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Ebook has 1319 lines and 97056 words, and 27 pages

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;--

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.

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.

Traverse yon spacious burial-ground, Many are sleeping soundly there, Who pass'd with mourners standing around, Kindred and friends, and children fair; Did he envy such ending? 'twere hard to say; Had he cause to envy such ending? no; Can the spirit feel for the senseless clay When it once has gone where we all must go?

What matters the sand or the whitening chalk, The blighted herbage, the black'ning log, The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk, Or the hot red tongue of the native dog? That couch was rugged, those sextons rude, Yet, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms' food, When once they've gone where we all must go.

With the pistol clenched in his failing hand, With the death mist spread o'er his fading eyes, He saw the sun go down on the sand, And he slept, and never saw it rise; 'Twas well; he toil'd till his task was done, Constant and calm in his latest throe; The storm was weathered, the battle was won, When he went, my friends, where we all must go.

God grant that whenever, soon or late, Our course is run and our goal is reach'd, We may meet our fate as steady and straight As he whose bones in yon desert bleach'd; No tears are needed--our cheeks are dry, We have none to waste upon living woe; Shall we sigh for one who has ceased to sigh, Having gone, my friends, where we all must go?

We tarry yet, we are toiling still, He is gone and he fares the best, He fought against odds, he struggled up hill, He has fairly earned his season of rest; No tears are needed--fill out the wine, Let the goblets clash, and the grape juice flow; Ho! pledge me a death-drink, comrade mine, To a brave man gone where we all must go.

Unshriven

Oh! the sun rose on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie, And the steed stood ready harness'd in the hall, And he left his lady's bower, and he sought the eastern tower, And he lifted cloak and weapon from the wall.

"We were wed but yester-noon, must we separate so soon? Must you travel unassoiled and, aye, unshriven, With the blood stain on your hand, and the red streak on your brand, And your guilt all unconfessed and unforgiven?"

"Tho' it were but yester-even we were wedded, still unshriven, Across the moor this morning I must ride; I must gallop fast and straight, for my errand will not wait; Fear naught, I shall return at eventide."

"If I fear, it is for thee, thy weal is dear to me, Yon moor with retribution seemeth rife; As we've sown so must we reap, and I've started in my sleep At the voice of the avenger, 'Life for life'."

"My arm is strong, I ween, and my trusty blade is keen, And the courser that I ride is swift and sure, And I cannot break my oath, though to leave thee I am loth, There is one that I must meet upon the moor."

Oh! the sun shone on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie, Down the avenue and through the iron gate, Spurr'd and belted, so he rode, steel to draw and steel to goad, And across the moor he galloped fast and straight.

Oh! the sun shone on the lea, and the bird sang full of glee, Ere the mists of evening gather'd chill and grey; But the wild bird's merry note on the deaf ear never smote, And the sunshine never warmed the lifeless clay.

Ere the sun began to droop, or the mist began to stoop, The youthful bride lay swooning in the hall; Empty saddle on his back, broken bridle hanging slack, The steed returned full gallop to the stall.

Oh! the sun sank in the sea, and the wind wailed drearilie; Let the bells in yonder monastery toll, For the night rack nestles dark round the body stiff and stark, And unshriven to its Maker flies the soul.

Ye Wearie Wayfarer, hys Ballad In Eight Fyttes.

"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.

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 .

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.

"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.

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.

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