The Poems of Adam Lindsay Gordon | Page 7

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