun (to Agatha): + Pray, sister! + + Agatha: Alas! I have striven + To pray, but the lips move in vain + When the heart with such terror is riven. + Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! + + Ursula: + As leaves fall by wintry gusts scatter'd, + As fall by the sickle ripe ears, + As the pines by the whirlwind fall shatter'd, + As shatter'd by bolt fall the firs-- + To the right hand they fall, to the left hand + They yield! They go down! they give back! + And their ranks are divided and cleft, and + Dispers'd and destroy'd in the track! + Where, stirrup to stirrup, and bridle + To bridle, down-trampling the slain! + Our friends, wielding swords never idle, + Hew bloody and desperate lane + Through pikemen, so crowded together + They scarce for their pikes can find room, + Led by Hugo's gilt crest, the tall feather + Of Thurston, and Eric's black plume! + + A Nun (to Agatha): + Pray, sister! + + Agatha: First pray thou that heaven + Will lift this dull weight from my brain, + That crushes like crime unforgiven. + Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! + + Ursula: + Close under the gates men are fighting + On foot where the raven is rear'd! + 'Neath that sword-stroke, through helm and skull smiting, + Jarl Osric falls, cloven to the beard! + And Hugo, the hilt firmly grasping, + His heel on the throat of his foe, + Wrenches back. I can hear the dull rasping, + The steel through the bone grating low! + And the raven rocks! Thurston has landed + Two strokes, well directed and hard, + On the standard pole, wielding, two-handed, + A blade crimson'd up to the guard. + Like the mast cut in two by the lightning, + The black banner topples and falls! + Bewildering! back-scattering! affright'ning! + It clears a wide space next the walls. + + A Nun (to Agatha): + Pray, sister! + + Agatha: Does the sinner unshriven, + With naught beyond this life to gain, + Pray for mercy on earth or in heaven? + Look again, Lady Abbess! Look again! + + Ursula: + The gates are flung open, and straightway, + By Ambrose and Cyril led on, + Our own men rush out through the gateway; + One charge, and the entrance is won! + No! our foes block the gate and endeavour + To force their way in! Oath and yell, + Shout and war-cry wax wilder than ever! + Those children of Odin fight well; + And my ears are confused by the crashing, + The jarring, the discord, the din; + And mine eyes are perplex'd by the flashing + Of fierce lights that ceaselessly spin; + So when thunder to thunder is calling, + Quick flash follows flash in the shade, + So leaping and flashing and falling, + Blade flashes and follows on blade! + While the sward, newly plough'd, freshly painted, + Grows purple with blood of the slain, + And slippery! Has Agatha fainted? + + Agatha: + Not so, Lady Abbess! Look again! + + Ursula: + No more from the window; in the old years + I have look'd upon strife. Now I go + To the court-yard to rally our soldiers + As I may--face to face with the foe. + [She goes out.] + + + SCENE--A Room in the Convent. + + THURSTON seated near a small fire. + + + Enter EUSTACE. + + Eustace: + We have come through this skirmish with hardly a scratch. + + Thurston: + And without us, I fancy, they have a full batch + Of sick men to look to. Those robbers accurs'd + Will soon put our soundest on terms with our worst. + Nathless I'd have bartered, with never a frown, + Ten years for those seconds when Osric went down. + Where's Ethelwolf? + + Eustace: Dying. + + Thurston: And Reginald? + + Eustace: Dead. + And Ralph is disabled, and Rudolph is sped. + He may last till midnight--not longer. Nor Tyrrel, + Nor Brian will ever see sunrise. + + Thurston: That Cyril, + The monk, is a very respectable fighter. + + Eustace: + Not bad for a monk. Yet our loss had been lighter + Had he and his fellows thrown open the gate + A little more quickly. And now, spite of fate, + With thirty picked soldiers their siege we might weather, + But the Abbess is worth all the rest put together. + [Enter Ursula.] + + Thurston: + Here she comes. + + Ursula: Can I speak with your lord? + + Eustace: 'Tis too late, + He was dead when we carried him in at the gate. + + Thurston: + Nay, he spoke after that, for I heard him myself; + But he won't speak again, he must lie on his shelf. + + Ursula: + Alas! is he dead, then? + + Thurston: As dead as St. Paul. + And what then? to-morrow we, too, one and all, + Die, to fatten these ravenous carrion birds. + I knelt down by Hugo and heard his last words: + "How heavy the night hangs--how wild the waves dash; + Say a mass for my soul--and give Rollo a mash." + + Ursula: + Nay, Thurston, thou jestest. + + Thurston: Ask Eric. I swear + We listened and caught every syllable clear. + + Eustace: + Why, his horse was slain, too. + + Thurston: 'Neath the linden trees grey, + Ere the onset, young Henry rode Rollo away; + He will hasten the Prince, and they may reach your gate + To-morrow--though to-morrow for us is too late. + Hugo rode the boy's mare, and she's dead--if you like-- + Disembowel'd by the thrust of a freebooter's pike. + + Eustace: + Neither Henry nor Rollo we ever shall see. + + Ursula: + But we may hold the walls till to-morrow. + + Thurston: Not we. + In an hour or less, having rallied their force, + They'll storm your old building--and take it, of course, + Since of us, who alone in war's science are skill'd, + One-third are disabled, and two-thirds are kill'd. + + Ursula: + Art thou hurt? + + Thurston: At present I feel well enough, + But your water is brackish, unwholesome and rough; + Bring a flask of your wine, dame, for Eustace and I, + Let us gaily give battle and merrily die. + [Enter Eric, with arm in sling.] + + Eric: + Thou art safe, Lady Abbess! The convent is safe! + To be robbed of their prey how the ravens will chafe! + The vanguard of Otto is looming in sight! + At the sheen of their spears, see! thy foemen take flight, + Their foremost are scarce half a mile from the wall. + + Thurston: + Bring the wine, lest those Germans should swallow it all. + + + SCENE--The Chapel of the Convent. + + + Dirge of the Monks: + Earth to earth, and dust to dust, + Ashes unto ashes go. + Judge not. He who judgeth just, + Judgeth merciful also. + Earthly penitence hath fled, + Earthly sin hath ceased to be; + Pile the sods on heart and head, + Miserere Domine! + + Hominum et angelorum, + Domine! precamur te + Ut immemor sis malorum-- + Miserere Domine! + (Miserere!) + + Will the fruits of life brought forth, + Pride and greed, and wrath and lust, + Profit in the day of wrath, + When the dust returns to dust? + Evil flower and thorny fruit + Load the wild and worthless tree. + Lo! the axe is at the root, + Miserere Domine! + + Spes, fidesque, caritasque, + Frustra fatigant per se, + Frustra virtus, forsque, fasque, + Miserere Domine! + (Miserere!) + + Fair without and foul within, + When the honey'd husks are reft + From the bitter sweets of sin, + Bitterness alone is left; + Yet the wayward soul hath striven + Mostly hell's ally to be, + In the strife 'twixt hell and heaven, + Miserere Domine! + + Heu! heu! herba latet anguis-- + Caro herba--carni vae-- + Solum purgat, Christi sanguis, + Miserere Domine! + (Miserere!) + + Pray that in the doubtful fight + Man may win through sore distress, + By His goodness infinite, + And His mercy fathomless. + Pray for one more of the weary, + Head bow'd down and bended knee, + Swell the requiem, Miserere! + Miserere Domine! + + Bonum, malum, qui fecisti + Mali imploramus te, + Salve fratrem, causa Christi, + Miserere Domine! + (Miserere!) + + + [End of Ashtaroth.] + + + + +FOOTNOTES: + + +[Footnote 1: The extension of the tramways has necessitated + the removal of this statue to Spring-street.] + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Adam Lindsay Gordon + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 258.txt or 258.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/258/ + +Produced by A. 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