Read Ebook: Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon by Gordon Adam Lindsay Clarke Marcus Andrew Hislop Editor

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Ebook has 1319 lines and 97056 words, and 27 pages

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.

"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 ; 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

"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 The sweets of destruction are somewhat tame When no personal risks befall; Our victims suffer but little, we trust , 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.

Fytte VI Potters' Clay

"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.

"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.

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! '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!"

"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?

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?

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.

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