The Poems of Adam Lindsay Gordon | Page 8

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