iSV^'i!
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 SEA SPRAY 
 
 ^NIi 
 
 SMOKE DRIFT 
 
 i;v 
 
 A. L. GORDON. 
 
 MELBOURNE: 
 
 CT.ARSOX, MASSINA, & CO., 72 LITTLE COLLINS STREET. 
 
 1876.
 
 4 
 
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 x:
 
 SEA SPRAY 
 
 AND 
 
 SMOKE DRIFT. 
 
 BY 
 
 A. L. GORDON 
 
 MELBOURNE : 
 CLARSON, MASSINA, & CO., 72 LITTLE COLLINS STREET. 
 
 1876.
 
 mrlboukne: 
 
 clarson, massina, and co , trinters, 
 
 little collins street east.
 
 H725 
 Qr3 5 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The poems of Gordon have an interest beyond the mere 
 personal one which his friends attach to his name. Written, 
 as they were, at odd times and leisure moments of a stirring 
 and adventurous life, it is not to be wondered at if they are 
 unequal or unfinished. The astonishment of those who knew 
 the man, and can guage the capacity of this city to foster poetic 
 instinct, is, that such work was ever produced here at all. In- 
 tensely nervous and feeling much of that shame at the exercise 
 of the higher intelligence which besets those who are known to 
 be renowned in field sports, Gordon produced his poems shyly, 
 scribbled them on scraps of paper, and sent them anonymously 
 to magazines. It was not until that he discovered one morn- 
 ing that everybody knew a couplet or two of " How we beat 
 the Favourite " that he consented to forego his anonymity and 
 appear in the unsuspected character of a versemaker. The 
 success of his republished " collected " poems gave him 
 couiage, and the unreserved praise which greeted " Bush 
 Ballads " should have urged him to forget or to conquer those 
 evil promptings which unhappily brought about his untimely 
 death. 
 
 Adam Lindsay Gordon was the son of an officer in the 
 English army, and was educated at Woolwich, in order that he 
 might follow the profession of his family. At the time when 
 he was a cadet there was no sign of either of the two great wars 
 which were about to call forth the strength of English arms, 
 and, like many other men of his day, he quitted his prospects 
 of service and emigrated. He went to South Australia and 
 started as a sheep farmer. His efforts were attended with 
 failure. He lost his capital, and owning nothing but a love for 
 horsemanship and a head full of Browning and Shelley, plunged 
 into the varied life which gold-mining, " overlanding," and 
 cattle-driving affords. From this experience he emerged to 
 light in Melbourne as the best amateur steeplechase rider in 
 
 493928
 
 IV. PREFACE. 
 
 the colonies. Tlie victory lie won for Major Baker in 1868, 
 when he rode i;al:>bler for the Cup Stee])lechase, made him 
 popular, and the almost simultaneous publication of his last 
 volume of poems gave him welcome entrance to the houses of 
 all who had pretensions to literary taste. The reputation of the 
 book spread to England, and Major Whyte Melville did not 
 disdain to place the lines of the dashmg Australian author at 
 the head of his own dashing descriptions of sporting scenery. 
 Unhappily the melancholy which Gordon's friends had with pain 
 observed, increased daily, and in the full flood of his success, 
 with congratulations pouring upon him from every side, he 
 was found dead in the heather near his home with a bullet from 
 his own rifle in his brain. 
 
 I do not purpose to criticise the volumes which these few 
 lines of preface introduce to the reader. The influence of 
 Browning and of Swinburne upon the writer's taste is plain. 
 There is plainly visible also, however, a keen sense for 
 natural beauty and a manly admiration for healthy living. If 
 in " Ashtaroth" and " Bellona" we recognise the swing of a 
 familiar metre, in such poems as the "Sick Stockrider" we 
 perceive the genuine poetic instinct united to a very clear per- 
 ception of the loveliness of duty and of labour. 
 
 'Twas merry in the glowing morn, ,imong the gleaming grass, 
 
 To wander as we've wander'U many a mile. 
 And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pas«. 
 
 Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while ; 
 'Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods when we spied the station roofs. 
 
 To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard, 
 With a running tire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs, 
 
 Oh ! the hardest day was never then too hard ! 
 
 Ay I we had a glorious gallop after " Starlight " and his gang. 
 
 When they bolted from Sylvester's on the flat ; 
 How the sun-dried reed-beds crackled, how the flint strewn ranges rang 
 
 To the strokes of " Mountaineer " and " Acrobat ;" 
 Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath. 
 
 Close behind them through the tea-tree scrub we dash'd ; 
 And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath ! 
 
 And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash'd ! 
 
 This is genuine. There is no "poetic evolution from the 
 deptlis of internal consciousness" here. The writer has ridden 
 his ride as well as written it. 
 
 The student of these unpretending volumes will be repaid for 
 his labour. He will find in them something very like the 
 bejjdnnings of a national school of Australian poetry. In
 
 PREFACE. V. 
 
 historic Europe, where every rood of ground is hallowed 
 in legend and in song, the least imaginative can find food for 
 sad and sweet reflection. When strolling at noon down an 
 English country lane, lounging at sunset by some ruined chapel 
 on the margin of an Irish lake, or watching the mists of morn- 
 ing unveil Ben Lomond, we feel all the charm which springs 
 from association with the past. Soothed, saddened, and 
 cheered by turns, we partake the varied moods which belong 
 not so much to ourselves as to the dead men who in old days 
 sung, suffered, or conquered in the scenes which we survey. 
 But this our native or adopted land has no past, no story. No 
 poet speaks to us. Do we need a poet to interpret Nature's 
 teachings, we must look into our own hearts, if perchance we 
 may find a poet there. 
 
 What is the dominant note of Australian scenery ? That 
 which is the dominant note of Edgar Allan Poe's poetry — 
 Weird Melancholy. A poem like " L'AUegro could never be 
 written by an Australian. It is too airy, too sweet, too freshly 
 happy. The Australian mountain forests are funereal, secret, 
 stern. Their solitude is desolation. They seem to stifle in their 
 black gorges a story of sullen despair. No tender sentiment 
 is nourished in their shade. In other lands the dying year is 
 mourned, the falling leaves drop lightly on his bier. In the 
 Australian forests no leaves fall. The savage winds shout 
 among the rock clefts. From the melancholy gums strips of 
 white bark hang and rustle. The very animal life of these 
 frowning hills is either grotesque or ghostly. Great gray 
 kangaroos hop noiselessly over the coarse grass. Flights of 
 white cockatoos stream out shrieking like evil souls. The sun 
 suddenly sinks, and the mopokes burst out into horrible peals of 
 semi-human laughter. The natives aver that when night comes, 
 from out the bottomless depth of some lagoon the Bunyip 
 rises, and in form like monstrous sea-calf drags his loathsome 
 length from out the ooze. From a corner of the silent forest 
 rises a dismal chant, and around a fire, dance natives painted 
 like skeletons. All is fear inspiring and gloomy. No bright 
 fancies are linked with the memories of the mountains. Hope- 
 less explorers have named them out of their sufferings — Mount 
 Misery, Mount Dreadful, Mount Despair. As when among 
 sylvan scenes in places 
 
 Made green with the running of rivers 
 And gracious with temperate air, 
 
 the soul is soothed and satisfied, so, placed before the frightful
 
 VI. PREFACE. 
 
 grandeur of these barren hills, it drinks in their sentiment of 
 dctiaut ferocity, and is steeped in bitterness. 
 
 Australia has rightly been named the Land of the Dawning. 
 Wrapped in the midst of early morning, her history looms 
 vague and gigantic. The lonely horseman riding between the 
 moonlight and the day sees vast shadows creeping across the 
 slielterless and silent plains, hears strange noises in the primeval 
 forest where nourishes a vegetation long dead in other lands, 
 and feels, despite his fortune, that the trim utilitarian civilisa- 
 tion which bred him shrinks into insignificance beside the 
 contemptuous grandeur of forest and ranges coeval with an 
 age in which European scientists have cradled his own race. 
 
 There is a poem in every form of tree or flower, but the 
 poetry which lives in the trees and flowers of Australia differs 
 from those of other countries. Europe is the home of knightiy 
 song, of bright deeds and clear morning thought. Asia sinks 
 beneath the weighty recollections of her past magnificence, as 
 the Suttee sinks jewel- burdened upon the corpse of dread 
 grandeur, destructive even in its death. America swiftly 
 hurries on her way, rapid, glittering, insatiable even as one of 
 her own giant waterfalls. From the jungles of Africa, and the 
 creeper-tangled groves of the Islands of the South, arise, from 
 the glowing hearts of a thousand flowers, heavy and intoxicating 
 odours — the Upas-poison which dwells in bailiaric sensuality. 
 In Australia alone is to be found the Grotesque, the Weird, 
 the strange scribblings of Nature learning how to write. Some 
 see no beauty in our trees without shade, our flowers without 
 perfume, our birds who cannot fly, and our beasts who have 
 not yet learned to walk on all fours. But the dweller in the 
 wilderness acknowledges the subtle charm of this fantastic land 
 of monstrosities. He becomes familiar with the beauty of lone- 
 liness. Whisjiered to by the myriad tongues of the wilderness, 
 he learns the language of the Ijarren and the uncouth, and can 
 read the hieroglyphs of haggard gum-trees, blown into odd 
 shapes, distorted with fierce hot winds, or cramped with cold 
 nights when the Southern Cross freezes in a cloudless sky of icy 
 blue. The phantasmagoria of that wild dreamland termed the 
 Bush interprets itself, and the I'oet of our desolation begins to 
 comprehend why free Esau loved his heritage of desert sand 
 better than all the bountiful richness of Egypt. 
 
 Marcus Clarke.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Podas Okus ...... 
 
 Gone ....... 
 
 Unshriven ...... 
 
 Ye Wearih Wayfarer his Ballad.— In Eight Fyttbs 
 Fytte I. By Wood and Wold (A Preamble) . 
 ,, II. By Flood and Field (A Legend of the Cottiswold) 
 ,, III. Zu der edl-'n Yagd (A Treatise on Trees) 
 ,, IV. In Utrumque Paratus (A Logical Discussion 
 „ V. Lex Talionis (A Moral Discourse) 
 ,, VI. Potters' Clay (An Allegorical Interlude) 
 „ VII. Cito Pede Preterit /Etas (A Philosophical Disserta- 
 tion) .... 
 „ VIII. Finis Exoptatus (A Metaphysical Song) 
 
 Borrow'd Plumes (A Preface and a Piracy) : 
 Prologue ..... 
 
 Epilogue ..... 
 
 Pastor Cum. (Translation from Horace.) 
 
 A Legend of Madrid. (Translated from the Spanish 
 
 Fauconshawe. (A Ballad.) 
 
 Kippling Water ..... 
 
 Cui Bono ..... 
 
 Bellona . . .... 
 
 The Song of the Surf .... 
 
 Whisperings in Wattle-Boughs . 
 
 Confiteor ... ... 
 
 Sunlight on the Sea. (The Philosophy of a Feast.) 
 
 Delilah. (From a Picture.) 
 
 From Lightning and Tempest 
 
 Wormwood and Nightshade . . . 
 
 Ars Longa. (A Song of Pilgrimage.) 
 
 The Last Leap ..... 
 
 Quare Fatigasti ..... 
 
 HlPPODROMANlA ; OR, WhIFFS FROM THE PiPE : 
 
 Visions in the Smoke 
 The Fields of Coleraine 
 " Craedat Judseus Apella" , 
 Banker's Dream .... 
 
 Ex Fumo Dare Lucem. ('Twixt the Cup and the Lip ) 
 The Roll of the Kettledrum ; or, The Lay of the Last Charger 
 
 Page 
 
 I 
 9 
 
 12 
 
 '7 
 '9 
 23 
 26 
 
 32 
 37 
 
 39 
 45 
 
 53 
 
 54 
 
 55 
 
 57 
 
 63 
 72 
 
 76 
 79 
 83 
 85 
 87 
 92 
 
 97 
 100 
 102 
 108 
 112 
 "5 
 
 120 
 
 128 
 131 
 13s 
 141 
 154
 
 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 I drifting onward ! 
 
 In the glass the bright sand runs 
 Steadily and slowly downward ; 
 
 Hush'd are all the MjTmidons. 
 
 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.
 
 2 PODAS OKUS. 
 
 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 behests we cannot fetter, 
 
 Fate's decrees are always his.
 
 PODAS OKUS. 
 
 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 assign' d me — Gloiy, 
 
 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 jiierce ;- 
 
 I have done with these for ever ; 
 
 By the loud resounding sea, 
 Where the reedy jav'lins quiver, 
 
 There is now no place for me. 
 Day by day our ranks diminish. 
 
 We are falling day by day ; 
 But our sons the strife will finish. 
 
 Where man tarries, man must slay.
 
 PODAS OKUS. 
 
 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 mlling. 
 
 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 heap'd wth dead. 
 Men will call me unrelenting. 
 
 Pitiless, vindictive, stem; 
 Pew wiU raise a voice dissenting, 
 
 Few will better things discern.
 
 PODAS OKUS. 
 
 Speak I the fires of life are reeling, 
 
 Like the wildfires on the marsh. 
 Was I to a friend unfeeling ? 
 
 "Was I to a mistress harsh ? 
 Was there nought save bloodshed throbbing 
 
 In this heart and on this brow ? 
 Whisper ! girl, in silence sobbing ! 
 
 Dead Patroclus ! answer thou ! 
 
 Dry those violet orbs that glisten, 
 
 Darling, I have had my daj' ; 
 Place your hand in mine and listen, 
 
 Ere the strong soul cleaves its way 
 Through the death mist hovering o'er me, 
 
 As the stout ship cleaves the wave, 
 To my fathers, gone before me, 
 
 To the gods who love the brave ! 
 
 Courage, we must part for certain ; 
 
 Shades that sink and shades that rise, 
 Blending in a shroud-like curtain, 
 
 Gather o'er these weary eyes. 
 O'er the fields we used to roam, in 
 
 Brighter days and lighter cheer, 
 Grathers thus the quiet gloaming, — 
 
 Now, I ween the end is near.
 
 POD AS OKUS. 
 
 For the hand that clasps your fingers, 
 
 Closing in the death-grip tight, 
 Scarcely feels the warmth that Ungers, 
 
 Scarcely heeds the pressure light ; 
 While the failing pulse that alters, 
 
 Changing 'neath a death chill damp, 
 Flickers, flutters, flags, and falters. 
 
 Feebly, like a waning lamp. 
 
 Think'st thou, love, 'twill chafe my ghost, in 
 
 Hades' realm where heroes shine, 
 Should I hear the shepherd boasting 
 
 To his Argive concubine ? 
 Let him boast, the girlish victor. 
 
 Let him brag ; not thus I trow. 
 Were the laiirels torn from Hector, 
 
 Not so very long ago. 
 
 Does my voice sound thick and husky ? 
 
 Is my hand no longer warm ? 
 Eound that neck where pearls look dusky 
 
 Let me once more wind my arm ; 
 Best my head upon that shoulder, 
 
 AVTiere it rested oft of yore ; 
 Warm and white, yet seeming colder 
 
 Now than ere it seem'd before.
 
 PODAS OKUS. 
 
 'Twas the fraud of Priam's daughter, 
 
 Not the force of Priam's son, 
 Slew me — ask not why I sought her, 
 
 'Twas my doora — ^her work is done ! 
 Fairer far than she, and dearer 
 
 By a thousand-fold thou art ; 
 Come, my own one, nestle nearer. 
 
 Cheating death of half his smart. 
 
 Slowly, while your amber tresses 
 
 Shower down their golden rain. 
 Let me drink those last caresses. 
 
 Never to be felt again ; 
 Yet th' Elysian halls are spacious, 
 
 Somewhere near me, I may keep 
 Eoom — who knows ? — The gods are gracious ; 
 
 Lay me lower — let me sleep ! 
 
 Lower yet, my senses wander, 
 
 And my spirit seems to roll 
 With the tide of swift Scamander 
 
 Rushing to a viewless goal. 
 In my ears, like distant washing 
 
 Of the surf upon the shore. 
 Drones a murmur, faintly splashing 
 
 'Tis the splash of Charon's oar.
 
 PODAS OKUS. 
 
 Lower yet, my own Briseis, 
 
 Denser shadows veil the light ; 
 Hush, what is to be, to be is, 
 
 Close my eyes and say good night, 
 lightly lay your red lips, kissing. 
 
 On this cold mouth, while your thumbs 
 Lie on these cold eyelids pressing — 
 
 Pallas ! thus thy soldier comes !
 
 GONE. 
 
 GONE. 
 
 In Collins Street standeth a statue tall, 
 
 A statue tall, on a pillar of stone, 
 Telling its story, to great and small. 
 
 Of the dust reclaimed from the sand waste lone ; 
 Weary and wasted, and worn and wan. 
 
 Feeble and faint, and languid and low. 
 He lay on the desert a dying man ; 
 
 Who has gone, my friend, where we all must go. 
 
 There are perils by land, and perils by water. 
 
 Short I ween are the obsequies 
 Of the landsman lost, but they may be shorter 
 
 With the mariner lost in the trackless seas ; 
 And well for him, when the timbers start. 
 
 And the stout ship reels and settles below. 
 Who goes to his doom with as bold a heart. 
 
 As that dead man gone, where we all must go.
 
 10 GONE. 
 
 Man is stubborn his rights to yield. 
 
 And redder than dews at eventide 
 Are the dews of battle, shed on the field, 
 
 By a nation's wrath or a despot's pride ; 
 But few who have heard their death knell roll, 
 
 From the cannon's Hps where they faced the foe, 
 Have fallen as stout and steady of soul, 
 
 As that dead man gone.where we all must go. 
 
 ^-averse 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.
 
 11 
 
 GONE. 
 
 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 oiu- 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 toihng stiU, 
 
 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.
 
 12 irNSHRrVEN. 
 
 UNSHEIVEN. 
 
 Oh ! the sun rose on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie, 
 And the steed stood ready hamess'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 y ester-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 guUt all unconfess't 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."
 
 imSHRIVEIv'. 13 
 
 " If I fear, it is for thee, tty 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 Ufe.' " , 
 
 " 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 gallop'd 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 warm'd the Ufeless clay.
 
 1-1 UNSHRIVEN. 
 
 Ere the sun began to dioop, or the mist began to stoop, 
 The youthful bride lay swooning in the hull ; 
 
 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 \vind wail'd drearilie ; 
 
 Let the bells in yonder monasteiy toll. 
 For the night rack nestles dark round the body stiff and stark. 
 
 And unshriven to its Maker flies the soul.
 
 15 
 
 Ye 
 
 WEARIE WAYFARER 
 
 IN EIGHT FYTTES. 
 
 Fytte I. By Wood axd Wold (A Preamble.) 
 
 II. By Flood axd Field (A Legend of the Cottiswold.) 
 
 III. Zu DER EDLEN Yagd (A Treatise on Trees.) 
 
 rV. In UTRUiiQUE PAEATUS (A Logical Discussion. 
 
 V. Lex Talionis (A Moral Discourse.) 
 
 VI. Potters' Clay (An Allegorical Interlude.) 
 
 VII. CiTO pede preterit jetas (A Philosoi^hical Disser- 
 tation.) 
 
 ,,VIII. FmiS ExoPTATUS (A Metaphysical Song.)
 
 BY wool) AND WOLD. 17 
 
 FYTTE I. 
 
 BY WOOD AND WOLD. 
 
 [a pbeamble.] 
 
 " Beneath the green wood bough." — W. Scott. 
 
 Lightly the breath of the spring wind blows, 
 
 Though laden with faint perfume, 
 'lis the fragrance rare that the bushman knows, 
 
 The scent of the wattle bloom. 
 Two-thirds of our journey at least are done, 
 
 Old horse I let us take a spell 
 In the shade from the glare of the noon -day sun, 
 
 Thus far we have travell'd well ; 
 Yoiir 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. 
 
 B
 
 18 TE WEAKIE WAYFARER. 
 
 Upon ybnder 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 cai-pet 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.
 
 BY FLOOD AlfD FIELD. j;) 
 
 FYTTi; II. 
 
 BY FLOOD AND FIELD. 
 
 [a legend of the cottism^old.] 
 
 "They have saddled a hundred milk-white steeds. 
 They have bridled a hundred blade."— C/i/ Ballad. 
 
 " He turned in his saddle, now follow who dare, 
 I ride for my country quoth * * "—Laurence. 
 
 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,
 
 20 YE WEARIE ■WAYTARER. 
 
 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 tbe 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 chesnut 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, " Quern per dere vult 
 
 Deus, dementat jn'im."
 
 BY FLOOD AKT) FIELD. 21 
 
 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 ; 
 SoHd and tall is the rasping wall 
 
 That stretches before us yonder ; 
 You must have it at speed or not at aU, 
 
 'Twere better to halt than to ponder, 
 For the stream runs wide on the take-off side, 
 
 And washes the clay bank imder ; 
 Here goes for a pull, 'tis a madman's ride, 
 And a broken neck if you blunder." 
 
 JTo 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 ttiat 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 ,
 
 '«o YE WEARIE WAYFARER. 
 
 One of many who perished, not m vain, 
 
 As A TYPE OF OUR CHIVAUIY — 
 
 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-Kke 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, 
 5*ave a bird's-eye gleam of the dashing stream, 
 
 A jarring thud on the wall, 
 A shock and the blank of a nightmare's drearo — 
 
 I was down with a stimning fall.
 
 ZU DER EDLEN YAGD. 23 
 
 FYTTte III. 
 
 ZU DER EDLEN YAGD. 
 
 [a TBEATISE 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 HMHtsman. 
 (Free Translation.) 
 
 I remember some words my fatter 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.
 
 24 YE WEARIE WAYFARER. 
 
 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 iu 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 wliich 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.
 
 ZU DER EDLEN YAGD. ok 
 
 Now tell me for once, old horse of mine, 
 
 Grazing round me loose and free, 
 Does your ancient equiae 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 duflfer at walls. 
 
 The talkative roadster of Balaam.
 
 26 YE WEARIE WAYFARER. 
 
 FYTTE IV. 
 
 IN UTRUMQUE PAEATUS. 
 
 [a logical discussion.] 
 
 " Then hey for boot and horse, lad ! 
 And round the world away ! 
 Voung blood will have its course, lad ! 
 
 And every dog his day ! — C. Kingsley. 
 
 There's a formula which the west country clowns 
 
 Once used, ere their blows fell thick, 
 At the fairs on the Devon and Cornwall downs 
 
 In their bouts with the single-stick. 
 You may read a moral, not far amiss, 
 
 If you care to moralise. 
 In the crossing guard, where the ash-plants kiss, 
 
 To the words " God spare our eyes."
 
 IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS. 27 
 
 No game was ever yet worth a rap 
 For a rational man to play, 
 
 Into which no accident, no mishap, 
 Could possibly find its way. 
 
 If you hold the willow, a shooter from Wills 
 
 May transform you into a hopper. 
 And the football meadow is rife with spills, 
 
 If you feel disposed for a cropper ; 
 In a rattling gallop with hound and horse 
 
 You may chance to reverse the medal 
 On the sward with the saddle your loins across, 
 
 And your hunter's loins on the saddle ; 
 In the stubbles you'll find it hard to frame 
 
 A remonstrance firm, yet civil. 
 When oft as " our mutual friend" takes aim, 
 
 Long odds may be laid on the rising game. 
 And against your gaiters level ; 
 There's danger even where fish are caught 
 
 To those who a wetting fear : 
 For what's worth having must aye be bought, 
 And sport's like life, and life's like sport, 
 
 "It ain't all skittles and beer." 
 
 The honey bag lies close to the sting, 
 The rose is fenced by the thorn.
 
 TE ■WEARIE WAYFARER. 
 
 Shall we leave to others their "gathering, 
 And turn from clustering fruits that cling 
 
 To the garden wall in scorn ? 
 Albeit those purple grapes hang high, 
 
 Like the fox in the ancient tale, 
 Let us pause and try, ere we pass them by, 
 
 Though we, like the fox, may fail. 
 
 All hurry is worse than useless ; think 
 
 On the adage, " 'Tis pace that kills ;" 
 Shun bad tobacco, avoid strong drink, 
 
 Abstain from Holloway's pills, 
 Wear woollen socks, they're the best you'll find, 
 
 Beware how you leave off flannel ; 
 And whatever you do, don't change your mind 
 
 When once you have pick'd your panel ; 
 With a bank of cloud in the south south-east 
 
 Stand ready to shorten sail ; 
 Fight shy of a corj)oration feast ; 
 
 Don't trust to a martingale ; 
 Keep your i)owder dry, and shut one eye, 
 
 Not both, when you touch your trigger ; 
 Don't stop with your head too frequently 
 
 (This advice ain't meant for a nigger) ; 
 Look before you leap if you like, but if 
 
 You mean leaping, don't look long, 
 Or the weakest place will soon grow stiff, 
 
 And the strongest doubly strong ;
 
 IN TTKUMQUE PARATUS. £9 
 
 As far as you can, to every man 
 
 Let your aid be freely given, 
 And hit out straight, 'tis your shortest plan, 
 
 When against the ropes you're driven. 
 
 Mere pluck, though not in the least sublime, 
 
 Is wiser than blank dismay, 
 Since " No sparrow can fall before its time" 
 
 And we're valued higher than they ; 
 So hope for the best, and leave the rest 
 
 In charge of a stronger hand, 
 Like the honest boors in the far-off west. 
 
 With the formula terse and grand. 
 
 They were men for the most part, rough and rude 
 
 Dull and illiterate, 
 But they nurs'd no quarrel, they cherish'd no feud. 
 
 They were strangers to spite and hate ; 
 In a kindly spirit they took their stand. 
 
 That brothers and sons might learn 
 How a man should uphold the sports of his land, 
 And strike his best with a strong right hand, 
 
 And take his strokes in return. 
 " 'Twas a barbarous practise," the quaker cries, 
 
 " 'Tis a thing of the past, thank heaven" —
 
 30 YE WEARIE WAYFARER. 
 
 Keep your tlianks till the combative instinct dies 
 With the taint of the olden leaven ; 
 
 Yes, the times are changed, for better or worse, 
 The prayer that no harm befall 
 
 Has given its place to a drunken curse, 
 And the manly game to a brawl. 
 
 Our burdens are heavy, our natures weak, 
 
 Some pastime devoid of harm 
 May we look for ? " Puritan elder, speak !" 
 " Yea, friend, peradventure thou mayest seek 
 
 Recreation singing a psalm." 
 If I did, your visage so grim and stern 
 
 Would relax in a ghastly smile, 
 For of music I never one note could learn. 
 And my feeble minstrelsy would turn 
 
 Your chant to discord vile. 
 
 Tho' the Philistine's mail could naught avail, 
 
 Nor the spear like a weaver's beam, 
 There are episodes yet in the Psalmist's tale, 
 To obliterate wliich his poems fail, 
 
 Which his exploits fail to redeem. 
 Can the Hittite's wrongs forgotten be r 
 Does HE warble " Nou nobis Domine," 
 With his monarch in blissful concert, free
 
 IN UTRUlvrQUE PAKATUS. 31 
 
 Prom all malice to flesh inherent ; 
 Zeruiah's offspring, who served so well, 
 
 Yet between the horns of the altar fell — • 
 Does HIS voice the " Quid gloriaris swell" 
 
 Or the " Quare fremuerunt ?" 
 It may well be thus, where David sings, 
 
 And Uriah joins in the chorus. 
 But while earth to earthy matter clings. 
 Neither you nor the bravest of Judah's kings 
 
 As a pattern can stand before us.
 
 32 
 
 YE WEAKIE "WAYFARER. 
 
 PYTTE V. 
 
 LEX TALIOXIS. 
 
 [a moral discourse.] 
 
 " And if there's blood upon his hand, 
 •Tis but the blood of deer."— J*'. Scott. 
 
 To beasts of the field, and fowls of the air, 
 
 And fish of the sea alike, 
 Man's hand is ever slow to spare. 
 
 And ever ready to strike ; 
 With a license to kill, and to work our will, 
 
 In season by land or by water. 
 To our heart's content we may take our fill 
 
 Of the joys we derive from slaughter. 
 
 And few, I reckon, our rights gainsay 
 In this world of rapine and wrong.
 
 LEX TALIONIS. 3^ 
 
 Where the weak and the timid seem lawful prey 
 
 For the resolute and the strong ; 
 Fins, furs, and feathers, they are and were 
 
 For our use and pleasure created, 
 We can shoot, and hunt, and angle, and snare. 
 
 Unquestioned, if not unsated. 
 
 I have neither the will nor the right to blame, 
 
 Yet to many (though not to all) 
 The sweets of destruction are somewhat tame, 
 
 When no personal risks befall ; 
 Our victims suffer but little we trust 
 
 (Mere guess work and blank enigma), 
 If they suffer at all, our field sports must 
 
 Of cruelty bear the stigma. 
 
 Shall we, hard-hearted to their fates, thus 
 
 Soft-hearted shrink from our own 
 When the measure we mete is meted to us, 
 
 When we reap as we've always sown ? 
 Shall we who for pastime have squander'd life, 
 
 Who are styled " the Lords of Creation," 
 EecoU from our chance of more equal strife. 
 
 And our risk of retaliation ? 
 

 
 34 
 
 YE WEARIE WAYFARER. 
 
 Though short is the dying pheasant's pain, 
 
 Scant pity you well may spare, 
 And the partridge slain is a triumph vain, 
 
 And a risk that a child may dare ; 
 You feel when you lower the smoking gun 
 
 Some ruth for yon slaughtered hare, 
 And hit or miss, in your selfish fun 
 
 The widgeon has little share. 
 
 But you've no remorseful qualms or pangs 
 
 When you kneel by the gi-izzly's lair. 
 On that conical bullet your sole chance hangs, 
 
 'Tis the weak one's advantage fair. 
 And the shaggy giant's terrific fangs 
 
 Are ready to crush and tear ; — 
 Should you miss, one vision of home and friend. 
 
 Five words of unfinish'd prayer, 
 Three savage knife stabs, so your sport ends 
 In the worrjdng grapple that chokes and rends ;- 
 
 Eare sport, at least, for the bear. 
 
 Short shrift ! sharp fate ! dark doom to dree ! 
 
 Hard struggle, tho' quickly ending ! 
 At home or abroad, by land or sea, 
 In peace or war, sore trials must be. 
 And worse may happen to you or to me,
 
 LEX TALIONIS. 35 
 
 For none are secure, and none can flee 
 From a destiny impending. 
 
 Ah ! friend, did you think wlien tlie " London" saak. 
 Timber by timber, plank by plank, 
 
 In a cauldron of boiling surf. 
 How alone at least, with never a flinch, 
 In a rally contested inch by inch, 
 
 You could fall on the trampled turf ? 
 When a livid wall of the sea leaps high, 
 In the lurid light of a leaden sky, 
 
 And bursts on the quarter railing ; 
 While the howling storm-gust seems to vie 
 With the crash of splintered beams that fly, 
 Yet fails too oft to smother the cry 
 
 Of women and children wailing ? 
 
 Then those who listen in sinking ships. 
 
 To despairing sobs from their lov'd one's lips, 
 
 Where the green wave thus slowly shatters. 
 May long for the crescent-claw that rips 
 The bison into ribbons and strips. 
 
 And tears the strong elk to tatters. 
 Oh I sunderings short of body and breath ? 
 Oh ! " battle and murder and sudden death !" 
 
 Against which the liturgy preaches ;
 
 3f, YE "VOIA.RIE WAYFAHER. 
 
 By the will of a just, yet a merciful Power, 
 Less bitter, perchance, in the mystic hour, 
 "When the wings of the shadowy angel lower 
 Than man in his blindness teaches !
 
 potters' clay. 37 
 
 FYTTB VI. 
 
 POTTEES' CLAY. 
 
 [an allegorical interlude.] 
 
 " Nee propter vitam vivendi perdere causas." 
 
 Thougli the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill 
 
 Too oft gets broken at last, 
 There are scores of others its place to fill 
 
 When its earth to the earth is cast ; 
 Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam, 
 
 But lie like a useless clod, 
 Yet sooner or later the houi will come 
 
 When its chips are thrown to the sod. 
 
 Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day. 
 When the vessel is crackt and old,
 
 38 Y^ WE ARTE WATFAJIEK. 
 
 To cherish the battered potter's clay, 
 As though it were virgin gold ? 
 
 Take care of yourself, dull boorish elf, 
 Though prudent and safe you seem, 
 
 Tour pitcher will break on the musty shelf, 
 And mine by the dazzling stream.
 
 CITO PEDE PREXEBIT ^TAS. 39 
 
 FYTTE VII. 
 
 CITO PEDE PEETERIT ^TAS. 
 
 [a philosophical dissertation.] 
 
 Gillian's dead, God rest her bier- 
 How I loved her many years syne ; 
 
 Marion's married, but I sit here 
 
 Alive and merry at three-score year. 
 
 Dipping my nose in Gascoigne wine. 
 
 IVaniba's song.— Thackery. 
 
 A mellower light doth Sol afford, 
 
 TTis meridian glare has pass'd, 
 And the trees on the broad and sloping sward 
 
 Their length'ning shadows cast, 
 «' Time flies." The current will he no joke, 
 
 If swollen by recent rain, 
 To cross in the dark, so I'll have a smoke, 
 
 And then I'U be off again.
 
 40 YE WEARIE WAYFAREB. 
 
 What's up, old horse ? Your ears you prick, 
 
 And your eager eyeballs glisten ; 
 'Tis the wild dog's note in the tea-tree thick, 
 
 By the river to which you listen. 
 With head erect, and tail flung out, 
 
 For a gallop you seem to beg, 
 But I feel the qualm of a chilling doubt 
 
 As I glance at your fav'rite leg. 
 
 Let the dingo rest, 'tis all for the best. 
 
 In this world there's room enough 
 For him and you and me and the rest, 
 
 And the country is awful rough. 
 We've had our gallop in days of yore, 
 
 Now down the hill wo must run, 
 Yet at times wo long for one gallop more, 
 
 Although it were only one. 
 
 Did our spirits quail at a new four-rail, 
 
 Could a " double" double-bank us, 
 Ere nerve and sinew began to fail 
 
 In the consulship of Plancus ? 
 "WTien our blood ran rapidly, and when 
 
 Our bones were pliant and limber. 
 Could we stand a merry cross-coimter then, 
 
 A slogging fall over timber ?
 
 CITO PEDE PRETERIT vETAS. 41 
 
 Arcades ambo ! Duffers both, 
 
 In our best of days, alas ! 
 (I tell the truth, though to tell it loth) 
 
 'Tis time we were gone to grass ; 
 The young leaves shoot, the sere leaves fall, 
 
 And the old gives way to the new, 
 While the preacher cries, " 'Tis vanity all 
 
 And vexation of spirit too." 
 
 Now over my head the vapours curl 
 
 From the bowl of the soothing clay, 
 In the misty forms that eddy and whirl 
 
 My thoughts are flitting away; 
 Yes, the preacher's right, 'tis vanity all, 
 
 But the sweeping rebuke he showers 
 On vanities all may heaviest fall 
 
 On vanities worse than ours. 
 
 We have no wish to exaggerate 
 
 The worth of the sports we prize, 
 Some toil for their church, and some for their state. 
 
 And some for their merchandise ; 
 Some traffic and trade in the city's mart, 
 
 Some travel by land and see, 
 Some follow science, some cleave to art, 
 
 And some to scandal and tea;
 
 42 YE "WEARIE WAYFARER. 
 
 And some for their country and their queen 
 
 Would fight, if the chance they had, 
 Good sooth 'twere a sorry world, I ween, 
 
 If we all went galloping mad ; 
 Tet if once we efface the joys of the chase 
 
 From the land, and out-root the Stud, 
 Good-bye to the Anglo-Saxon race ! 
 
 Farewell to the Norman blood ! 
 
 Where the bum runs down to the uplands brown 
 
 From the heights of the snow-clad range, 
 What anodyne drawn from the stifling town 
 
 Can be reckon' d a fair exchange 
 For the stalker's stride, on the mountain side. 
 
 In the bracing northern weather. 
 To the slopes where couch in their antler'd pride 
 
 The deer on the perfum'd heather. 
 
 Oh ! the vigour with which the air is rife ! 
 
 The spirit of joyous motion; 
 The fever, the fulness of animal life. 
 
 Can be di-ain'd from no earthly potion ! 
 The lungs with the living gas grow light, 
 
 And the limbs feel the strength of ten. 
 While the chest expands with its madd'ning might, 
 
 God's glorious oxygen.
 
 CITO PEDE PEETEEIT ^TAS. 43 
 
 Thus the measTir'd stroke, on elastic sward, 
 
 Of the steed three parts extended. 
 Hard held, the breath of his nostrils broad, 
 
 With the golden ether blended ; 
 Then the leap, the rise from the springy turf, 
 
 The rush through the buoyant air, 
 And the light shock landing — the veriest serf 
 
 Is an emperor then and there ! 
 
 Such scenes ! sensation and sound and sight ! 
 
 To some undiscover'd shore 
 On the current of Time's remorseless flight 
 
 Have they swept to return no more ? 
 While like phantoms bright of the fever'd night, 
 
 That have vex'd our slumbers of yore. 
 You follow us still in your ghostly might 
 
 Dead days that have gone before. 
 
 Vain dreams, again and again retold, 
 
 Must you crowd on the weary brain 
 Till the fingers are cold, that entwin'd of old, 
 
 Bound foil and trigger and rein. 
 Till stay'd for aye are the roving feet. 
 
 Till the restless hands are quiet, 
 Till the stubbon heart has forgotten to beat. 
 
 Till the hot blood has ceas'd to riot.
 
 44 YE WEARIE WAYFARER. 
 
 In Exeter-hall the saint may chide, 
 
 The sinner may scoff outright, 
 The Bacchanal stecp'd in the flagon's tide, 
 
 Or the sensual Sybarite ; 
 But Nolan's name will flourish in fame, 
 
 When our galloping days are past. 
 When we go from the place from whence we came, 
 
 Perchance to find rest at last. 
 
 Thy riddles grow dark, oh ! drifting cloud, 
 
 And thy misty shapes grow drear, 
 Thou hang'st in the air Hke a shadowy shroud, 
 
 But I am of lighter cheer ; 
 Though our future lot is a sable blot, 
 
 Though the wise ones of earth will blame us. 
 Though our saddles will rot, and our rides be forgot, 
 
 " DUM ViVIMUS, VlVAMUS !"
 
 CITO PEDE PRETERIT ^TAS, " 45 
 
 FYTTE VIII. 
 
 FINIS EXOPTATUS. 
 
 [a metaphystcal song.] 
 
 There's something in this world amiss 
 Shall be unriddled by-and-bye. — TennysoH. 
 
 Boot and saddle, see the slanting 
 
 Rays begin to fall, 
 Flinging lights and colours flaunting 
 
 Through the shadows tall, 
 Onward ! onward ! must we travel ? 
 
 When will come the goal ? 
 Riddle I may not unravel, 
 
 Cease to vex my soul. 
 
 Harshly break those peals of laughter 
 From the jays aloft.
 
 46 
 
 YE WEARIE WAYFARER. 
 
 Can wo guess what they cry after, 
 
 We have heard thcni oft ; 
 Perhaps some strain of rude thanksgiving 
 
 Mingles in their song, 
 Are they glad that they are living ? 
 
 Are they right or wrong ? 
 Eight, 'tis joy that makes them call so, 
 
 Why should they be sad ? 
 Certes ! we are living also. 
 
 Shall not we be glad ? 
 Onward ! onward ! must we travel ? 
 
 Is the goal more near ? 
 Eiddle we may not unravel. 
 
 Why so dark and drear ? 
 
 Yon small bird his hymn outpouring 
 
 On the branch close by 
 Eecks not for the kestrel soaring 
 
 In the nether sky. 
 Though the hawk with wings extended 
 
 Poises over head, 
 Motionless as though suspended 
 
 By a viewless thread. 
 See, he stoops, nay, shooting forward 
 
 With the arrow's flight, 
 Swift and straight away to nor' ward 
 
 Sails he out of sight.
 
 FINIS EXOPTATirS. 47 
 
 Onward ! onward ! thus we travel, 
 Comes the goal more nigh ? 
 
 Kiddie we may not unravel, 
 Who shall make reply ? 
 
 Ha ! Friend Ephraim, saint or sinner, 
 
 Tell me if you can — 
 Tho' we may not judge the inner 
 
 By the outer man. 
 Yet by girth of broadcloth ample, 
 
 And by cheeks that shine, 
 Surely you set no example 
 
 In the fasting line — 
 
 Could you, like yon bird, discov'ring 
 
 Fate, as close at hand 
 As the kestrel o'er him hov'ring 
 
 Still, as he did, stand ? 
 Trusting grandly, singing gaUy, 
 
 Confident and calm, 
 Not one false note in your daily 
 
 Hymn or weekly psahn ? 
 
 Oft your oily tones are heard in 
 Chapel, where you preach.
 
 48 
 
 YE WEABIE WAYFAKEB. 
 
 This the everlasting burden 
 
 Of the tale you teach : 
 " We are d — d, our sins are deadly, 
 
 You alone are heal'd" — 
 'Twas not thus their gospel redly 
 
 Saints and martyrs seal'd 
 You had seem'd more like a martyr 
 
 Than you seem to us 
 To the beasts that caught a Tartar 
 
 Once at Ephesus ; 
 Rather than the stout apostle 
 
 Of the Gentiles, who, 
 Pagan-like, could cuff and wrestle, 
 
 They'd have chosen you. 
 
 Yet I ween on such occasion 
 
 Your dissenting voice 
 Would have been, in mild persuasion, 
 
 Eaised against their choice ; 
 Man of peace, and man of merit, 
 
 Pompous, wise, and grave, 
 Ephraim ! Is it flesh or spirit 
 
 You strive most to save ? 
 Vain is half this care and caution 
 
 O'er the earthly shell. 
 We can neither baffle nor shun 
 
 Dark plumed Azrael.
 
 FINIS EXOPTATUS. 49 
 
 Onward ! onward ! still we wander, 
 
 Nearer draws the goal ; 
 Half the riddle's read, we ponder 
 
 Vainly on the whole. 
 
 Eastward ! in the pink horizon, 
 
 Fleecy hillocks shame, 
 This dim range dull earth that lies on 
 
 Tinged with rosy flame. 
 Westward ! as a stricken giant 
 
 Stoops his bloody crest, 
 And tho' vanquish'd frowns defiant. 
 
 Sinks the sun to rest. 
 Distant yet, approaching quickly. 
 
 From the shades that lurk. 
 Like a black pall gathers thickly 
 
 Night, when none may work. 
 Soon our restless occupation 
 
 Shall have ceas'd to be; 
 Units ! in God's vast creation, 
 
 Ciphers ! What are we ? 
 Onward ! onward ! oh ! faint-hearted ; 
 
 Nearer and more near 
 Has the goal drawn since we started, 
 Be of better cheer.
 
 50 
 
 YE WEABIE WAYFARER. 
 
 Preacher ! all forbearance ask, for 
 
 All are wortliless found, 
 Man must aye take man to task for 
 
 Faults while earth goes round. 
 On this dank soil thistles muster, 
 
 Thorns are broadcast sown, 
 Seek not figs where thistles cluster, 
 
 Grapes where thorns have grown. 
 
 Sun and rain and dew from heaven, 
 
 Light and shade and air, 
 Heat and moisture freely given, 
 
 Thorns and thistles share. 
 Vegetation rank and rotten 
 
 Feels the cheering ray ; 
 Not uncared for, unforgotten, 
 
 We too have our day. 
 
 Unforgotten I though we cumber 
 
 Earth, we work His will. 
 Shall we sleep through night's long slumber 
 
 Unforgotten still ? 
 Onward ! onward ! toiling ever, 
 
 Weary steps and slow. 
 Doubting oft, despairing never. 
 
 To the goal we go !
 
 FINIS EXOPTATUS. 5l 
 
 Hark ! the bells on distant cattle 
 
 Waft across the range, 
 Through the golden-tufted wattle, 
 
 Music low and strange ; 
 lake the marriage peal of fairies 
 
 Comes the tinkling sound, 
 Or like chimes of sweet St. Mary's 
 
 On far English ground. 
 How my courser champs the snaffle, 
 
 And with nostril spread, 
 Snorts and scarcely seems to ruffle 
 
 Fern leaves with his tread ; 
 Cool and pleasant on his haunches 
 
 Blows the evening breeze. 
 Through the overhanging branches 
 
 Of the wattle trees : 
 Onward ! to the Southern Ocean, 
 
 Glides the breath of Spring, 
 
 Onward, with a dreamy motion, 
 I, too, glide and sing — 
 
 Forward .' forward ! still we wander- 
 Tinted hills that lie 
 
 In the red hoiizon yonder — 
 Is the goal so nigh ?
 
 52 
 
 YE WEARIE WAYFARER. 
 
 Whisper, spring- wind, softly singing, 
 
 Whisper in my ear ; 
 Respite and nepenthe bringing, 
 
 Can the goal be near ? 
 Laden with the dew of vespers, 
 
 From the fragrant sky. 
 In my ear the wind that whispers 
 
 Seems to make reply — 
 
 ' ' Question not, but live and labour 
 
 Till yon goal be won. 
 Helping every feeble neighbom-. 
 
 Seeking help from none ; 
 Life is mostly froth and bubble, 
 
 Two things stand like stone, 
 Kindness in another's trouble. 
 
 Courage in your own." 
 
 Courage, comrades, this is certain, 
 
 All is for the best — 
 There are lights behind the curtain — 
 
 Gentles let us rest. 
 As the smoke-rack veers to seaward, 
 
 From " the ancient clay," 
 With its moral drifting leeward, 
 
 Ends the wanderer's lav.
 
 BUKKOAVI) PLUMES. 53 
 
 BOREOW'D PLUMES. 
 
 [A Preface and a Pieacy.] 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Of borrow' d plumes I take tlie sin, 
 
 My extracts will apply, 
 To some few silly songs, wHcli in 
 
 These pages scatter'd lie. 
 
 The words are Edgar Allan Poe's, 
 
 As any man may see, 
 But what a Poe-t wrote in prose, 
 
 Shall make blank verse for me. 
 
 •♦ These trifles are collected and republished, chiefly with a 
 ▼iew to their redemption from the many improvements to which 
 ihey have been subjected while going at random the rounds of 
 the press. I am naturally anxious, that what I have written 
 should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. • • « * 
 • « In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent 
 upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much 
 Talue to the public, or very creditable to myself." E. A. P. 
 
 fSee Preface to Poe's Poetical Works.)
 
 54 
 
 BOllKOW D PLUMES. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 And now that my theft stands detected, 
 The first of my extracts may call 
 
 To some of the rhymes here collected 
 Your notice, the second to all. 
 
 Ah ! friends, you may shake your head sadly, 
 Yet this much you'll say for my verse, 
 
 I've written of old something badly, 
 But written anew something worse.
 
 PASTOR CUM. 55 
 
 PASTOR CUM. 
 
 [Translation from Horace.] 
 
 Wlien he, that shepherd false, 'neath Phrygian sails, 
 
 Carried his hostess Helen o'er the seas, 
 In fitful slumber Nereus hush'd the gales, 
 
 That he might sing their future destinies. 
 A curse to your ancestral home you take 
 
 With her, whom Greece, with many a soldier bold. 
 Shall seek again, in concert sworn to break 
 
 Your nuptial ties and Priam's kingdom old. 
 Alas, what sweat from man and horse must flow. 
 
 What devastation to the Trojan realm 
 You carry, even now doth Pallas show 
 
 Her wrath — preparing buckler, car, and helm. 
 In vain, secure in Aphrodite's care. 
 
 You comb your locks, and on the girUsh lyre 
 Select the strains most pleasant to the fair ; 
 
 In vain, on couch recHning, you desire 
 To shun the darts that threaten, and the thrust 
 
 Of Cretan lance, the battle's wild turmoil. 
 And Ajax swift to follow — in the dust 
 
 Condemned, though late, your wanton curls to soil.
 
 56 PASTOR CUM. 
 
 Ah ! see you not where (fatal to your race), 
 
 Laertes' son comes with the Pylean sage ; 
 Fearless alike, with Teucer joins the chase 
 
 Stenelaus, skill'd the fistic strife to wage, 
 Nor less expert the fiery steeds to quell ; 
 
 And Meriones, you must know. Behold 
 A warrior, than his sire more fierce and fell, 
 
 To find you rages, — Diomed the bold, 
 Wliom, Uke the stag that, far across the vale 
 
 The wolf being seen, no herbage can allure, 
 So fly you, panting sorely, dastard pale ! — 
 
 Not thus you boasted to your paramour. 
 Achilles' anger for a space defers 
 
 The day of wrath to Troy and Trojan dame; 
 Inevitable glide the allotted years. 
 
 And Dardan roofs must waste in Argive flame.
 
 A LEGEND OF MAOKID. 
 
 67 
 
 A LEGEND OF MADRID, 
 
 [Tkanslated feom the Spanish.] 
 
 Francesca. Crusli't and throng'd are all the places 
 
 In our amphitheatre, 
 'Midst a sea of swarming faces 
 
 I can yet distinguish her ; 
 Dost thou triumph, dark brow'd Nina ? 
 
 Is my secret known to thee ? 
 On the sands of yon arena 
 
 I shall yet my vengeance see. 
 Now through portals fast careering 
 Picadors are disappearing ; 
 Now the barriers nimbly clearing 
 
 Has the hindmost chulo flown. 
 Clots of dusky crimson streaking, 
 Brindled flanks and haunches reeking, 
 Wheels the wild bull, vengeance seeking, 
 
 On the matador alone. 
 Features by sombrero shaded, 
 
 Pale and passionless and cold ; 
 Doublet richly laced and braided, 
 
 Trunks of velvet slash'd with gold,
 
 58 
 
 A LEGEND OF MADRID. 
 
 Blood-red scarf, and bare Toledo, — 
 
 Mask more subtle, and disguise 
 Far less sballow, thou dost need, oh 
 
 Traitor, to deceive my eyes. 
 Shouts of noisy acclamation, 
 Breathing savage expectation. 
 Greet him while he takes his station 
 
 Leisurely, disdaining haste ; 
 Now he doffs his tall sombrero, 
 Fools ! applaud your butcher hero. 
 Ye would idolize a Nero, 
 
 Pandering to public taste. 
 
 From the restless Gaudalquiver 
 
 To my sire's estates he came, 
 Woo'd and won me, — how I shiver ! 
 
 Though my temples bum with shame. 
 I, a proud and high-bom lady. 
 
 Daughter of an ancient race, 
 'Neath the vine and olive shade I 
 
 Yielded to a churl's embrace. 
 To a churl my vows were plighted. 
 Well my madness he requited, 
 Since, by priestly ties, united 
 
 To the muleteer's child ; 
 And ray prayeis are wafted o'er him, 
 That the bull may crush and gore him.
 
 A LEGEND OF MADRID. 
 
 59 
 
 Since the love tliat once I bore him 
 Has been changed to hatred ■wild. 
 
 Nina. Save him ! aid him ! oh Madonna ! 
 
 Two are slain if he is shdn ; 
 Shield his life, and guard his honour, 
 
 Let me not entreat in vain. 
 Sullenly the brindled savage 
 
 Tears and tosses up the sand; 
 Horns that rend and hoofs that ravage. 
 
 How shall man your shock withstand ? 
 On the shaggy neck and head lie 
 Frothy flakes, the eyeballs redly 
 Flash, the horns so sharp and deadly 
 
 Lower, short, and strong, and straight} 
 Fast, and furious, and fearless. 
 Now he charges ; — virgin peerless, 
 Lifting lids, all dry and tearless, 
 
 At thy throne I supplicate. 
 
 frari es a. Cool and calm, the perjured varlet 
 Stands on strongly planted heel. 
 
 In his left a strip of scarlet, 
 In his right a streak of steel ; 
 
 Ah ! the monster topples over, 
 
 Till his haunches strike the plain !—
 
 60 
 
 A LEGEND OF MADKID. 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 LoTV-bom clown and lying lover, 
 Thou has conquer'd once again. 
 
 Nina. Sweet Madonna, maiden mother, 
 
 Thou has't saved him, and no other ; 
 Now the tears I cannot smother, 
 
 Tears of joy my vision blind ; 
 Where thou sittest I am gazing. 
 These glad misty eyes upraising, 
 I have pray'd, and I am praising. 
 
 Bless thee ! bless thee ! virgin kind. 
 
 Francesca. While the crowd still sways and sm-ges. 
 
 Ere the applauding shouts have ceas'd 
 See, the second biill emerges — 
 
 'Tis the famed Cordovan beast, — 
 By the picador ungoaded, 
 
 Scathless of the chulo's dart. 
 Slay him, and with guerdon loaded. 
 
 And with honours crown'd depart. 
 No vain brutish strife he wages, 
 Never uselessly he rages, 
 And his cunning, as he ages, ' 
 
 With his hatred seems to grow ; 
 Though he stands amid the cheering. 
 Sluggish to the eye appearing.
 
 A LEGEND OF Mi-URID. 61 
 
 Few will venture on the spearing 
 Of so resolute a foe. 
 
 Nina. Courage, there is little danger, 
 
 Yonder dull-eyed craven seems 
 Fitter far for stall and manger 
 
 Than for scarf and blade that gleams,- 
 Shorter, and of frame less massive, 
 
 Than his comrade lying low, 
 Tame, and cowardly, and passive, — 
 
 He will prove a feebler foe. 
 I have done with doubt and anguish, 
 Fears like dews in sunshine languish, 
 Courage husband, we shall vanquish. 
 
 Thou art calm and so am I. 
 For the rush he has not waited, 
 On he strides with step elated. 
 And the steel with blood unsated, 
 
 Leaps to end the butchery. 
 
 Francesca. Tyro ! mark the brands of battle 
 
 On those shoulders dusk and dun. 
 Such as he is, are the cattle 
 
 Skill'd tauridors gladly shim ; 
 Warier than the AndaLisian, 
 
 Swifter far, though not so large,
 
 62 A LEGEND OF MADRID. 
 
 Think'st thou, to his own confusion, 
 
 He, like him, will blindly charge ? 
 Inch by inch the brute advances, 
 Stealthy yet vindictive glances, 
 Horns as straight as levell'd lances, 
 
 Crouching withers, stooping haunches ;- 
 Closer yet, until the tightening 
 Strains of 'rapt excitement height' ning 
 Grows oppressive. Ha ! like lightning 
 On his enemy he launches. 
 
 Nina. O'er the hom'd front drops the streamer, 
 In the nape the sharp steel hisses, 
 Glances, grazes, — Christ! Redeemer! 
 By a hair the spine he misses. 
 
 Francesca, Hark ! that shock like muffled thunder, 
 
 Booming from the Pyrenees ! 
 Both are down — the man is under — 
 
 Now he struggles to his knees, 
 Now he sinks, his features leaden 
 Sharpen rigidly and deaden, 
 Sands beneath him soak and redden, 
 
 Skies above him spin and veer ; 
 Through the doublet, torn and riven, 
 Where the stunted horn was driven. 
 Wells the life blood — We are even, 
 
 Daughter of the muleteer !
 
 FAUCONSHAWE. 63 
 
 FAUCONSHAWE. 
 (a ballad.) 
 
 To fetch clear water out of the spring 
 
 The little maid Margaret ran, 
 From the stream to the castle's western wing 
 
 It was but a bowshot span ; 
 On the sedgy brink where the osiers cling 
 
 Lay a dead man, pallid and wan. 
 
 The lady Mabel rose from her bed, 
 
 And walked in the castle hall. 
 Where the porch through the western turret led, 
 
 She met with her handmaid small ! 
 " What aileth thee, Margaret?" the lady said, 
 
 " Hast let thy pitcher fall ? 
 
 " Say, what hast thou seen by the streamlet side, 
 " A nymph or a water sprite ?
 
 64 FAUCONSHAWB. 
 
 "That thou comest with eyes so wild and wide, 
 "And with cheeks so ghostly white ?" 
 
 "Nor nymph nor sprite," the maiden cried, 
 " But the corpse of a slaughtered knight." 
 
 The lady Mabel summon'd straight 
 To her presence Sir Hugh de Vere, 
 
 Of the guests who tarried within the gate 
 Of Fauconshaw, most dear 
 
 Was he to that lady ; betrothed in state 
 They had been since many a year. 
 
 * ' Little Margaret sayeth a dead man lies 
 ' ' By the western spring, Sir Hugh ; 
 
 " I can scarce believe that the maiden lies — 
 " Yet scarce can believe her true." 
 
 And the knight replies, " Till we test her eyes 
 "Let her words gain credence due." 
 
 Down the rocky path knight and lady led, 
 While guests and retainers bold 
 
 Followed in haste, for like wildfire spread 
 The news by the maiden told. 
 
 They found 'twas even as she had said,— 
 The corpse had some while been cold.
 
 FAUCONSHAWB. 65 
 
 Ho-w the spirit had pass'd in the moments last 
 
 There was little trace to reveal ; 
 On the still calm face lay no imprint ghast, 
 
 Save the angel's solemn seal, 
 Yet the hands -were clench' d in a death grip fast, 
 
 And the sods stamp't down by the heel. 
 
 Sir Hugh by the side of the dead man knelt, 
 Said, " Full well these features I know, 
 
 " We have faced each other where blows were dealt, 
 " And he was a stalwart foe ; 
 
 " I had rather have met him hilt to hilt 
 "Than have found him lying low." 
 
 He tum'd the body up on its face, 
 
 And never a word was spoken, 
 While he ripp'd the doublet, and tore the lace, 
 
 And tugg'd — by the self-same token, — 
 And strain'd, till he wrench't it out of its place, 
 
 The dagger-blade that was broken. 
 
 Then he tum'd the body over again 
 
 And said, while he rose upright, 
 " May the brand of Cain, with its Avithering sttiin, 
 
 " On the mxurderer's forehead light.
 
 rt6 FAUCONSHAWB. 
 
 " For he never was slain on the open plain, 
 " Nor yet in the open fight." 
 
 Solemn and stem were the words he spoke, 
 And he look'd at his lady's men, 
 
 But his speech no answering echoes woke, 
 All were silent there and then, 
 
 Till a clear cold voice the silence broke : — 
 Lady Mabel cried, " Amen." 
 
 His glance met her's, the twain stood hush'd. 
 With the dead between them there ; 
 
 But the blood to her snowy temples rush'd 
 Till it tinged the roots of her hair, 
 
 Then paled, but a thin red streak still flushed 
 In the midst of her forehead fair. 
 
 Four yeomen raised the corpse from the ground. 
 
 At a sign from Sir Hugh de Vere, 
 It was borne to the western turret round 
 
 And laid on a knightly bier, 
 With never a sob nor a mourning soimd, — 
 
 No friend to the dead was near.
 
 FAUCONSHAWE. gy- 
 
 Yet that night -was neither revel nor dance 
 
 In the halls of Fauconshawe ; 
 Men look'd askance with a doubtful glance 
 
 At Sir Hugh, for they stood in awe 
 Of his prowess, but he like one in a trance 
 
 Regarded naught that he saw. 
 
 Night black and chill, wind gathering still, 
 "With its waU in the turret tall, 
 
 And its headlong blast like a catapult cast 
 On the crest of the outer wall, 
 
 And its hail and rain on the crashing pane, 
 Till the glassy splinters fall ; 
 
 A moody night by the fitful light 
 
 Of the great hall fire below ; 
 A corpse upstairs, and a woman at prayeis, 
 
 "Will they profit her, aye or no ? 
 By'r lady fain, an' she comfort gain, 
 
 There is comfort for us also. 
 
 The guests were gone, save Sir Hugh alone. 
 And he watched the gleams that broke
 
 68 fauconshawe. 
 
 On the pale hearth- stone, and flickered and shone 
 
 On the panels of polish'd oak ; 
 He "was 'ware of no presence except his own, 
 
 Till the voice of young Margaret spoke : 
 
 " I've risen, Sir Hugh, at the mirk midnight, 
 
 " I cannot sleep in my bed, 
 "Now, unless my tale can be told aright, 
 
 " I wot it were best unsaid ; 
 " It lies, the blood of yon northern knight, 
 
 " On my lady's hand and head." 
 
 " Oh ! the wild wind raves and rushes along, 
 " But thy ravings seem more wild — 
 
 " She never could do so foul a wrong — 
 "Yet, I blame thoe not, my child, 
 
 "For the fever'd dreams on thy rest that throng !' 
 He frown'd though his speech was mild. 
 
 "Let storm-winds eddy, and scream, and hurl 
 "Their wrath, they disturb me naught; 
 
 "The daughter she of a highborn Earl 
 " No secret of her's I've sought; 
 
 * ' I am but the chUd of a peasant churl, 
 " Yet look to the proofs I've brought ;
 
 FAUCONSHAWB. {'.'J 
 
 " This dagger snap't so close to the hilt — 
 "Dost remember thy token well ? 
 
 "Will it match with the broken blade that spilt 
 " His life in the western dell ? 
 
 " Nay! read her handwriting, an' thou wilt, 
 " From her paramour's breast it fell." 
 
 The knight in silence the letter read, 
 
 Oh ! the characters well he knew ! 
 And his face might have match' d the face of the dead, 
 
 So ashen white was its hue ! 
 Then he tore the parchment, shred by shred, 
 
 And the strips in the flames he threw. 
 
 And he muttered, " Densely those shadows fall 
 " In the copse where the alders thicken; 
 
 "There she bade him come to her, once for all, — 
 " Now, I well may shudder and sicken ; — 
 
 " Gramercy ! that hand so white and small, 
 " How strongly it must have stricken." 
 
 At midnight hour, in the western tower, 
 Alone with the dead man there,
 
 70 FAUCONSHAWE. 
 
 Lady Mabel kneels, nor heeds nor feels 
 
 The shock of the rushing air, 
 Though the gusts that pass through the riven glass 
 
 Have scattered her raven hair. 
 
 Across the floor, through the opening door, 
 
 Where standeth a stately knight, 
 The lamplight streams, and flickers, and gleams. 
 
 On his features stern and white — 
 'Tis Sir Hugh de Vere, and he cometh more near, 
 
 And the lady standeth upright. 
 
 " 'Tis little," he said, " that I know or care 
 
 " Of the guilt (if guilt there be) 
 " That lies 'twixt thee and yon dead man there, 
 
 "Nor matters it now to me ; 
 ' ' I thought thee pure, thou art only fair, 
 
 " And to-morrow I cross the sea. 
 
 " He perish'd ! I ask not why or how ? 
 
 ' ' I come to recall my troth ; 
 "Take back, my ladj% thy broken vow, 
 
 " Give back my allegiance oath : 
 ' ' Let the past be buried between us now 
 
 "For ever — 'tis best for both.
 
 FAUCONSHAWE. 
 
 * ' Yet, Mabel, I could ask, dost thou dare 
 " Lay liand on that corpse's heart ; 
 
 " And call on thy Maker, and boldly swear, 
 " That thou had'st in his death no part ? 
 
 * ' I ask not, while threescore proofs I share 
 " With one doubt — uncondemn'd thou art." 
 
 Oh I cold and bleak upon Mabel's cheek 
 Came the blast of the storm-wind keen. 
 
 And her tresses black, as the glossy back 
 Of the raven, glanced between 
 
 Her fingers slight, like the ivory white, 
 As she parted their sable sheen. 
 
 Yet with steady lip, and with fearless eye, 
 And with cheek like the fl^ush of dawn, 
 
 Unflinchingly she spoke in reply — 
 " Go hence with the break of morji, 
 
 " I will neither confess, nor yet deny, " 
 " I will return thee scorn for scorn." 
 
 The knight bow'd low as he tum'd to go ; 
 
 He travel' d by land and sea, 
 But naught of his future fate I know, 
 
 And naught of his fair ladye ; — 
 My story is told, as, long ago 
 
 My story was told to me. 
 
 71
 
 72 
 
 KIPPLING WATER. 
 
 EIPPLING WATEE. 
 
 The maiden sat by the river side, 
 
 (The rippling water murmurs by) 
 And sadly into the clear blue tide 
 
 The salt tear fell from her clear blue eye. 
 " 'Tis fixed for bettor, for worse," she cried, 
 " And to-morrow the bridegroom claims the bride. 
 Oh, wealth and power and rank and pride 
 
 Can surely peace and happiness buy. 
 I was merry, nathless, in my girlhood's hours 
 
 Mid the waving grass, when the bright sun shone. 
 Shall I be as merry in Marmaduko's towers ?" 
 
 (The ripijling water murmurs on). 
 
 Stephen works for his daily bread, 
 
 (The rippling water murmurs low). 
 Through the crazy thatch that covers his head 
 The rain-drops fall and the wind-gusts blow. 
 " m mend the old roof-tree," so he said, 
 " And repair the cottage when we are wed.' 
 And my pulses throbb'd, and my cheek grew red. 
 When he kiss't me — that was long ago.
 
 KIFPLING WATER. 73. 
 
 Stephen and I, should we meet again, 
 Not as -we've met in days that are gone, 
 
 Will my pulses throb with pleasure or pain ?. 
 (The rippling water murmurs on). 
 
 Old Giles, the gardener, strok't my curls, 
 
 (The rippling water murmurs past) 
 Quoth he, ".In laces and silks and pearls, 
 
 My child will see her reflections cast ; 
 Now I trust in my heart that your lord will be 
 Kinder to you than he was to me, 
 When I lay in the jail, and my children three 
 
 With their sickly mother kept bitter fast." 
 With Marmaduke now my will is law, 
 
 Marmaduke's wiU may be law anon ; 
 Does the sheath of velvet cover the claw ? 
 
 (The rippling water murmur on). 
 
 Dame Martha patted me on the cheek, 
 (The rippling water murmurs low) 
 
 Saying, " There ar§ words that I fain would speak- 
 Perhaps they were best unspoken though ; 
 
 I can't persuade you to change your mind. 
 
 And useless warnings are scarcely kind, 
 
 And I may be foolish as well as blind. 
 But take my blessing whether or no."
 
 74 KIPPLING WATER. 
 
 Dame Martha's wise, though her hair is white, 
 Her sense is good, though her sight is gone — 
 
 Can she really be gifted with second sight ? 
 (The rippling water mumiurs on). 
 
 Brian of Hawksmede came to our cot, 
 
 (The rippling water murmurs by) 
 Scatter'd the sods of our garden plot, 
 
 Riding his roan horse recklessly ; 
 Trinket and token and tress of hair. 
 He flung them down at the door-step there, 
 Said " Eslie ! ask your lord, if you dare, 
 
 Who gave him the blow as well as the lie." 
 That evening I mentioned Brian's name. 
 
 And Marmaduke's face grew white and wan. 
 Am I pledged to one of a spirit so tame ? 
 
 (The rippling water murmurs on). 
 
 Brian is headstrong, rash, and vain, 
 (The rippling water murmurs still) 
 
 Stephen is somewhat duller of brain, 
 Slower of speech, and milder of will ; 
 
 Stephen must toil a living to gain, 
 
 Plough and harrow, and gather the grain ; 
 
 Brian has little enough to maintain 
 
 The station in life which he needs must fill ;
 
 RIPPLING WATER. 75 
 
 Both are fearless and kind and frank, 
 But we can't win all gifts under the sun- 
 
 "What have I won save riches and rank ? 
 (The rippling water murmurs on). 
 
 Riches and rank, and what beside, 
 
 (The rippling water murmurs yet) 
 The mansion is stately, the manor is wide. 
 
 Their lord for a while may pamper and pet ; 
 Liveried lackeys may jeer aside, 
 Though the peasant girl is their master's bride, 
 At her shyness mingled with awkward pride, — 
 
 'Twere folly for trifles like these to fret ; 
 But the love of one that I cannot love, 
 
 Will it last when the gloss of his toy is gone ? 
 Is there naught beyond, below or above ? 
 
 (The rippling water murmurs on).
 
 T6 
 
 CUI BONO. 
 
 GUI BONO. 
 
 Oh ! wind that whistles o'er thorns and thistles. 
 
 Of this fruitful earth like a goblin elf ; 
 Why should he labour to help his neighboiir 
 
 Who feels too reckless to help himself ? 
 The wail of the breeze in the bending trees 
 
 Is something between a laugh and a groan ; 
 And the hollow roar of the surf on the shore 
 
 Is a dull discordant monotone ; 
 I wish I could guess what sense they express, 
 
 There's a meaning, doubtless, in every sound, 
 Yet no one can toll, and it may be as well, — 
 
 Whom would it profit ? the world goes round ! 
 
 On this earth so rough, we know quite enough, 
 And, I sometimes fancy, a little too much ; 
 
 The sage may be wiser than clown or than kaiser, 
 Is he more to be envied for being such ? 
 
 Neither more nor less, in his idleness. 
 The sage is doom'd to vexation sure ;
 
 CUI BONO. 
 
 The kaiser may rule, but the slippery stool 
 That he calls his throne, is no sinecure ; 
 
 And as for the clown, you may give him a crown, 
 May be he'll thank you, and may be not, 
 
 An d before you can wink, he may spend it in drink, — 
 To whom does it profit ? — ^We ripe and rot ! 
 
 Tet under the sun much work is done 
 
 By clown and kaiser, by serf and sage ; 
 All sow and some reap, and few gather the heap 
 
 Of the garner'd grain of a by-gone age. 
 By sea or by soil man is bound to toil, 
 
 And the dreamer, waiting for time and tide, 
 For awhile may shirk his share of the work. 
 
 But he grows with his dream dissatisfied ; 
 He may climb to the edge of the beetling ledge. 
 
 Where the loose crag topples and well-nigh reels 
 'Neath the lashing gale, but the tonic will fail, — 
 
 What does it profit ? — Wheels within wheels ! 
 
 Aye ! work we must, or with idlers rust, 
 And eat we must our bodies to nurse ; 
 
 Some folk grow fatter — what does it matter ? 
 I'm blest if I do — quite the reverse ;
 
 78 
 
 CUI BONO. 
 
 'Tis a weary round to which we are bound, 
 
 The same thing over and over again ; 
 Much toil and trouble, and a glittering bubble 
 
 That rises and bursts is the best we gain ; 
 And we murmur, and yet, 'tis certain, we get 
 
 What good we deserve — can we hope for more ! — 
 They are roaring, those waves in their echoing caves, - 
 
 To whom do they profit ? — Let them roar !
 
 BELLONA. T'f) 
 
 BELLONA. 
 
 Thou art moulded in marble impassive, 
 False goddess, fair statue of strife, 
 
 Yet standest on pedestal massive, 
 A symbol and token of life. 
 
 Thou art still, not vsdth stillness of languor 
 And calm, not with calm boding rest ; 
 
 For thine is all wrath and all anger 
 That throbs far and near in the breast 
 Of man, by thy presence possess'd. 
 
 With the brow of a fallen archangel. 
 
 The lips of a beautiful fiend. 
 And locks that are snake-like to strangle, 
 
 And eyes from whose depths may be glean'd 
 The presence of passions, that tremble 
 
 Unbidden, yet shine as they may 
 Through features too proud to dissemble, 
 
 Too cold and too calm to betray 
 
 Their secrets to creatures of clay.
 
 80 
 
 BELLONA. 
 
 Tliy breath stirrctli faction and party, 
 Men rise, and no voice can avail 
 
 To stay them — rose-tinted Astarte, 
 Herself at thy presence turns pale. 
 
 For deeper and richer the crimson 
 
 That gathers behind thee throws forth 
 
 A halo thy raiment and limbs on, 
 And leaves a red track in the path 
 That flows from thy wine-press of wrath. 
 
 For behind thee red rivulets trickle. 
 Men fall by thy hands, swift and lithe, 
 
 As corn falleth do"\vn to the sickle. 
 As grass falleth down to the scythe. 
 
 Thine arm strong, and cruel, and shapely, 
 Lifts high the sharp pitiless lance, 
 
 And rapine and ruin and rape lie 
 Around thee. The Furies advance. 
 And Ares awakes from his trance. 
 
 We, too, with our bodies thus weakly, 
 With hearts hard and dangerous, thus 
 
 We owe thee — the saints suffered meekly 
 Their wrongs — it is not so with us.
 
 BELLONA. 81 
 
 Some share of thy strength thou hast given 
 To mortals refusing in vain 
 
 Thine aid. "We have suffered and striven 
 Till we have grown recldess of pain, 
 Though feeble of heart and of brain. 
 
 Fair spirit, alluring if wicked, 
 
 False deity, terribly real, 
 Our senses are trapp'd, our souls tricked 
 
 By thee and thy hollow ideal. 
 The soldier who falls in his harness. 
 
 And strikes his last stroke with slack hand. 
 On his dead face thy wrath and thy scorn is 
 
 Imprinted. Oh I seeks he a land 
 
 Where he shall escape thy command. 
 
 When the blood of thy victims lies red on 
 That stricken field, fiercest and last, 
 
 In the sunset that gilds Armageddon 
 With battle -drift still overcast. 
 
 When the smoke of thy hot conflagrations 
 O'ershadows the earth as with whigs, 
 
 Where nations have fought against nations, 
 And kings have encountered with kings, 
 When Cometh the end of all things.
 
 82 
 
 BELLONA. 
 
 Then tliose who have patiently waited, 
 
 And bomo unresisting the pain 
 Of thy vengeance unglutted, unsated, 
 
 Shall they be rewarded again ? 
 Then those who, enticed by thy laurels, 
 
 Or urged by thy promptings unblest, 
 Have striven, and stricken in quarrels. 
 
 Shall they too find pardon and rest ? 
 
 We know not, yet we hope for the best.
 
 IHB SONG OP THE SUKP. S3 
 
 THE SOKG OF THE SUEF. 
 
 White steeds of ocean, that leap -with a hoUo-w and wearisome 
 
 roar 
 On the bar of ironstone steep, and not a fathom's length from 
 
 the shore, 
 la there never a seer nor sophist can interpret your wild 
 
 refrain. 
 When speech, the harshest and roughest, is seldom studied in 
 
 vain; 
 My ears are constantly smitten by that dreary monotone, 
 In a hieroglyphic 'tis written — 'tis spoken in a tongue unknown; 
 Gathering, growing, and swelling, and sui-ging, and shivering, 
 
 say! 
 What is the tale you are telling ? what is the drift of your lay ? 
 
 Ton come, and your crests are hoary with the foam of your 
 
 countless years ; 
 You break, with a rainbow of glory, through the spray of your 
 
 glittering tears. 
 Is yoar song a song of gladness? a psean of joyous might? 
 Or a wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs you never can 
 
 right ?
 
 84 THE SONG OF THE SVUV 
 
 For the empty seat by the ingle ? for children reft of their sire ? 
 For the bride, sitting sad, and single, and pale, by the flickering 
 
 fire ? 
 For your ravenous pools of suction ? for your shattering billow 
 
 swell ? 
 For your ceaseless work of destruction ? for your hunger 
 
 insatiable ? 
 
 Not far from this very place, on the sand and the shingle dry. 
 He lay, with his batter'd face upturned to the froAvning sky. 
 When your waters wash'd and swill'd high over his drowning head, 
 When his nostrils and lungs were fill'd, when his feet and 
 
 hands were as lead, 
 When against the rock he was hurl'd, and sucked again to the sea. 
 On the shores of another world, on the brink of eternity, 
 On the verge of annihilation, did it come to that swimmer strong 
 The sudden interpretation of your mystical weird-like song. 
 
 "Mortal! that which thou askest, ask not thou of the waves; 
 
 Fool ! thou foolishly taskest us — ^we are only slaves ; 
 
 Might, more mighty, impels us — we must our lot fulfil, 
 
 He who gathers and swells us curbs us too at His will. 
 
 Think' st thou the wave that shatters qucstioneth His decree ? , 
 
 Little to us it matters, and nought it matters to thee. 
 
 Not, thus murmuring idly, we from our duty would swerve. 
 
 Over tli« world spread widely, ever we labour and serve."
 
 WHISPERINGS Es WATXLE-BOUGHS. 85 
 
 WHISPERINGS IN WATTLE-BOUGHS. 
 
 Oh, gaily sings the bird, and the -wattle-bouglis are stirr'd 
 
 And rustled by the scented breath, of spring ; 
 Ob, the dreaiy wistful longing ! Oh, the faces that are 
 thronging ! 
 
 Oh, the voices that are vaguely whispering ! 
 
 Oh, tell me father mine, ere the good ship cross't the brine, 
 On the gangway one mute hand-grip we exchanged. 
 
 Do you, past the grave, employ, for your stubborn reckless 
 toy, 
 Those petitions that in life were ne'er estranged. 
 
 Oh, tell me, sister dear, parting word and parting tear 
 Never pass'd between us ; — let me bear the blame, 
 
 Are you living, girl, or dead ? bitter tears since then I've shed 
 For the lips that lisp'd with mine a mother's name.
 
 86 WHISPKKINGS IN WATlLE-BOUGnS. 
 
 Oh, toll me, ancient friend, ever ready to defend 
 In our boyhood, at the base of life's long hill. 
 Are you waking yet, or sleeping ? have you left this vale of 
 
 ■weeping ? 
 Or do you, like your comrade, linger still ? 
 
 Oh, whisper, buried love, is there rest and peace above ? — 
 There is little hope or comfort here below ; — 
 
 On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed is strait and 
 cold — 
 Near the harbour where the sea-tides ebb and flow. 
 
 AU silent — ^they are dumb — and the breezes go and come 
 With an apathy that mocks at man's distress ; 
 
 Laugh, scoffer, while you may ! I could bow me down and pray 
 For an answer that might stay my bitterness. 
 
 Oh, harshly screams the bird ! and the wattle-bloom is stirr'dl 
 There's a sullen weird -like whisper in the bough : 
 
 " Aye, kneel, and pray, and weep, but his beloved sleep 
 Cah never be distujeuj'd by sucn as thou ! !"
 
 CONFITEOB. 87 
 
 CONFITEOB. 
 
 The shore-boat lies in the morning light, 
 By the good ship ready for sailing ; 
 
 The skies are clear, and the dawn is bright, 
 
 Tho' the bar of the bay is fleck'd with white, 
 And the wind is fitfully wailing ; 
 
 Near the tiller stands the priest, and the knight 
 Leans over the quarter-railing. 
 
 "There is time while the vessel tarries still, 
 There is time while her shrouds are slack, 
 
 There is time ere her sails to the west-wind fill. 
 
 Ere her tall masts vanish from town and from hill, 
 Ere cleaves to her keel the track ; 
 
 There is time for confession to those who will, 
 
 To those who may never come back." 
 
 •' Sir priest, you can shrive these men of mine, 
 And, I pray you, shrive them fast.
 
 COKFITEOE. 
 
 And shrive those hardy sons of the brine, 
 Captain and mates of the Eglantine, 
 
 And sailors before the mast ; 
 Then pledge me a cup of the Cyprus ^vine, 
 
 For I fain would bury the past." 
 
 *' And hast thou naught to repent, my son ? 
 
 Dost thou scorn confession and shrift ? 
 Ere thy sands from the glass of time shall run, 
 Is there naught undone that thou should'st have done, 
 
 Naught done that thou should'st have left ? 
 The guiltiest soul may from guilt be won, 
 
 And the stoniest heart may be cleft." 
 
 " Have my ears been closed to the prayer of the poor, 
 
 Or deaf to the ciy of distress ? 
 Have I given little, and taken more ? 
 Have I brought a curse to the widow's door ? 
 
 Have I wrong'd the fatherless ? 
 Have I steep't my fingers in guiltless gore. 
 
 That I must perforce confess ?" 
 
 " Have thy steps been guided by purity 
 Through the paths with wickedness rife ?
 
 CONFITEOE. 89 
 
 Hast thou never smitten thine enemy ? 
 
 Hast thou yielded naught to the lust of the eye. 
 
 And naught to the pride of life ? 
 Hast thou pass'd all snares of pleasure by ? 
 
 Hast thou shimn'd all wrath and strife ?" 
 
 " Nay, certes ! a sinful life I've led, 
 Yet I've suflFer'd, and lived in hope ; 
 
 I may suffer still, but my hope has fled, — 
 
 I've nothing now to hope or to dread, 
 And with fate I can fairly cope ; 
 
 Were the waters closing over my head, 
 I should scarcely catch at a rope." 
 
 " Dost suffer ? thy pain may be fraught with grace, 
 
 Since never by works alone 
 We are saved ; — the penitent thief may trace 
 The wealth of love in the Saviour's face 
 
 To the Pharisee rarely shewn ; 
 And the Magdalene's arms may yet embrace 
 
 The foot of the jasper throne." 
 
 *' Sir priest, a heavier doom, I dree, 
 For I feel no quickening pain,
 
 CONFITEOR. 
 
 But a dull dumb weight, when I bow my knee. 
 And (not with the words of the Pharisee) 
 
 My hard eyes heavenward strain, 
 Where my dead darling prayeth for me ! 
 
 Now, I wot, she prayeth in vain ! 
 
 Still I hear it over the battle's din, 
 
 And over the festive cheer, — • 
 So she pray'd with clasp'd hands, white and thin,- 
 Tho prayer of a soul absolved from siu, 
 
 For a soul that is dark and drear. 
 For the light of repentance bursting in, 
 
 And the flood of the blinding tear. 
 
 Say, priest ! when the saint must vainly plead, 
 
 Oh ! how shall the sinner fare ? 
 I hold your comfort a broken reed ; 
 Let the wither' d branch for itself take heed, 
 
 While the green shoots wait your care ; 
 I've striven, though feebly, to grasp your creed. 
 
 And I've grappled my own despair." 
 
 " By the little within thee, good and brave, 
 Not wholly shattered, though shaken ;
 
 COITFITEOK. 91 
 
 By the sotil that crieth beyond the grave, 
 The love that He once in His mercy gave, 
 
 In His mercy since retaken, 
 I conjure thee, oh sumer! pardon crave! 
 
 I implore thee, oh sleeper, waken !" 
 
 " Go to ! shall I lay my black soul baro 
 
 To a vain self-righteous man ? 
 In my sin, in my sorrow, you may not share. 
 And yet, could I meet with one who must bear 
 
 The load of an equal ban, 
 With him I might strive to blend one prayer. 
 
 The wail of the Publican." 
 
 " My son, I too am a wither'd bough, 
 
 My place is to others given ; 
 Thou hast sinn'd, thou sayest; I ask not how, 
 For I too have sinn'd, even as thou. 
 
 And I too have feebly striven. 
 And with thee I must bow, crying, ' Shrive us now t 
 
 Our Father which art in heaven !' "
 
 <)^ SUNLIGHT ON THB SEA. 
 
 SUNLIGHT ON THE SEA, 
 [the philosophy of a feast.] 
 
 Malce merry, comrades, eat and drink, 
 
 (The sunlight flickers on the sea) 
 The garlands gleam, the glasses clink, 
 
 The grape juice mantles fair and free, 
 The lamps are trimm'd, although the light 
 
 Of day still lingers on the sky ; 
 We sit between the day and night, 
 
 And push the wine-flask merrily. 
 I see you feasting round me still, 
 
 All gay of heart and strong of limb ; 
 Make merry, friends, your glasses £01, 
 
 The lights are growing dim. 
 
 I miss the voice of one I've heard, 
 (The sunlight sinks upon the sea) 
 
 He sang as blythe as any bird. 
 
 And shook the rafters with his glee ;
 
 SUNLIGHT ON THE SEA. 93 
 
 But times have changed with him, I wot, 
 
 By fickle fortune cross't and flung ; 
 Far stouter heart than mine he's got 
 
 If now he sings as then he sung, 
 Yet some must swim when others sink ; 
 
 And some must sink when others swim ; 
 Make merry, comrades, eat and drink, 
 
 The lights are growing dim. 
 
 I miss the face of one I've loved — 
 
 (The sunlight settles on the sea;) 
 Long since to distant climes he roved ; 
 
 He had his faults, and so have we ; 
 His name was mentioned here this day, 
 
 And it was coupled with a sneer ; 
 I heard, nor had I ought to say, 
 
 Though once I held his memory dear, 
 Who cares, 'mid wines and fruit and flowers, 
 
 Though death or danger compass him, 
 He had his faults, and we have ours. 
 
 The lights are growing dim. 
 
 I miss the form of one I know— 
 (The simlight wanes upon the sea)
 
 ^^ SUNLIGHT ON THE SEA, 
 
 'Tis not so very long ago ; 
 
 We drank liis health with thrcc-times-three, 
 And -we were gay when he was here ; 
 
 And he is gone, and we are gay. 
 "Where has he gone ? or far or near ? 
 
 Good sooth, 'twere somewhat hard to say. 
 You glance aside, you doubtless think 
 
 My homily a foolish whim, 
 'Twill soon be ended, cat and di'iok. 
 
 The lights are gro\ving dim. 
 
 The fruit is ripe, the wine is red, 
 
 (The sunlight fades upon the sea;) 
 To us the absent are the dead, 
 
 The dead to us must absent be. 
 We, too, the absent ranks must joinj 
 
 And friends will censure and forget : 
 There's metal base in every coin ; 
 
 Men vanish, leaving traces yet 
 Of evil, and of good behind, 
 
 Since false notes taint the skylark's hymn, 
 And dross still lurks in gold refined — 
 
 The lights arc growing dim. 
 
 "We eat or drink or e'er we die, 
 (The sunlight flushes on the sea.)
 
 SUNLIGHT ON THE SEA. 
 
 Three hundred soldiers feasted hisrh 
 
 An hour before Thermopylae ; 
 Leonidas pour'd out the wine 
 
 And shouted ere he drain' d the cup, 
 "Ho ! comrades, let us gaily dine — 
 
 This night with Plato we shall sup ;" 
 And if they lean't upon a reed, 
 
 And if their reed was slight and slim, 
 There's something good in Spartan creed, 
 ■ The lights are growing dim. 
 
 Make merry, comrades, eat and drink, 
 
 (The sunlight flashes on the sea;) 
 My spirit is rejoiced to think 
 
 That even as they were so are we ; 
 For they, like us, Avere mortals vain. 
 
 The slaves to earthly passions wild. 
 Who slept with heaps of Persians slain 
 
 For winding-sheets around them piled. 
 Tlie dead man's deeds are living still — 
 
 My Festive speech is somewhat grim — 
 Their good obliterates theij ill, 
 
 The lights are growing dim. 
 
 "We eat and drink, we come and go, 
 (The sunlight dies upon the open sea.) 
 
 95
 
 96 
 
 SUNLIGHT ON THE SEA, 
 
 I speak in riddles. Is it so ? 
 
 My riddles need not mar your glee ; 
 For I will neither bid you share 
 
 My thoughts, nor will I bid you shun, 
 Though I should see in yonder chair, 
 
 Th' Egyptian's muffled skeleton. 
 One toast with me, your glasses fill, 
 
 Aye, fill them level with the brim, 
 De mortuis, nisi honum, nil ! 
 
 The lights are growing dim.
 
 DELILAH. 2*^ 
 
 DELILAH. 
 
 [feom a picture.] 
 
 The sun has gone down, spreading wide on 
 
 The sky-line one ray of red fire ; 
 Prepare the soft cushions of Sidon, 
 
 Make ready the rich loom of Tyre. 
 The day, with its toil and its sorrow, 
 
 Its shade, and its sunshine, at length 
 Has ended : do'st fear for the morrow 
 
 Strong man, in the pride of thy strength P 
 
 like fire-flies, heaven- ward clinging, 
 
 They multiply, star upon star ; 
 And the breeze a low murmur is bringing 
 
 From the tents of my people afar. 
 Nay, frown not, I am but a Pagan, 
 
 Tet little for these things I care ; 
 'Tis the hymn to our deity Dagon, 
 
 That comes with the pleasant night-air.
 
 08 
 
 iiF.i.ir.Aii. 
 
 It shall not disturb theo. nor can it; 
 
 See, closed are the curtains, the lights 
 Gleam down on the cloven pomegranate. 
 
 Whose thirst- slaking nectar invites : 
 The red wine of Hebron glows brightly 
 
 In yon goblet — the draught of a king ; 
 And through the silk awning steals liglitly. 
 
 The sweet song my handmaidens sing. 
 
 Do'st think that thy God, in his anger. 
 
 Will trifle with nature's great laws, 
 And slacken those sinews in languor 
 
 That battled so well in his cause ? 
 Will He take back that strength He has given, 
 
 Because to the jileasures of youth 
 Thou yieldest ? Nay, God-like, in heaven, 
 
 He laughs at such follies, forsooth. 
 
 Oh ! were I, for good or for evil. 
 
 As great and as gifted as thou, 
 Neither God should restrain me, nor devil. 
 
 To none like a slave would I bow. 
 If fate must indeed overtake thee. 
 
 And feebleness come to thy clay. 
 Pause not till thy strength shall forsake thee, 
 
 Enjoy it the more in thy day.
 
 DELILAH. 
 
 Oh ! fork't-tongue of adder, by her pent 
 
 In smooth lips ! — oh, Sybarite blind ! 
 Oh, -woman allied to the serpent ! 
 
 Oh, beauty with venom combined ! 
 Oh, might overcoming the mighty ! 
 
 Oh, glory departing ! oh, shame ! 
 Oh, altar of false Aphrodite, 
 
 What strength is consumed in thy flame ! 
 
 Strong chest, "where her drapery rustles, 
 
 Strong limbs by her black tresses hid ; 
 Not alone by the might of your muscles. 
 
 Yon Hon was rent like a kid ! 
 The valour from virtue that sunders, 
 
 Is reft of its nobler part ; 
 And Lancelot's arm may work wonders. 
 
 But braver is Galahad's heart. 
 
 Sleep sound on that breast fair and ample ; 
 
 Dull brain, and dim eyes, and deaf ears, 
 Feel not the cold touch on your temple, 
 
 Heed not the faint clash of the sheers. 
 It comes ! — with the gleam of the lamps on 
 
 The curtains — that voice — does it jar 
 On thy soul in the night-watch ? Ho ! Samson, 
 
 Upon thee the Philistines are. 
 
 99
 
 100 FROM LIGHTNING AND TEMPEST. 
 
 FEOM LIGHTNING AND TEMPEST. 
 
 The spring-wind pass'd tlirougli the forest, and whispered low 
 in the leaves, 
 And the cedar toss'd her head, and the oak stood firm in his 
 pride; 
 The spring-wind pass'd through the toAvn, through the house- 
 tops, casements, and eaves, 
 And whisper' d low in the hearts of the men, and the men 
 replied, 
 Singing — "Let us rejoice in the Ught 
 Of our glory, and beauty, and might ; 
 
 Let us follow our (Twn devices, and foster our own desires. 
 As firm as our oaks in our pride, as our cedars fair in our sight. 
 We stand like the trees of the forest that brave the frosts 
 and the fires." 
 
 The storm went forth to the forest, the plague went forth to 
 the town. 
 And the men fell down to the plague, as the trees fell down 
 to the gale ;
 
 FROM LIGHTJfING AND TEMPEST. 
 
 lOi 
 
 And their bloom was a ghastly pallor, and their smile was a 
 ghastly frown, 
 And the song of their hearts was changed to a wild discon- 
 solate wail. 
 Crying — " God ! we have sinn'd, we have sinn'd, 
 
 "We are bruised, we are shorn, we are thinn'd, 
 Our strength is turned to derision, our pride laid low in the 
 dust, 
 Our cedars are cleft by Thy lightnings, our oaks are strew'd 
 by Thy wind, 
 And we fall on our faces seeking Thine aid, though Thy wrath 
 is just."
 
 102 WORMWOOD AND NIGHTSHADE. 
 
 WORMWOOD AND NIGHTSHADE. 
 
 The troubles of life are maaiy, 
 
 The pleasures of Ufe are few : 
 When we sat in the sunlight, Annie, 
 
 I dream' t that the skies were blue — 
 When we sat in the sunlight, Annie, 
 
 I dream't that the earth was green ; 
 There is little colour, if any, 
 
 'Neath the sunlight now to be seen. 
 
 Then the rays of the sunset glinted 
 
 Through the blackwoods' emerald bough 
 On an emerald sward, rose-tinted, 
 
 And spangled, and gemm'd ; — and now 
 The rays of the sunset redden 
 
 With a sullen and lurid frown, 
 From the skies that are dark and leaden 
 
 To earth that is dusk and brown.
 
 WORMWOOD AND NIGHTSHADE, 103 
 
 To right and to left extended 
 
 The uplands are blank and drear, 
 And their neutral tints are blended 
 
 With the dead leaves sombre and sere ; 
 The cold grey mist from the still side 
 
 Of the lake creeps sluggish and sure, 
 Bare and bleak is the hill side, 
 
 Barren and bleak the moor. 
 
 Bright hues and shapes intertwisted. 
 
 Fair forms and rich colours ; — now 
 They have flown, — if e'er they existed^ 
 
 It matters not why or how, 
 It matters mot where or when, dear. 
 
 They have flown, the blue and the green, 
 I thought on what might be then, dear, 
 
 Now I think on what might have been. 
 
 What might have been ! — ^words of folly, 
 
 What might be ! — speech for a fool ; 
 With mistletoe round me, and holly, 
 
 Scarlet and green, at Yule, 
 With the elm in the place of the wattle, 
 
 And in lieu of the gum, the oak. 
 Years back I believed a little. 
 
 And as I believed I spoke.
 
 104 WORMWOOD AND NIGHTSHADE. 
 
 Have I done with those childisli fancies ? 
 
 They suited the days gone by, 
 When I pulled the poppies and pansies, 
 
 When I hunted the butterfly, 
 With one who has long been sleeping, 
 
 A stranger to doubts and cares, 
 And to sowing that ends in reaping 
 
 Thistles and thorns and tares. 
 
 What might be ! — ^the dreams were scatter' dj, 
 
 As chaff is toss'd by the wind. 
 The faith has been rudely shattered. 
 
 That listen' d with credence bHnd ; 
 Things were to have been, and therefore 
 
 They were, and they are to be, 
 And will be : — we must prepare for 
 
 The doom we are bound to dree. 
 
 Ah me ! we believe in evil, 
 
 Where once we believed in good, 
 The world, the flesh, and the devil, 
 
 Are easily understood ; 
 The world, the flesh, and the devil, 
 
 Their traces on earth are plain : 
 Must they always riot and revel 
 
 WTiile footprints of man remain ?
 
 WORMWOOD AND NIGHTSHADE. 105 
 
 Talk about bettei and wiser, 
 
 Wiser and worse are one, 
 Thie sophist is tlie despiser 
 
 Of all things under the sun ; 
 Is nothing real but confusion ? 
 
 Is nothing certain but death ? 
 Is nothing fair save illusion ? 
 
 Is nothing good that has breath ? 
 
 Some sprite, malignant and elfish, 
 
 Seems present, whispering close, 
 " All motives of life are selfish. 
 
 All instincts of life are gross. 
 And the song that the poet fashions, 
 
 And the love-bii-d's musical strain. 
 Are jumbles of animal passions, 
 
 Refined by animal pain." 
 
 The restless throbblngs and burnings 
 
 That hope unsatisfied brings, 
 The weary longings and yearnings 
 
 For the mystical better things, 
 Are the sands on which is reflected 
 
 The pitiless moving lake. 
 Where the wanderer falls dejected, 
 
 By a thirst he never can slake.
 
 100 WORMWOOD AND NIGHTSHADE. 
 
 A child blows bubbles that glitter, 
 
 He snatches them, they disperse ; 
 Yet childhood's folly is better, 
 
 And manhood's folly is worse : 
 Gilt baubles we grasp at blindly 
 
 Would turn in our hands to dross ; 
 'Tis a fate less cruel than kindly 
 
 Denies the gain and the loss. 
 
 And as one who pursues a shadow, 
 
 As one who hunts in a dream. 
 As the child who crosses the meadow. 
 
 Enticed by the raiabow's gleam, 
 I — knowing the course was fooUsh 
 
 And guessing the goal was pain, 
 Stupid, and stubborn, and mulish — 
 
 Followed and follow again. 
 
 The sun over Gideon halted, 
 
 Holding aloof the night. 
 When Joshua's arm was exalted. 
 
 Yet never retraced his flight ; 
 Nor will he turn back, nor can he, 
 
 He chases the future fast ; 
 The future is blank — Oh, Annie ! 
 
 I fain would recall the past.
 
 T.Or.MVs'OOD AND NIGHTSHADE. 
 
 There are others toiling and straining 
 
 'Neath burdens graver than mine — 
 They are weary yet uncomplaining — 
 
 I know it, yet I repine ; 
 I know it, how time will ramge, 
 
 How time will level, and yet 
 I long with a longing savage, 
 
 I regret with a fierce regret. 
 
 You are no false ideal. 
 
 Something is left of you. 
 Present, perceptible, real, 
 
 Palpable, tangible, true; 
 One shred of your broken necklace, 
 
 One tress of your pale gold hair, 
 And a heart so utterly reckless. 
 
 That the worst it would gladly dare. 
 
 There is little pleasure, if any. 
 
 In waking the past anew ; 
 My days and nights have been many ; 
 
 Lost chances many I rue ; 
 My days and nights have been many : 
 
 Now I pray that they be few, 
 When I think on the hill-side, Annie, 
 
 Where I dream't that the skies were blue. 
 
 107
 
 108 
 
 A£S LOKGA. 
 
 AES LONGA. 
 [a song of pilgrimage.] 
 
 Our hopes are wild imaginings, 
 
 Our schemes are airy castles, 
 Yet these, on earth, are lords and kings, 
 
 And we their slaves and vassals ; 
 Ton dream, forsooth, of buoyant youth. 
 
 Most ready to deceive is. 
 But age will own the bitter truth, 
 
 *' Ars longa, vita brevis." 
 
 The lull of life with eager feet 
 
 We climb'd in merry morning, 
 But on the downward track we meet 
 
 The shades of twilight, warning ; 
 The shadows gaunt they fall aslant ; 
 
 And those who scaled Ben Nevis, 
 Against the mole-hUls toil and pant» 
 
 ** Ars longa, vita brevis."
 
 ARS LONGA. 100 
 
 The obstacles tliat barr'd our patli 
 
 We seldom quail' d to dash on 
 In youth, for youth one motto hath, 
 
 *' The will, the way must fashion." 
 Those words, I wot, blood thick and hot 
 
 Too ready to believe is. 
 But thin and cold our blood hath got, 
 
 " Ars longa, vita brevis." 
 
 And " art is long," and "life is short," 
 
 And man is slow at learning ; 
 And yet, by divers dealings taught, 
 
 For divers follies yearning. 
 He owns at last, with grief downcast 
 
 (For man disposed to grieve is) — 
 One adage old, stands true and fast, 
 
 " Ars longa, vita brevis." 
 
 "We journey ! manhood, youth, and age, 
 
 The matron, and the maiden, 
 Like pilgrims on a pilgrimage, 
 
 Loias girded, heavy laden : — 
 Each pilgrim strong, who joins our throng, 
 
 Most eager to achieve is, 
 Foredoom'd ere long to swell the song, 
 
 '' Ars longa, vita brevis."
 
 11(1 
 
 ABS LONGA. 
 
 At morn, with staff and sandal-shoon, 
 
 "We travel brisk and cheery, 
 But some have laid them down ere noon. 
 
 And all at eve are weary ; 
 The noon-tide glows with no repose, 
 
 And bitter chill the eve is, 
 The grasshopper a burden grows, 
 
 " Ars longa, vita hrevia." 
 
 The staff is snap't, the sandal fray'd, 
 
 The flint-stone galls and blisters, 
 Our brother's steps we cannot aid, 
 
 Ah me ! nor aid our sister's ; 
 The pit prepares its hidden snares, 
 
 The rock prepared to cleave is, 
 We cry, in falling unawares, 
 
 " Ars longa, vita brevis." 
 
 Oh ! Wisdom, which we sought to win ! 
 
 Oh ! Strength, in which we trusted ! 
 Oh ! Glory, 1»i which we gloried in ! 
 
 Oh ! puppets we adjusted ! 
 On barren land our seed is sand. 
 
 And torn the web we weave is, 
 The bruised reed hath pierced th(> hand, 
 
 "Ars longa, vita brevis"
 
 AES LOXGA. Ill 
 
 We, too, "Job's comforters" have met, 
 
 Witli steps, like ours, unsteady. 
 They could not help themselves, and yet 
 
 To judge us they were ready ; 
 Life's path is trod at last, and God 
 
 More ready to reprieve is, 
 They know who rest beneath the sod, 
 
 " Mors gratum, vita brevis."
 
 112 
 
 THE LAST LEAP. 
 
 THE LAST LEAP. 
 
 All is over ! fleet career, 
 
 Dash of greyhound slipping thongs, 
 Flight of falcon, bound of deer, 
 Mad hoof -thunder in our rear, 
 
 Cold air rushing up our lungs, 
 Din of many tongues. 
 
 Once again, one struggle good. 
 
 One vain effort ; — he must dwell 
 
 Near the shifted post, that stood 
 
 Where the splinters of the wood, 
 
 Lying in the torn tracks, tell 
 
 How he struck and fell. 
 
 Crest where cold drops beaded cling. 
 
 Small ear drooping, nostril full 
 Glazing to a scarlet ring.
 
 THE LAST LEAP. 1]3 
 
 Plants and haunctes quivering, 
 Sinews stiff "ning, void and null, 
 Dumb eyes sorrowful. 
 
 Satin coat that seems to shine 
 
 Duller now, black braided tress 
 That a softer hand than mine 
 Far away was wont to twine. 
 That in meadows far from this 
 Softer lips might kiss. 
 
 All is over ! this is death. 
 
 And I stand to watch thee die 
 Brave old horse ; with 'bated breath 
 Hardly drawn through tight-clench'd teeth. 
 
 Lip indented deep, but eye 
 Only dull and dry. 
 
 Musing on the husk and chaff 
 
 Gather'd where life's tares are sown, 
 
 Thus I speak, and force a laugh 
 
 That is half a sneer and half 
 An involuntary groan, 
 In a stifled tone —
 
 114 
 
 THE LAST LEiLF. 
 
 " Rest, old friend ! thy day, though rife 
 With its toil, hath ended soon ; 
 
 "We have had our share of strife, 
 
 Tumblers in the mask of Life, 
 In the pantomime of noon 
 Clown and pantaloon. 
 
 " With the flash that ends thy pain 
 Respite and oblivion blest 
 
 Come to greet thee. I in vain 
 
 Fall : I rise to fall again : 
 
 Thou hast fallen to thy rest — 
 And thy fall is best I"
 
 QUAEE FATIGASTI. 
 
 ll. 
 
 QUAEE FATIGASTI. 
 
 Two years ago I was thinking 
 
 On the changes that years bring forth ; 
 Now I stand where I then stood drinking 
 
 The gust and the salt sea-froth ; 
 And the shuddering wave strikes, linldng 
 With the waves subsiding and sinkintr. 
 And clots the coast-herbage, shrinking 
 
 With the hue of the white cere-cloth. 
 
 Is there ought worth losing or keeping ? 
 
 The bitters or sweets men quaff ? 
 The sowing or the doubtful reaping ? 
 
 The harvest of grain or chaff ? 
 Or squandering days or heaping, 
 Or waking seasons or sleeping, 
 The laughter that dries the weeping, 
 
 Or the weeping that drowns the laugh ?
 
 •16 QT7ARE FATIGASTI. 
 
 For joys wax dim and woes deaden, 
 
 We forget the sorrowful biers 
 And the garlands glad that have fled in 
 
 The merciful march of years ; 
 And the sunny skies, and the leaden, 
 And the faces that pale or redden, 
 And the smiles that lovers are wed in 
 Who are born and buried in tears. 
 
 And the myrtle bloom turns hoary, 
 
 And the blush of the rose decays, 
 And sodden with sweat and gory 
 
 Are the hard won laurels and bays ; 
 We are neither joyous nor sorry 
 When time has ended our story, 
 And blotted out grief, and glory. 
 
 And the pain, and the pleasure, and the praise. 
 
 Weigh justly, throw good and bad in 
 The scales, will the balance veer 
 
 With the joys or the sorrows had in 
 The sum of a life's career ?
 
 QX7ARE FATIGASTI. j^-j^i^ 
 
 In the end, spite of dreams that sadden 
 The sad, or the sanguine madden, 
 There is nothing to grieve or gladden, 
 There is nothing to hope or fear. 
 
 *' Thou hast gone astray," quoth the prea' her, 
 
 " In the gall of thy bitterness," 
 Thou hast taught me in vain, oh teacher ! 
 
 I neither blame thee nor bless ; 
 If bitter is sure and sweet sure, 
 These vanish with form and feature, — 
 Can the creature fathom the creature 
 
 Whose Creator is fathomless ? 
 
 Is this dry land sure ? is the sea sure ? 
 
 Is there ought that shall long remain. 
 Pain, or peril, or pleasure. 
 
 Pleasure, or peril, or pain ? 
 Shall we labour or take our leism-e. 
 And who shall inherit treasure. 
 If the measure with which we mearsure 
 
 Is meted to us again ?
 
 lis TTATIGASTI. 
 
 I am slow in learning, and swift in 
 
 Forgetting, and I have grown 
 So weary with long sand sifting. 
 
 T'wards the mist where the breakers moan 
 The rudderless bark is driftinsr 
 Through the shoals and the quicksands shiftiug- 
 In the end shall the night-rack lifting, 
 Discover the shores unknown ?
 
 HIPPODROMANIA; 
 
 OK, 
 
 WHIFFS FROM THE PIPE. 
 
 Visions m the Smoke. 
 The Fields of Coleeaine. 
 Cr^dat Jud^us Apella. 
 Banker's Dream. 
 Ex FuMO Dare Lucem.
 
 120 
 
 VISIONS IN THE SMOKE. 
 
 VISIONS m THE SMOKE. 
 
 Rest, and be ttaniful ! On the verge 
 
 Of the tall cliff rugged and grey, 
 
 But whose granite base the breakers surge, 
 
 And shiver their frothy spray, 
 
 Outstretched, I gaze on the eddying wreath 
 
 That gathers and flits away, 
 
 With the surf beneath, and betAveen my teeth 
 
 The stem of the " ancient clay."* 
 
 With the anodyne cloud on my listless eyes, 
 
 With its spell on my dreamy brain. 
 
 As I watch the circling vapours rise 
 
 From the broAvn bowl up to the sullen skies, 
 
 My vision becomes more plain. 
 
 Till a dim kaleidoscope succeeds 
 
 Through the smoke rack drifting and veering, 
 
 Like ghostly riders on phantom steeds 
 
 To a shadowy goal careering.
 
 VISIONS IN THE SMOKE. 
 
 In their own generation the wise may sneer, 
 
 They hold our sports in derision ; 
 
 Perchance to sophist, or sage, or seer 
 
 Were allotted a graver vision. 
 
 Yet if man, of all the Creator plann'd. 
 
 His noblest work is reckoned, 
 
 Of the works of his hand, by sea or by land, 
 
 The horse may at least rank second. 
 
 Did they quail, those steeds of the squadrons light, 
 
 Did they flinch from the battle's roar, 
 
 When they burst on the guns of the Muscovite, 
 
 By the echoing Black Sea shore ? 
 
 On ! on I to the cannons' mouth they stride, 
 
 With never a swerve nor a shy, 
 
 Oh ! the minutes of yonder maddening ride. 
 
 Long years of pleasure outvie ! 
 
 No slave, but a comrade staunch, in this. 
 Is the horse, for he takes his share. 
 Not in peril alone, but in feverish bliss, 
 And in longing to do and dare. 
 Where bullets whistle, and round shot whiz, 
 Hoofs trample, and blades flash bare, 
 God send me an ending as fair as his 
 Who died in his stirrups there ! 
 
 121
 
 12i 
 
 VISIONS IN THE SMOKE. 
 
 The wand lias slumbered throughout the day, 
 Now a fitful gust springs over the bay, 
 My wandering thoughts no longer stray, 
 
 I'll fix my overcoat buttons ; 
 Secure my old hat, as best I may 
 (And a shocking bad one it is, by the way) 
 Blow a denser cloud from my stunted clay, 
 And then, friend Bdl, as the Frenchmen say, 
 
 We'll " go back again to our muttons." 
 
 There's a lull in the tumult on yonder hill. 
 
 And the clamour has grown less loud, 
 
 Though the Babel of tongues is never still. 
 
 With the presence of such a crowd. 
 
 The bell has rung. With their riders up 
 
 At the starting post they muster, 
 
 The racers strip'fc for the " Melbourne Cup," 
 
 All gloss and polish and lustre ; 
 
 And the course is seen, with its emerald sheen. 
 
 By the bright spring-tide renew'd, 
 
 Like a ribbon of green, stretched out between 
 
 The ranks of the multitude. 
 
 The flag is lowered. ' ' They're off !" " They come !" 
 The squadron is sweeping on ;
 
 VISONS IN THE SMOKE. ^£3 
 
 A sway in the crowd — a murmuring hum ! 
 
 " They're here !" " They're past !" " They're gone !" 
 
 They came with the rush of the southern surf, 
 
 On the bar of the storm- girt bay ; 
 
 And like mufSed drums on the sounding turf 
 
 Their hoof-strokes echo away. 
 
 The rose and black draws clear of the ruck, 
 
 And the murmur swells to a roar, 
 
 As the brave old colours that never were struck, 
 
 Are seen with the lead once more. 
 
 Though the feathery ferns and grasses wave 
 
 O'er the sods where Lantern sleeps. 
 
 Though the turf is green on Fisherman's grave, 
 
 The stable its prestige keeps. 
 
 ^&> 
 
 Six lengths in front she scours alonj 
 She's bringing the field to trouble, 
 She's tailing them off, she's running strong, 
 She shakes her head and pulls double. 
 Now Minstrel falters, aud Exile flags, 
 The Barb finds the pace too hot. 
 And Toryboy loiters, and Playboy lags, 
 And the bolt of Ben Bolt is shot.
 
 124 VISIONS IN THE SMOKE. 
 
 That she never may be caught this day 
 
 Is the worst that the public wish her. 
 
 She won't be caught ; the comes right away ; 
 
 Hurrah for Seagull and Fisher ! 
 
 See, Strop falls back, though his reins are slack. 
 
 Sultana begins to tire, 
 
 And the top-weight tells on the Sydney crack, 
 
 And the pace on " the Gipps Land flyer." 
 
 The rowels, as round the turn they sweep, 
 
 Just graze Tim Whiffler's flanks, 
 
 Like the hunted deer that flies through the sheep. 
 
 He strides through the beaten ranks. 
 
 Daughter of Omen, prove your birth, 
 
 The colt will take lots of choking ; 
 
 The hot breath steams at your saddle girth, 
 
 From his scarlet nostril smoking. 
 
 The shouts of the ring for a space subside, 
 
 And slackens the bookmaker's roar ; 
 
 Now, Davis, rally; now. Carter, ride, 
 
 As man never rode before. 
 
 When Sparrowhawk's backers cease to cheer, 
 
 When Yattendon's friends are dumb,
 
 VISIONS IN THE SMOKE. 125 
 
 Wten hushed is the clamour for Volunteer — 
 Alone in the race they come ! 
 
 They're neck and neck ; they're head and head ; 
 They're stroke for stroke ia the running ; 
 The Avhalebone whistles, the steel is red, 
 No shirking as yet nor shunning. 
 One effort, Seagull, the blood you boast 
 Should struggle when nerves are strained ; — 
 With a rush on the post by a neck at the most, 
 The verdict for Tim is gained. 
 
 Tim Whiffler wins. Is blood alone 
 
 The sine qua non for a flyer ? 
 
 The breed of his dam is a myth unknown, 
 
 And we've doubts respecting his sire. 
 
 Yet few (if any) those proud names are 
 
 On the pages of peerage or stud, 
 
 In whose 'scutcheon lurks no sioister bar, 
 
 No taint of the base black blood. 
 
 Ay, Shorthouse laugh — ^laugh loud and long. 
 For pedigree you're a sticker ; 
 You may be right, I may be wrong, 
 Wiseacres both ! Let's liquor.
 
 12(; VISIONS IN THE SMOKE. 
 
 Our common descent we may each recall 
 To a lady of old caught tripping, 
 The fair one in fig leaves, who d — d us all 
 For a bite at a golden pippin. 
 
 "When first on this rocky ledge I lay, 
 
 There was scarce a ripple in yonder bay. 
 
 The air was serenely still ; 
 
 Each column that sailed from my swarthy clay 
 
 Hung loitering long ere it passed away, 
 
 Though the skies wore a tinge of leaden grey. 
 
 And the atmosphere was chill. 
 
 But the red sun sank to his evening shroud, 
 
 Where the western billows are roU'd 
 
 Behind a curtain of sable cloud. 
 
 With a fringe of scarlet and gold ; 
 
 There's a misty glare in the yellow moon. 
 
 And the drift is scudding fast. 
 
 There'll be storm and rattle and tempest soon, 
 
 When the heavens are overcast. 
 
 The neutral tint of the sullen sea 
 
 Is fleck'd with the snowy foam. 
 
 And the distant gale sighs drearilie. 
 
 As the wanderer sighs for his home. 
 
 The white sea-horses toss their manes 
 
 On the bar of the southern reef,
 
 VISIONS IN THE SJIOKB, 127 
 
 And the breakers moan, and — by Jove, it rains 
 (I thought I should come to grief) ; 
 Though it can't well damage my shabby hat, 
 Though my coat looks best when it's damp, 
 Since the shaking I got (no matter where at) 
 I've a mortal dread of the cramp. 
 My matches are wet, my pipe's put out, 
 And the wind grows colder and stronger ; 
 I'll be stiflF, and sore, and sorry, no doubt, 
 If I lie here any longer.
 
 128 
 
 THE FIELDS OF COLEEAINE. 
 
 THE FIELDS OF COLEEAINE. 
 
 On the fields of CoV' ane there'll be labour in vain 
 
 Before the Great Western is ended, 
 The nags will have toil'd, and the silks -will be soil'd 
 
 And the rails will require to be mended. 
 
 For the gullies are deep, and the uplands are steep 
 
 And mud will of purls be the token, 
 And the tough stringy-bark, that invites us to lark, 
 
 With impunity may not be broken. 
 
 Though Ballarat's fast, and they say he can last, 
 And that may be granted hereafter. 
 
 Yet the judge's decision to the Border division 
 Will bring neither shouting nor laughter. 
 
 And Blueskin I've heard that he goes like a bird, 
 And I'm told that to back him would pay me, 
 
 He's a good bit of stuff, but not quite good enough, 
 " Non licuit credere famoe"
 
 THE FIELDS OF COLEKAINE. 
 
 129 
 
 Alfred ought to be there, -we all of us swear 
 By the blood of King Alfred, his sire, 
 
 He's not the real jam, by the blood of his dam, 
 So I sha'n't put him down as a flyer. 
 
 Now Hynam, my boy, I wish you great joy, 
 I know that when fresh you can jump, sir ; 
 
 But you'll scarce be in clover when you're ridden all over, 
 And punish' t from shoiilder to rump, sir. 
 
 Archer goes like a shot, they can put on their pot, 
 
 And boil it to cover expenses ; 
 Their pot will boil over, the run of his Dover 
 
 He'll never earn over big fences. 
 
 There's a horse in the race, with a blaze on his face. 
 
 And we know he can gallop a docker, 
 He's proved himself stout, of his speed there's no doubt, 
 
 And his jumping' s according to Cocker. 
 
 Wken Hynam's outstrip't, and when Alfred is whip't 
 
 To keep him ia sight of the leaders, 
 While Blueskin runs true, but his backers look bine. 
 
 For his rider's at work with the bleeders.
 
 130 
 
 THE FIELDS OF COLEKAINB. 
 
 When his carcass of beef brings "the bullock" to griefs 
 
 And the rush of the tartan is ended ; 
 "When Archer's in trouble — whose that pulling double, 
 
 And taking his leaps unextended ? 
 
 He wins all the way, and the rest — sweet, they say, 
 Is the smell of the newly tum'd plough, friend, 
 
 But you smell it too close, when it stops eyes and nose, 
 And you can't tell your horse from your cow, friend.
 
 " CKiEDAT JUD^US APELLA. 
 
 131 
 
 "CE^DAT JUD^US APELLA." 
 
 Dear Bell, — I enclose -what you ask in a letter, 
 
 A short rhyme at random, no more and no less, 
 And you may insert it for want of a better, 
 
 Or leave it, it doesn't much matter, I guess ; 
 And as for a tip, why there isn't much in it, 
 
 I may hit the right nail, but first, I declare, 
 I haven't a notion what's going to win it 
 
 (The Champion I mean), and what's more I don't care. 
 Imprimis, there's Cowra — few nags can go quicker 
 
 Than she can — and Smith takes his oath she can fly, 
 "While Brown, Jones, and Eobinson swear she's a sticker, 
 
 But " crcedat Judceus Apella" say I. 
 
 There's old Volunteer, I'd be sorry to sneer 
 
 At his chance ; he'll be there, if he goes at the rate 
 
 He went at last year, when a customer queer 
 
 Johnny Higgerson fancied him lock'd in the straight ;
 
 13 2 "CR^DAT JUD^US APELLA." 
 
 I* ve heard that the old horse has never been fitter, 
 I've heard all performances jiast he'll outvie ; 
 
 He may gallop a docker, and finish a splitter, 
 But ^' crcedat Judceus Apella," say I. 
 
 I know what they say, sir, " The Hook" he can stay, sir, 
 
 And stick to his work like a sleuth-hound or beagle ; 
 He stays " with a Jiook," and he sticks in the clay, sir, 
 
 I'd rather, for choice, pop my money on Seagull; 
 I'm told that the Sydney division will rue, sir, 
 
 Their rashness in front of the stand when they spy 
 With a clear lead the white jacket spotted with blue, sir, 
 
 But '* croidat Judceus A;pella" say I. 
 
 There's The Barb — you may talk of your flyers and stayers. 
 
 All bosh — when he strips you can see his eye range 
 Round his rivals with much the same look as Tom Sayers 
 
 Once wore, when he faced the big novice. Bill Bainge. 
 Like Stow, at our hustings, confronting the hisses 
 
 Of roughs, with his queer Mephistophcles' smile ; 
 Like Baker or Baker's more wonderful Mrs., 
 
 The terror of blacks at the source of the Nile ; 
 Like Triton 'mid minnows ; like hawk among chickens ; 
 
 Like — anything better than everything else ;
 
 " CR^DAT JtTD^US APELLA." i„,, 
 
 He stands at the post. Now they're off ! the plot thickens ! 
 
 Quoth Stanley to Davis, " How is your pulse ?" 
 He skims o'er the smooth turf, he scuds through the mire, 
 
 He waits with them, passes them, bids them good-bye ! 
 Two miles and three-quarters, cries FUgate, "He'll tire." 
 
 Oh ! " crcedat Judceus Apella," say I. 
 
 Lest my tale should come true, let me give you fair warning, 
 
 You may " shout" some cheroots, if you like, no champagne 
 For this child. — " Oh ! think of my head in the morning," 
 
 Old chap, you don't get me on that lay again. 
 The last time those games I look't likely to try on, 
 
 Says Bradshawe, " You'll feel very sheepish and shy 
 When you are haul'd up and caution'd by D — g — y and L — n," 
 
 Oh ! " crcedat Judceus Apella,^' say I. 
 
 This writing bad verses is very fatiguing, 
 
 The brain and the liver against it combine. 
 And nerves with digestion in concert are leaguing, 
 
 To punish excess in the pen and ink line ; 
 Already I feel just as if I'd been rowing 
 
 Hard all — on a supper of onions and tripe 
 (A thing I abhor), but my steam I've done blowing, 
 
 I am, my dear Bell, yours truly, " The Pipe."
 
 134 "CRiEDAT JVDS.US APELLA. 
 
 P.S. — Tell J. p., if he fancies a good 'un, 
 That old chestnut pony of mine is for sale. 
 
 N.B. — His fore legs are uncommonly wooden, 
 I fancy the near one's beginning to fail, 
 
 And why shouldn't I do as W — n does oft, 
 
 And swear that a cripple is sound — on the Bihle- 
 
 Hold hard ! though the man I allude to is soft, 
 He's game to go in for an action of libel.
 
 Banker's dream. 135 
 
 BANKER'S DEEAM. 
 
 Of chases and courses dogs dream, so do horses — 
 Last night I -was dozing and dreaming, 
 
 The crowd and the bustle were there, and the rustle 
 Of the silk in the autumn sky gleaming. 
 
 The stand throng'd with faces, the broadcloth and laces. 
 
 The booths, and the tents, and the cars. 
 The bookmakers' jargon, for odds making bargain. 
 
 The nasty stale smell of cigars. 
 
 We formed into line, 'neath the merry sunshine, 
 
 Near the logs at the end of the railing ; 
 "Are you ready, boys ? Go !" cried the starter, and low 
 
 Sank the flag, and away we went sailing. 
 
 In the van of the battle we heard the stones rattle, 
 Some slogging was done, but no slaughter, 
 
 A shout from the stand, and the whole of our band ^ 
 Skimm'd merrUy over the water.
 
 ];^(; BANKERS DREAM. 
 
 Two fences we clear'd, and the roadway we near'd 
 "When three of our troop came to trouble ; 
 
 Like a bird on the wing, or a stone from a sling, 
 Flew Cadger, first over the double. 
 
 And Western was there, head and tail in the air, 
 And Pondon was there too — what noodle 
 
 Could so name a horse ? I should feel some remorse 
 If I gave such a name to a poodle. 
 
 In and out of the lane, to the racecourse again, 
 Craig's pony was first, I was third, 
 
 And Ingleslde lit in my tracks, with the bit 
 In his teeth, and came up " like a bird." 
 
 In the van of the battle we heard the rails rattle. 
 Says he, "Though I don't care for shunning 
 
 My share of the raps, I shall look out for gaps, 
 When the light weight's away with the running.' 
 
 At the fence just ahead, the outsider still led, 
 The chestnut play'd follow my leader. 
 
 Oh ! the devil a gap, he went into it slap. 
 And he and his jock took a header.
 
 BANKER S DREAM. 137- 
 
 Says Ingleside, "Mate, should the pony go straight, 
 You've no time to stop or turn restive I" 
 
 Says I, " Who means to stop ? I shall go till I drop ;" 
 Says he, " Go it, old cuss, gay and festive." 
 
 The fence stiff and tall, just beyond the log -wall, 
 We cross'd, and the walls, and the water, — 
 
 I took off too near, a small made fence to clear. 
 And just touch'd the grass with my snorter. 
 
 At the next post and rail up went Western's bang tail. 
 
 And down (by the very same token) 
 To earth went his nose, for the panel he chose 
 
 Stood firm and refused to be broken. 
 
 I dream't some one said that the bay would have made 
 The race safe, if he'd stood a while longer; 
 
 If he had, — but, like if, there the panel stands stiff — 
 He stood, but the panel stood stronger. 
 
 In and out of the road, with a clear lead still show'd 
 
 The violet fluted with amber ; 
 Says Johnson, " Old man, catch him now if you can, 
 
 'Tis the second time round you'll remember."
 
 138 
 
 BANKERS DREAM. 
 
 At the road once again, pulling hard on the rein, 
 Craig's pony pop't in and pop't out ; 
 
 I followed like smoke, and the pace was no joke, 
 For his friends were beginning to shout. 
 
 And Ingleside came to my side strong and game, 
 And once he appear' d to outstrip me, 
 
 But I felt the steel gore,, and I shot to the fore, 
 Only Cadger seem'd likely to whip me. 
 
 In the van of the battle I heard the logs rattle, 
 
 His stroke never seem'd to diminish, 
 And thrice I drew near him, and thrice he drew clear, 
 
 For the weight served him well at the finish. 
 
 Ah ! Cadger goes down, see he stands on his crown — 
 Those rails take a power of clouting — 
 
 A long sliding blunder — ^he's up — well I wonder 
 If now it's all over but shouting. 
 
 All loosely he's striding, the amateur's riding 
 
 All loosely some reverie lock'd in 
 Of a "vision in smoke," or a "wayfaring bloke," 
 
 His poetical rubbish concocting.
 
 BANKER S DKEAM. 139 
 
 Now comes from afar the faint cry " Here they are," 
 
 " Tlie violet winning witli ease," 
 " Fred goes up like a shot," "Does he catch him or not ?" 
 
 Level money, I'll take the cerise. 
 
 To hi>- hauiches I spring, and my muzzle I bring 
 
 To his flank, to his girth, to his shoulder ; 
 Through the shouting and yelling I hear my name swelling, 
 
 The hearts of my backers grow bolder. 
 
 Neck and neck ! head and head ! staring eye ! nostril spread ! 
 
 Girth and stifle laid close to the ground ! 
 Stride for stride ! stroke for stroke ! through one hurdle we've 
 broke ! 
 
 On the splinters we've lit with one bound. 
 
 And "Banker for choice" is the cry, and one voice 
 
 Screams " Six to four once upon Banker ;" 
 '♦ Banker wins," "Banker's beat," "Cadger wins," "A dead 
 heat"— 
 
 " Ah ! there goes Fred's whalebone a flanker." 
 
 Springs the whip with a crack ! nine stone ten on his back, 
 Fit and light he can race like the devil ;
 
 140 banker's dream. 
 
 I draw past him — 'tis vain ; he draws past me again, 
 Springs the whip ! and again we are level. 
 
 Steel and cord do their worst, now my head struggles first I 
 
 That tug my last spurt has expended — 
 Nose to nose ! lip to lip ! from the sound of the whip 
 
 He strains to the utmost extended. 
 
 How they swim through the air, as we roll to the chair, 
 Stand, faces, and railings flit past ; 
 
 Now I spring * ♦ * 
 
 from my lair, with a snort and a stare, 
 Eous'd by Fred with my supper at last.
 
 EX FUMO DARE LUCEM. 
 
 141 
 
 EX FUMO DAEE LUCEM. 
 ['twixt the cup and the lip.] 
 
 prologue. 
 
 Calm and clear ! tlie bright day is declining, 
 
 The^crystal expanse of tlie bay, 
 Like a shield of pure metal, lies shining 
 
 'Twixt headlands of purple and grey, 
 While the little waves leap in the sunset, 
 
 And strike with a miniature shock. 
 In sportive and infantine onset. 
 
 The base of the iron-stone rock. 
 
 Calm and clear ! the sea-breezes are laden 
 
 With a fragrance, a freshness, a power, 
 With a song like the song of a maiden. 
 
 With a scent like the scent of a flower ; 
 And a whisper half weird, half prophetic, 
 
 Comes home with the sigh of the surf ; 
 But I pause, for your fancies poetic 
 
 Never rise from the level of " Turf."
 
 142 EX FDMO DARE LCJCEM. 
 
 Fellow bungler of mine, fellow sinner, 
 
 In public performances past, 
 In trials whence touts take their winner, 
 
 In rumours that circulate fast. 
 In strains from Prunella or Priam, 
 
 Staying stayers, or goers that go. 
 You're much better posted than I am, 
 
 'Tis little I care, less I know. . 
 
 Alas ! neither poet nor prophet 
 
 Am I, though a jingler of rhjines — 
 'Tis a hobby of mine, and I'm off it 
 
 At times, and I'm on it at times. 
 And whether I'm off it or on it, 
 
 Your readers my counsels will shun. 
 Since I scarce know Van Tromp from Blue Bonnet, 
 
 Though I might know Cigar from The Nun. 
 
 With "visions" you ought to be sated 
 
 And sicken'd by this time, I swear 
 That mine are all myths self-created, 
 
 Air visions that vanish in air ; 
 If I had some loose coins I might chuck one, 
 
 To settle this question and say, 
 " Here goes ! this is tails for the black one, 
 
 And heads for my fav'rite the bay."
 
 EX FUMO DAKE LUCEM. I43 
 
 And must I rob Paul to pay Peter, 
 
 Or Peter defraud to pay Paul ? 
 My rhymes, are they stale ? if my metre 
 
 Is varied, one chime rings through all ; 
 One chime — though I sing more or sing less, 
 
 I have but one string to my lute. 
 And it might have been better if, stringless 
 
 And songless, the same had been mute. 
 
 Yet not as a seer of visions, 
 
 Nor yet as a dreamer of dreams, 
 I send you these partial decisions 
 
 On hackney'd impoverish'd themes ; 
 But with song out of tune, sung to pass time, 
 
 Flung heedless to friends or to foes. 
 Where the false notes that ring for. the last time 
 
 May blend with some real ones, "who knows ? 
 
 THE RACE. 
 
 On the hill they are crowding together, 
 In the stand they are crushing for room, 
 
 Like midge-flies they swarm on the heather. 
 They gather like bees on the broom ; 
 
 They flutter Uke moths round a candle — 
 Stale similes, granted, what then ?
 
 144 
 
 EX FUMO DARE LDCEil. 
 
 'Ive got a stal> subject to handle, 
 A very stale stump of a pen. 
 
 Hark ! the shuffle of feet that are many, 
 
 Of voices the many-tongued clang — • 
 " Has he had a bad night ?" " Has he any 
 
 Friends left ?" — How I hate your turf slang; 
 'Tis stale to begin with, not wittj', 
 
 But dull and inclined to be coarse, 
 But bad men can't use (more's the pity) 
 
 Good words when they slate a good horse. 
 
 Heu ! heu ! quantus equis (that's Latin 
 
 For " bellows to mend" with the weeds), 
 They're oiF ! lights and shades ! silk and satin ! 
 
 A rainbow of riders and steeds ! 
 And one shows in front, and another 
 
 Goes up and is seen in his place. 
 Sic transit (more Latin) — Oh ! bother. 
 
 Let's get to the end of the race. 
 
 See, they come round the last turn careering, 
 Already Tait's colours are struck.
 
 EX FUMO DARE LUCEM. 
 
 And the green in the vanguard is steering, 
 And the red's in the rear of the ruck ! 
 
 Are the stripes in the shade doom'd to lie long ? 
 Do the blue stars on white skies wax dim ? 
 
 Is it Tamworth or Smuggler ? 'Tis Bylong 
 That wins — either Bylong or Tim. 
 
 145 
 
 As the shell through the breach that is riven 
 
 And sapp'd by the springing of mines, 
 As the bolt from the thunder-cloud driven, 
 
 That levels the larches and pines, 
 Through yon mass parti-colour' d that dashes 
 
 Goal-turn'd, clad in many-hued garb, 
 From rear to van, surges and flashes 
 
 The yellow and black of The Barb. 
 
 Past The Fly, falling back on the right, and 
 
 The Gull, giving way on the left. 
 Past Tamworth, who feels the whip smite, and 
 
 Whose sides by the rowels are cleft ; 
 Where Tim and the chestnut together 
 
 Still bear of the battle the brunt. 
 As if eight stone twelve were a feather, 
 
 He comes with a rush to the front.
 
 146 EX FUMO PARE r,TT(;EM, 
 
 Tim Whiffler may yet prove a Tartar, 
 
 And Bylong's the horse that can stay, 
 But Kean is in trouble — and Carter 
 
 Is hard on the satin-skiim'd bay, 
 And the Barb comes away unextended, 
 
 Hard held, like a second Eclipse, 
 While behind, the hoof-thunder is blended 
 
 With the whistHng and crackling of whips. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 He wins ; yes, he wins upon paper, 
 
 He hasn't yet won upon turf, 
 And these rhymes are but moonshine and vapour». 
 
 Air-bubbles and spume from the surf. 
 So be it, at least they are given 
 
 Free, gratis, for just what they're worth. 
 And (whatever there may be in heaven) 
 
 There's little worth much upon earth. 
 
 When, with satellites round them, the centre 
 Of all eyes, hard press'd by the crowd, 
 
 The pair, horse and rider, re-enter 
 The gate, 'mid a shout long and loud, 
 
 You may feel as you might feel, just landed 
 Full length on the grass from the clip
 
 EX FUMO DARE LUCEM. 
 
 l-^l 
 
 Of a vicious cross-counter, right-handed, 
 Or upper-cut, whizzing from hij). 
 
 And that's not so bad if you're pick'd up 
 
 Discreetly, and carefully nursed ; 
 Loose teeth by the sponge are soon lick'd up, 
 
 And next time you may get home first. 
 Still I'm not sure you'd like it exactly 
 
 (Such tastes as a rule are acquired), 
 And you'll find in a nutshell this fact lie. 
 
 Bruised optics are not much admired. 
 
 Do I bore you with vulgar allusions ? 
 
 Forgive me, I speak as I feel, 
 I've ponder' d and made my conclusions — 
 
 As the mill grinds the com to the meal ; 
 So man striving boldly but blindly, 
 
 Ground piecemeal in Destiny's mill, 
 At his best, taking punishment kindly. 
 
 Is only a chopping-block still. 
 
 Are we wise ? our abstruse calculations 
 Are based on experience long ; 
 
 Are we sanguine ? our high expectations 
 Are f oujided on hope that is strong ?
 
 14.S EX FUMO DARE LUCEM. 
 
 Thus we build an air-castle that crumbles 
 And drifts, till no traces remain, 
 
 And the fool builds again while he grumbles, 
 And the wise one laughs, building again. 
 
 " How came they to pass, these rash blunders, 
 
 These false steps so hard to defend ?" 
 Our friend puts the question and wonders, 
 
 We laugh and reply, ' ' Ah ! my friend, 
 Could you trace the first stride falsely taken. 
 
 The distance misjudged, where or how, 
 When you piclt'd yourself up, stunn'd and shaken, 
 
 At the fence 'twixt the turf and the plough ? 
 
 In the jar of the panel rebounding ! 
 
 In the crash of the splintering wood ! 
 In the ears to the earth shock resounding ! 
 
 In the eyes flashing fire and blood ! 
 In the quarters above you revolving ! 
 
 In the sods underneath heaving high ! 
 There was little to aid you in solving 
 
 Such questions — the how or the why. 
 
 And destiny, steadfast in trifles. 
 Is steadfast for better or worse
 
 EX FUMO DARE LUCEM. 
 
 14i) 
 
 In great things, it crushes and stifles, 
 And swallows the hopes that we nurse. 
 
 Men wiser than we are may wonder, 
 When the future they cling to so fast. 
 
 To the roll of that destiny's thunder 
 Goes down with the wrecks of the past. 
 
 The past ! the dead past ! that has swallow'd 
 
 All the honey of life and the milk, 
 Brighter dreams than mere pastimes we've follow'd, 
 
 Better things than our scarlet or silk. 
 Aye, and worse things — that past is it really 
 
 Dead to us who again and again 
 Feel sharply, hear plainly, see clearly 
 
 Past days with their joy and their pain. 
 
 Like corpses embalm"d and unburied 
 
 They lie, and in spite of our will. 
 Our souls on the wings of thought carried 
 
 Revisit their sepulchres still ; 
 Down the channels of mystery gliding 
 
 They conjure strange tales, rarely read, 
 Of the priests of dead Pharaohs presiding 
 
 At mystical feasts of the dead.
 
 150 EX FUMO DARE LUCEM. 
 
 Weird pictures arise, quaint devices, 
 
 Eude emblems, baked funeral meats. 
 Strong incense, rare wines, and rich spices, 
 
 The ashes, the shrouds, and the sheets ; 
 Does our thraldom fall short of completeness 
 
 For the magic of a charnel-house charm, 
 And the flavour of a poisonous sweetness, 
 
 And the odour of a poisonous balm ? 
 
 And the links of the past — but, no matter, 
 
 For I'm getting beyond you, I guess. 
 And you'll call me " as mad as a hatter" 
 
 If my thoughts I too freely express ; 
 I subjoin a quotation, pray learn it. 
 
 And with the aid of your lexicon tell U3 
 The meaning thereof, ' ' Res discernit 
 
 Sapiens, quas con/undit asellus." 
 
 Already green hillocks are swelling, 
 
 And combing white locks on the bar. 
 Where a dull droning murmur is telling 
 
 Of winds that have gather'd afar ; 
 Thus we know not the day, nor the morrow, 
 
 Nor yet what the night may bring forth, 
 Nor the storm, nor the sleep, nor the sorrow, 
 
 Nor the strife, nor the rest, nor the wrath.
 
 EX FUMO DAKE LUCEM. ^^^ 
 
 Yet tlie skies are still tranquil and starlit, 
 
 The sun 'twixt the wave and the west 
 Dies in purple and crimson and scarlet 
 
 And gold ; let us hope for the best, 
 Since again from the earth his effulgence 
 
 The darkness and damp-dews shall wipe, 
 Kind reader, extend your indulgence 
 
 To this the last lay of "The Pipe."
 
 THE 
 
 ROLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM ; 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 LAY OF THE LAST CHARGER.
 
 j-^ THE KOLL OF THE KETTLEDKUM. 
 
 THE ROLL OF THE KETTLEDETJM; 
 
 OK, THE 
 
 LA.T OF THE LAST CHARGER. 
 
 " You have the Pyrrhic dance, as yet, 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 The nobler and the manlier one V— Byron. 
 
 One line of swart profiles, and bearded lips dressing, 
 One ridge of bright helmets, one crest of fair plumes. 
 
 One streak of blue sword-blades all bared for the fleshing, 
 One row of red nostrils that scent battle-fumes. 
 
 Forward ! the trumpets were sounding the charge. 
 The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran. 
 
 That music, like wild-fire spreading at large, 
 Madden'd the war-horse as well as the man. 
 
 Forward ! still, forward ! we thunder'd along, 
 Steadily, yet, for our strength we were nursing : 
 
 Tall Ewart, our sergeant, was humming a song, 
 
 Lance-corporal Black WiU was blaspheming and cursing.
 
 THE ROLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM. 155 
 
 Open'd their volley of guns on our right, 
 
 Puffs of grey smoke, veiling gleams of red flame, 
 
 Curling to leeward, were seen on the height 
 Where the batteries were posted, as onward we came. 
 
 Spreading before us their cavalry lay. 
 
 Squadron on squadron, troop upon troop ; 
 
 We were so few, and so many were they — 
 Eagles wait calmly the sparrow-hawk's stoop. 
 
 Forward ! still forward ! steed answering steed 
 Cheerily neigh'd, while the foam-flakes were toss't 
 
 From bridle to bridle — the top of our speed 
 Was gain'd, but the pride of our order was lost. 
 
 One was there, leading by nearly a rood, 
 Though Ave were racing he kept to the fore, 
 
 Still as a rock in his stirrups he stood. 
 High in the sunlight his sabre he bore. 
 
 Suddenly tottering, backwards he crash' t, 
 Loudly his helm right in front of us rung ; 
 
 Iron hoofs thunder'd, and naked steel flash't 
 Over him — youngest, where many were young.
 
 15r, THE ROLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM. 
 
 Now we were close to them, every horse striding 
 Madly ; — St. Luce pass't with never a groan ; — 
 
 Sadly my master look't round — he was riding 
 On the boy's right, with a line of his own. 
 
 Thrusting his hand in his breast or breast-pocket, 
 While from his wrist the sword swung by a chaia. 
 
 Swiftly he drew out some trinket or locket, 
 Kiss't it (I think) and replaced it again. 
 
 Burst, while his fingers reclosed on the haft, 
 Jarring concussion and earth shaking din, 
 
 Horse 'counter'd horse, and I reel'd but he laugh't, 
 Down went his man, cloven clean to the chin ! 
 
 Wedged in the midst of that struggling mass, 
 After the first shock, where each his foe singled, 
 
 Little was seen save a dazzle, like glass 
 
 In the sun, with grey smoke and black dust intermingled. 
 
 Here and there redden' d a pistol shot, flashing 
 Through the red sparkle of steel upon steel ! 
 
 Redder the spark seem'd, and louder the clashing, 
 Struck from the helm by the iron-shod heel!
 
 THE ROLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM. 157 
 
 Over fallen riders, like wltlier'd leaves strewing 
 Uplands in autumn, we sunder'd their ranks ; 
 
 Steeds rearing and plunging, men hacking and hewing, 
 Fierce grinding of sword-blades, sharp goading of flanks. 
 
 Short was the crisis of conflict soon over, 
 Being too good (I suppose) to last long ; 
 
 Through them we cut, as the scythe cuts the clover, 
 Batter' d and stain' d we emerged from their throng. 
 
 Some of our saddles were emptied, of course; 
 
 To heaven (or elswhere) Black Will had been carried ! 
 Ned Sullivan mounted Will's riderless horse, 
 
 His mare being hurt, while ten seconds we tarried. 
 
 And then we re-formed, and went at them once more, 
 And ere they had rightly closed up the old traak. 
 
 We broke through the lane we had open'd before, 
 And as we went forward e'en so we came back. 
 
 Our numbers were few, and our loss far from small, 
 
 They could fight, and besides, they were twenty to one ; 
 
 We were clear of them all when we heard the recall, 
 And thus we returned, but my tale is not done.
 
 ]|58 THE KOLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM. 
 
 For the hand of my rider felt strange on my bit, 
 He breathed once or twice like one partially choked, 
 
 And sway'd in his seat, then I knew he was hit ; — 
 He must have bled fast for my withers were soakd, 
 
 And scarcely an inch of my housing was dry ; 
 
 I slackcn'd my speed, yet, I never quite stop't, 
 Ere he patted my neck, said, " Old fellow, good-by(> !" 
 
 An d drop't oflF me gently, and lay where he drop't ! 
 
 Ah, me ! after all, they may call us dumb creatures, — 
 I tried hard to neigh but the sobs took my breath, 
 
 Yet I guess't, gazing down at those still quiet features, 
 He was never more happy in life than in death. 
 
 Two years back, at Aldershott, Elrington mentioned 
 My name to our colonel one field-day. He said, 
 
 ''Count," "Steeltrap" and "Challenger" ought to be ponsion'd ; 
 " Count" died the same week, and now " Steeltrap" is dead. 
 
 That morning our colonel was riding " Theresa," 
 The filly by " Tcddington," out of " Mistake ;"
 
 THE ROLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM. 35^ 
 
 His girls, pretty Alice and fair-liair'd Lotiisa, 
 Were there on the ponies he purchased from Blake. 
 
 I remember he pointed me out to his daughters, 
 Said he, ' ' In this troop I may fairly take pride, 
 
 But I've none left like him in my officers' quarters, 
 Whose life-blood the mane of old ' Challenger' dyed. 
 
 Where are they ? the war-steeds who shared in our glory, 
 The "Lanercost" colt, and the "Acrobat" mare, 
 
 And the Irish division, " Kate Kearney" and " Eory," 
 And rushing "Eoscommon," and eager "KUdare," 
 
 And " Freeny," a favourite once with my master, 
 And " Warlock," a sluggard, but honest and true. 
 
 And " Tancred," as honest as "Warlock," but faster, 
 
 And " BlacHock," and "Bii-dlime," and "Molly Carew?"- 
 
 All vanish't, what wonder ! twelve summers have pass't 
 Since then, and my comrade lies buried this day, — 
 
 Old " Steeltrap," the kicker, — and now I'm the last 
 Of the chargers who shared in that glorious fray. .
 
 -jgQ THE ROLL or THE KETTLEDRUM. 
 
 Come, " Harlequin," keep your nose out of my manger, 
 You'll get your allowance, my boy, and no more ; 
 
 Snort, " Silver- tail," snort ! when you've seen as much danger 
 As I have, you won't mind the rats in the straw. 
 
 Our gallant old colonel came limping and halting, 
 The day before yesterday, into my stall, 
 
 Oh ! light to the saddle I've once seen him vaulting, 
 In full marching order, steel broadsword and all. 
 
 And now, his left leg than his right is made shorter 
 Three inches, he stoops, and his chest is unsound ; 
 
 He spoke to me gently, and patted my quarter, 
 I laid my ears back and look't playfully round. 
 
 For that word kindly meant, that caress kindly given, 
 I thank't him though dumb, but my cheerfulness fled ; 
 
 More sadness I drew from the face of the living 
 Than years back I did from the face of the dead. 
 
 For the dead face, uptum'd, tranquil, joyous, and fearless, 
 Look't straight from green sod to blue fathomless sky 
 
 L
 
 THE KOLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM. 161 
 
 Witli a smile ; but the living face, gloomy and tearless, 
 And haggard and harass'd, look't down with sigh. 
 
 Did he think on the first time he kiss't Lady Mary ? 
 
 On the morning he wing'd Horace Greville the beau ? 
 On the winner he steer'd in the grand military ? 
 
 On the charge that he headed twelve long years ago ? 
 
 Did he think on each fresh year, of fresh grief the herald ? 
 
 On lids that are sunken, and locks that are grey ? 
 On Alice, who bolted with Brian Fitzgerald ? 
 
 On Eupert, his first-bom, dishonour'd by " play?" 
 
 On Louey, his darling, who sleeps 'neath the cypress 
 
 That shades her and one whose last breath gave her life ?- 
 
 I saw those strong fingers hard over each eye press — 
 Oh ! the dead rest in peace Avhen the quick toil in strife ! 
 
 Scoff, man I egotistical, proud, unobservant, 
 
 Since I with man's grief dare to sympathise thus ; 
 
 Why scoff? — fellow-creature I am, fellow-servant 
 Of God, can man fathom God's dealings with us ?
 
 162 THE ROLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM. 
 
 Tlie wide gulf that parts us may yet be no wider 
 
 Than that which j^arts you from some being more blest, 
 
 And there may be more links 'twixt the horse and his rider 
 Than ever your shallow philosophy guess't. 
 
 You are proud of your power, and vain of your courage. 
 And your blood, Anglo-Saxon, or Norman, or Celt, 
 
 Though your gifts you extol, and our gifts you disparage, 
 Your perils, your pleasures, your sorrows we've felt. 
 
 We, too, sprung from mares of the prophet of Meccrt, 
 And nursed on the pride that was boiTi with the milk, 
 
 And filtered through "Crucifix," "Beeswing," "Eebecca," 
 We love sheen of scarlet and shimmer of silk. 
 
 We, too, sprung from loins of the Ishmaelite stallions, 
 We glory in daring that dies or prevails ; 
 
 From counter of squadrons, and crash of battalions, 
 To rending of blackthorns, and rattle of rails. 
 
 In all strife where courage is tested, and power, 
 
 From the meet on the hill-side, the horn-blast, the find, 
 
 The burst, the long gallop that seems to devour 
 The champaign, all obstacles flinging behind.
 
 THE ROLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM. 
 
 163 
 
 To the cheer and the clarion, the war-music blended 
 With war-cry, the furious dash at the foe, 
 
 The terrible shock, the recoil, and the splendid 
 
 Bare sword, flashing blue, rising red from the blow. 
 
 I've borne one through perils where many have seen us. 
 No tyrant, a kind friend, a patient instructor, 
 
 And I've felt some strange element flashing between us, 
 Till the saddle seem'd tum'd to a lis-htnina: conductor. 
 
 Did he see ? could he feel through the faintness, the numbness, 
 While linger'd the spirit half-loosed from the clay, 
 
 Dumb eyes seeking his in their piteous dumbness. 
 Dumb quivering nostrils, too stricken to neigh ? 
 
 And what then ? the colours reversed, the drums muffled. 
 The black nodding plumes, the dead march, and the pall. 
 
 The stern faces, soldier-like, silent, unruffled, 
 The slow sacred music that floats over all ! 
 
 'Cross carbine and boarspear, hang bugle and banner. 
 Spur, sabre, and snaffle, and helm — Is it well ? 
 
 Vain 'scutcheon, false trophies of Mars and Diana, — 
 Can the dead laurel sprout with the live immortelle ?
 
 164 THE ROLL OF THE KETTLEDRUM. 
 
 It may be, — we follow, and thougli we inherit 
 Our strength for a season, our pride for a si)an, 
 
 Say ! vanity are they ? vexation of spirit ? 
 
 Not so, since they serve for a time horse and man. 
 
 They serve for a time, and they make life worth living,. 
 
 In spite of life's troubles — 'tis vain to despond ; 
 Oh man ! we at least, tve enjoy, with thanksgiving, 
 
 God's gifts on this earth, though wo look not beyond. 
 
 You sin, and you suifer, and we too find sorrow, 
 Perchance through your sin — yet it soon will be o'er ; 
 
 We labour to-day, and we slumber to-morrow, 
 
 Strong horse and bold rider ! — and tvlio knoweth more ? 
 
 In our barrack-square shouted drill-sergeant McCluskie, 
 
 The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran, 
 The colonel wheel'd short, speaking once, dry and husky, 
 
 " Would to God I had died with your master, old man." 
 
 THE END.
 
 3 4 7 8
 
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