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diff --git a/old/agord10.txt b/old/agord10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9e5cd7b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/agord10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11364 @@ +**The Project Gutenberg Etext of Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon** + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +Poems, by Adam Lindsay Gordon + +May, 1995 [Etext #258] + +a compilation including: +Sea Spray and Smoke Drift +Bush Ballads & Galloping Rhymes +Miscellaneous Poems +Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric + + +entered/proofed by A. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + + +Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon +[British-born Australian Steeple-Chase Rider and Poet -- 1833-1870.] + + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized stanzas will be indented 5 spaces. +Italicized words or phrases will be capitalized. +Lines longer than 75 characters have been broken according to metre, +and the continuation is indented two spaces. Also, +some obvious errors, after being confirmed against other sources, +have been corrected.] + + +[Note: This etext was transcribed from an 1893 edition +published in Melbourne.] + + + + + + +POEMS + by +ADAM LINDSAY GORDON + + + +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 -- * + 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. + + +* The extension of the tramways has necessitated the removal of this statue +to Spring-street. + + + + +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.] + + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon + + + + |