: Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon by Gordon Adam Lindsay Clarke Marcus Andrew Hislop Editor - Gordon Adam Lindsay 1833-1870; Australia Poetry

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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.

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