The Poems of Adam Lindsay Gordon | Page 8

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 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