Laudamus

    The Lord shall slay or the Lord shall save!
    He is righteous whether He save or slay—
    Brother, give thanks for the gifts He gave,
    Though the gifts He gave He hath taken away.
    Shall we strive for that which is nothing? Nay.
    Shall we hate each other for that which fled?
    She is but a marvel of modelled clay,
    And the smooth, clear white, and the soft, pure red,
    That we coveted, shall endure no day.

    Was it wise or well that I hated you
    For the fruit that hung too high on the tree?
    For the blossom out of our reach that grew,
    Was it well or wise that you hated me?—
    My hate has flown, and your hate shall flee.
    Let us veil our faces like children chid—
    Can that violet orb we swore by see
    Through that violet-vein'd, transparent lid?—
    Now the Lord forbid that this strife should be.

    Would you knit the forehead or clench the fist,
    For the curls that never were well caress'd—
    For the red that never was fairly kiss'd—
    For the white that never was fondly press'd?
    Shall we nourish wrath while she lies at rest
    Between us? Surely our wrath shall cease.
    We would fain know better—the Lord knows best—
    Is there peace between us? Yea, there is peace,
    In the soul's release she at least is blest.

    Let us thank the Lord for His bounties all,
    For the brave old days of pleasure and pain,
    When the world for both of us seem'd too small—
    Though the love was void and the hate was vain—
    Though the word was bitter between us twain,
    And the bitter word was kin to the blow,
    For her gloss and ripple of rich gold rain,
    For her velvet crimson and satin snow—
    Though we never shall know the old days again.

    The Lord!—His mercy is great, men say;
    His wrath, men say, is a burning brand—
    Let us praise Him whether He save or slay,
    And above her body let hand join hand.
    We shall meet, my friend, in the spirit land—
    Will our strife renew? Nay, I dare not trust,
    For the grim, great gulf that cannot be spann'd
    Will divide us from her. The Lord is just,
    She shall not be thrust where our spirits stand.

A Basket of Flowers

    from Dawn to Dusk

    Dawn

    On skies still and starlit
    White lustres take hold,
    And grey flushes scarlet,
    And red flashes gold.
    And sun-glories cover
    The rose shed above her,
    Like lover and lover
    They flame and unfold.

    Still bloom in the garden
    Green grass-plot, fresh lawn,
    Though pasture lands harden
    And drought fissures yawn.
    While leaves not a few fall,
    Let rose leaves for you fall,
    Leaves pearl-strung with dew-fall,
    And gold shot with dawn.

    Does the grass-plot remember
    The fall of your feet
    In autumn's red ember,
    When drought leagues with heat,
    When the last of the roses
    Despairingly closes
    In the lull that reposes
    Ere storm winds wax fleet?

    Love's melodies languish
    In "Chastelard's" strain,
    And "Abelard's" anguish
    Is love's pleasant pain!
    And "Sappho" rehearses
    Love's blessings and curses
    In passionate verses
    Again and again.

    And I!—I have heard of
    All these long ago,
    Yet never one word of
    Their song-lore I know;
    Not under my finger
    In songs of the singer
    Love's litanies linger,
    Love's rhapsodies flow.

    Fresh flowers in a basket—
    An offering to you—
    Though you did not ask it,
    Unbidden I strew;
    With heat and drought striving,
    Some blossoms still living
    May render thanksgiving
    For dawn and for dew.

    The garlands I gather,
    The rhymes I string fast,
    Are hurriedly rather
    Than heedlessly cast.
    Yon tree's shady awning
    Is short'ning, and warning
    Far spent is the morning,
    And I must ride fast.

    Songs empty, yet airy,
    I've striven to write,
    For failure, dear Mary!
    Forgive me—Good-night!
    Songs and flowers may beset you,
    I can only regret you,
    While the soil where I met you
    Recedes from my sight.

    For the sake of past hours,
    For the love of old times,
    Take "A Basket of Flowers",
    And a bundle of rhymes;
    Though all the bloom perish
    E'en YOUR hand can cherish,
    While churlish and bearish
    The verse-jingle chimes.

    And Eastward by Nor'ward
    Looms sadly MY track,
    And I must ride forward,
    And still I look back,—
    Look back—ah, how vainly!
    For while I see plainly,
    My hands on the reins lie
    Uncertain and slack.

    The warm wind breathes strong breath,
    The dust dims mine eye,
    And I draw one long breath,
    And stifle one sigh.
    Green slopes, softly shaded,
    Have flitted and faded—
    My dreams flit as they did—
    Good-night!—and—Good-bye!

    Dusk

    Lost rose! end my story!
    Dead core and dry husk—
    Departed thy glory
    And tainted thy musk.
    Night spreads her dark limbs on
    The face of the dim sun,
    So flame fades to crimson
    And crimson to dusk.

A Fragment

    They say that poison-sprinkled flowers
    Are sweeter in perfume
    Than when, untouched by deadly dew,
    They glowed in early bloom.

    They say that men condemned to die
    Have quaffed the sweetened wine
    With higher relish than the juice
    Of the untampered vine.

    They say that in the witch's song,
    Though rude and harsh it be,
    There blends a wild, mysterious strain
    Of weirdest melody.

    And I believe the devil's voice
    Sinks deeper in our ear
    Than any whisper sent from Heaven,
    However sweet and clear.

    [End of Bush Ballads.]

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

To My Sister

    Lines written by the late A. L. Gordon
    On 4th August, 1853,
    Being three days before he sailed for Australia.

    Across the trackless seas I go,
    No matter when or where,
    And few my future lot will know,
    And fewer still will care.
    My hopes are gone, my time is spent,
    I little heed their loss,
    And if I cannot feel content,
    I cannot feel remorse.

    My parents bid me cross the flood,
    My kindred frowned at me;
    They say I have belied my blood,
    And stained my pedigree.
    But I must turn from those who chide,
    And laugh at those who frown;
    I cannot quench my stubborn pride,
    Nor keep my spirits down.

    I once had talents fit to win
    Success in life's career,
    And if I chose a part of sin,
    My choice has cost me dear.
    But those who brand me with disgrace
    Will scarcely dare to say
    They spoke the taunt before my face,
    And went unscathed away.

    My friends will miss a comrade's face,
    And pledge me on the seas,
    Who shared the wine-cup or the chase,
    Or follies worse than these.
    A careless smile, a parting glass,
    A hand that waves adieu,
    And from my sight they soon will pass,
    And from my memory too.

    I loved a girl not long ago,
    And, till my suit was told,
    I thought her breast as fair as snow,
    'Twas very near as cold;
    And yet I spoke, with feelings more
    Of recklessness than pain,
    Those words I never spoke before,
    Nor never shall again.

    Her cheek grew pale, in her dark eye
    I saw the tear-drop shine;
    Her red lips faltered in reply,
    And then were pressed to mine.
    A quick pulsation of the heart!
    A flutter of the breath!
    A smothered sob—and thus we part,
    To meet no more till death.

    And yet I may at times recall
    Her memory with a sigh;
    At times for me the tears may fall
    And dim her sparkling eye.
    But absent friends are soon forgot,
    And in a year or less
    'Twill doubtless be another's lot
    Those very lips to press!

    With adverse fate we best can cope
    When all we prize has fled;
    And where there's little left to hope,
    There's little left to dread!
    Oh, time glides ever quickly by!
    Destroying all that's dear;
    On earth there's little worth a sigh,
    And nothing worth a tear!

    What fears have I? What hopes in life?
    What joys can I command?
    A few short years of toil and strife
    In a strange and distant land!
    When green grass sprouts above this clay
    (And that might be ere long),
    Some friends may read these lines and say,
    The world has judged him wrong.

    There is a spot not far away
    Where my young sister sleeps,
    Who seems alive but yesterday,
    So fresh her memory keeps;
    For we have played in childhood there
    Beneath the hawthorn's bough,
    And bent our knee in childish prayer
    I cannot utter now!

    Of late so reckless and so wild,
    That spot recalls to me
    That I was once a laughing child,
    As innocent as she;
    And there, while August's wild flow'rs wave,
    I wandered all alone,
    Strewed blossoms on her little grave,
    And knelt beside the stone.

    I seem to have a load to bear,
    A heavy, choking grief;
    Could I have forced a single tear
    I might have felt relief.
    I think my hot and restless heart
    Has scorched the channels dry,
    From which those sighs of sorrow start
    To moisten cheek and eye.

    Sister, farewell! farewell once more
    To every youthful tie!
    Friends! parents! kinsmen! native shore!
    To each and all good-bye!
    And thoughts which for the moment seem
    To bind me with a spell,
    Ambitious hope! love's boyish dream!
    To you a last farewell!

"The Old Leaven"

    A Dialogue

    Mark:
    So, Maurice, you sail to-morrow, you say?
    And you may or may not return?
    Be sociable, man! for once in a way,
    Unless you're too old to learn.
    The shadows are cool by the water side
    Where the willows grow by the pond,
    And the yellow laburnum's drooping pride
    Sheds a golden gleam beyond.
    For the blended tints of the summer flowers,
    For the scents of the summer air,
    For all nature's charms in this world of ours,
    'Tis little or naught you care.
    Yet I know for certain you haven't stirred
    Since noon from your chosen spot;
    And you've hardly spoken a single word—
    Are you tired, or cross, or what?
    You're fretting about those shares you bought,
    They were to have gone up fast;
    But I heard how they fell to nothing—in short,
    They were given away at last.

    Maurice:
    No, Mark, I'm not so easily cross'd;
    'Tis true that I've had a run
    Of bad luck lately; indeed, I've lost;
    Well! somebody else has won.

    Mark:
    The glass has fallen, perhaps you fear
    A return of your ancient stitch—
    That souvenir of the Lady's Mere,
    Park palings and double ditch.

    Maurice:
    You're wrong. I'm not in the least afraid
    Of that. If the truth be told,
    When the stiffness visits my shoulder-blade,
    I think on the days of old;
    It recalls the rush of the freshening wind,
    The strain of the chestnut springing,
    And the rolling thunder of hoofs behind,
    Like the Rataplan chorus ringing.

    Mark:
    Are you bound to borrow, or loth to lend?
    Have you purchased another screw?
    Or backed a bill for another friend?
    Or had a bad night at loo?

    Maurice:
    Not one of those, you're all in the dark,
    If you choose you can guess again;
    But you'd better give over guessing, Mark,
    It's only labour in vain.

    Mark:
    I'll try once more; does it plague you still,
    That trifle of lead you carry?
    A guest that lingers against your will,
    Unwelcome, yet bound to tarry.

    Maurice:
    Not so! That burden I'm used to bear,
    'Tis seldom it gives me trouble;
    And to earn it as I did then and there,
    I'd carry a dead weight double.
    A shock like that for a splintered rib
    Can a thousand-fold repay—
    As the swallow skims through the spider's web,
    We rode through their ranks that day!

    Mark:
    Come, Maurice, you sha'n't escape me so!
    I'll hazard another guess:
    That girl that jilted you long ago,
    You're thinking of her, confess!

    Maurice:
    Tho' the blue lake flush'd with a rosy light,
    Reflected from yonder sky,
    Might conjure a vision of Aphrodite
    To a poet's or painter's eye;
    Tho' the golden drop, with its drooping curl,
    Between the water and wood,
    Hangs down like the tress of a wayward girl
    In her dreamy maidenhood:
    Such boyish fancies seem out of date
    To one half inclined to censure
    Their folly, and yet—your shaft flew straight,
    Though you drew your bow at a venture.
    I saw my lady the other night
    In the crowded opera hall,
    When the boxes sparkled with faces bright,
    I knew her amongst them all.
    Tho' little for these things now I reck,
    I singled her from the throng
    By the queenly curves of her head and neck,
    By the droop of her eyelash long.
    Oh! passionless, placid, and calm, and cold,
    Does the fire still lurk within
    That lit her magnificent eyes of old,
    And coloured her marble skin?
    For a weary look on the proud face hung,
    While the music clash'd and swell'd,
    And the restless child to the silk skirt clung
    Unnoticed tho' unrepelled.
    They've paled, those rosebud lips that I kist,
    That slim waist has thickened rather,
    And the cub has the sprawling mutton fist,
    And the great splay foot of the father.
    May the blight——

    Mark:        Hold hard there, Maurice, my son,
    Let her rest, since her spell is broken;
    We can neither recall deeds rashly done,
    Nor retract words hastily spoken.

    Maurice:
    Time was when to pleasure her girlish whim,
    In my blind infatuation,
    I've freely endangered life and limb;
    Aye, perilled my soul's salvation.

    Mark:
    With the best intentions we all must work
    But little good and much harm;
    Be a Christian for once, not a Pagan Turk,
    Nursing wrath and keeping it warm.

    Maurice:
    If our best intentions pave the way
    To a place that is somewhat hot,
    Can our worst intentions lead us, say,
    To a still more sultry spot?

    Mark:
    'Tis said that charity makes amends
    For a multitude of transgressions.

    Maurice:
    But our perjured loves and our faithless friends
    Are entitled to no concessions.

    Mark:
    Old man, these many years side by side
    Our parallel paths have lain;
    Now, in life's long journey, diverging wide,
    They can scarcely unite again;
    And tho', from all that I've seen and heard,
    You're prone to chafe and to fret
    At the least restraint, not one angry word
    Have we two exchanged as yet.
    We've shared our peril, we've shared our sport,
    Our sunshine and gloomy weather,
    Feasted and flirted, and fenced and fought,
    Struggled and toiled together;
    In happier moments lighter of heart,
    Stouter of heart in sorrow;
    We've met and we've parted, and now we part
    For ever, perchance, to-morrow.
    She's a matron now; when you knew her first
    She was but a child, and your hate,
    Fostered and cherished, nourished and nursed,
    Will it never evaporate?
    Your grievance is known to yourself alone,
    But, Maurice, I say, for shame,
    If in ten long years you haven't outgrown
    Ill-will to an ancient flame.

    Maurice:
    Well, Mark, you're right; if I spoke in spite,
    Let the shame and the blame be mine;
    At the risk of a headache we'll drain this night
    Her health in a flask of wine;
    For a castle in Spain, tho' it never was built;
    For a dream, tho' it never came true;
    For a cup, just tasted, tho' rudely spilt,
    At least she can hold me due.
    Those hours of pleasure she dealt of yore,
    As well as those hours of pain,
    I ween they would flit as they flitted before,
    If I had them over again.
    Against her no word from my lips shall pass,
    Betraying the grudge I've cherished,
    Till the sand runs down in my hour-glass,
    And the gift of my speech has perished.
    Say! why is the spirit of peace so weak,
    And the spirit of wrath so strong,
    That the right we must steadily search and seek,
    Tho' we readily find the wrong?

    Mark:
    Our parents of old entailed the curse
    Which must to our children cling;
    Let us hope, at least, that we're not much worse
    Than the founder from whom we spring.
    Fit sire was he of a selfish race,
    Who first to temptation yielded,
    Then to mend his case tried to heap disgrace
    On the woman he should have shielded.
    Say! comrade mine, the forbidden fruit
    We'd have plucked, that I well believe,
    But I trust we'd rather have suffered mute
    Than have laid the blame upon Eve.

    Maurice (yawning):
    Who knows? not I; I can hardly vouch
    For the truth of what little I see;
    And now, if you've any weed in your pouch,
    Just hand it over to me.

An Exile's Farewell

    The ocean heaves around us still
    With long and measured swell,
    The autumn gales our canvas fill,
    Our ship rides smooth and well.
    The broad Atlantic's bed of foam
    Still breaks against our prow;
    I shed no tears at quitting home,
    Nor will I shed them now!

    Against the bulwarks on the poop
    I lean, and watch the sun
    Behind the red horizon stoop—
    His race is nearly run.
    Those waves will never quench his light,
    O'er which they seem to close,
    To-morrow he will rise as bright
    As he this morning rose.

    How brightly gleams the orb of day
    Across the trackless sea!
    How lightly dance the waves that play
    Like dolphins in our lee!
    The restless waters seem to say,
    In smothered tones to me,
    How many thousand miles away
    My native land must be!

    Speak, Ocean! is my Home the same
    Now all is new to me?—
    The tropic sky's resplendent flame,
    The vast expanse of sea?
    Does all around her, yet unchanged,
    The well-known aspect wear?
    Oh! can the leagues that I have ranged
    Have made no difference there?

    How vivid Recollection's hand
    Recalls the scene once more!
    I see the same tall poplars stand
    Beside the garden door;
    I see the bird-cage hanging still;
    And where my sister set
    The flowers in the window-sill—
    Can they be living yet?

    Let woman's nature cherish grief,
    I rarely heave a sigh
    Before emotion takes relief
    In listless apathy;
    While from my pipe the vapours curl
    Towards the evening sky,
    And 'neath my feet the billows whirl
    In dull monotony!

    The sky still wears the crimson streak
    Of Sol's departing ray,
    Some briny drops are on my cheek,
    'Tis but the salt sea spray!
    Then let our barque the ocean roam,
    Our keel the billows plough;
    I shed no tears at quitting home,
    Nor will I shed them now!