The Poems of Adam Lindsay Gordon | Page 7

death-knell roll,
From
the cannon's lips where they faced the foe,
Have fallen as stout and
steady of soul
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.
0. 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