Chapter 5
Ex Fumo Dare Lucem ['Twixt the Cup and the Lip]
Prologue
Calm and clear! the bright day is declining, The crystal expanse of the 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".
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 rhymes-- '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."
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 like moths round a candle-- Stale similes, granted, what then? I've got a stale 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 witty, 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 off! 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, 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.
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.
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-skinn'd bay; And The Barb comes away unextended, Hard held, like a second Eclipse, While behind the hoof-thunder is blended With the whistling 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 Of a vicious cross-counter, right-handed, Or upper-cut whizzing from hip.
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 pondered and made my conclusions-- As the mill grinds the corn 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 founded on hope that is strong; 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 pick'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 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.
Weird pictures arise, quaint devices, Rude 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 us The meaning thereof--"Res discernit Sapiens, quas confundit 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.
Yet the 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
"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?"--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 Will was blaspheming and cursing.
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'd 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 we 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'd, Loudly his helm right in front of us rung; Iron hoofs thunder'd, and naked steel flash'd Over him--youngest, where many were young.
Now we were close to them, every horse striding Madly;--St. Luce pass'd with never a groan;-- Sadly my master look'd 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 chain, Swiftly he drew out some trinket or locket, Kiss'd 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'd, 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!
Over fallen riders, like wither'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 emerg'd from their throng.
Some of our saddles were emptied, of course; To heaven (or elsewhere) 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 track, 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.
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 soak'd,
And scarcely an inch of my housing was dry; I slacken'd my speed, yet I never quite stopp'd, Ere he patted my neck, said, "Old fellow, good-bye!" And dropp'd off me gently, and lay where he dropp'd!
Ah, me! after all, they may call us dumb creatures-- I tried hard to neigh, but the sobs took my breath, Yet I guess'd gazing down at those still, quiet features, He was never more happy in life than in death.
* * * * *
Two years back, at Aldershot, Elrington mentioned My name to our colonel one field-day. He said, "'Count', 'Steeltrap', and 'Challenger' ought to be pension'd;" "Count" died the same week, and now "Steeltrap" is dead.
That morning our colonel was riding "Theresa", The filly by "Teddington" out of "Mistake"; His girls, pretty Alice and fair-haired Louisa, 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 "Rory", And rushing "Roscommon", and eager "Kildare",
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 "Blacklock", and "Birdlime", and "Molly Carew"?--
All vanish'd, what wonder! twelve summers have pass'd 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.
* * * * *
Come, "Harlequin", keep your nose out of my manger, You'll get your allowance, my boy, and no more; Snort! "Silvertail", 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'd playfully round.
For that word kindly meant, that caress kindly given, I thank'd 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, upturn'd, tranquil, joyous, and fearless, Look'd straight from green sod to blue fathomless sky With a smile; but the living face, gloomy and tearless, And haggard and harass'd, look'd down with a sigh.
Did he think on the first time he kiss'd 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 Rupert, his first-born, 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 when the quick toil in strife!
* * * * *
Scoff, man! 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?
The wide gulf that parts us may yet be no wider Than that which parts you from some being more blest; And there may be more links 'twixt the horse and his rider Than ever your shallow philosophy guess'd.
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 Mecca, And nursed on the pride that was born with the milk, And filtered through "Crucifix", "Beeswing", "Rebecca", 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,
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 turn'd to a lightning 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 boar-spear, 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?
It may be,--we follow, and though we inherit Our strength for a season, our pride for a span, 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, WE enjoy, with thanksgiving, God's gifts on this earth, though we look not beyond.
YOU sin, and YOU suffer, 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 WHO KNOWETH MORE?
* * * * *
In our barrack-square shouted Drill-sergeant M'Cluskie, 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!"
[End of Sea Spray and Smoke Drift.]
BUSH BALLADS & GALLOPING RHYMES
A Dedication
to the Author of "Holmby House"
They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less Of sound than of words, In lands where bright blossoms are scentless, And songless bright birds; Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses, Insatiable Summer oppresses Sere woodlands and sad wildernesses, And faint flocks and herds.
Where in dreariest days, when all dews end, And all winds are warm, Wild Winter's large flood-gates are loosen'd, And floods, freed by storm, From broken up fountain heads, dash on Dry deserts with long pent up passion-- Here rhyme was first framed without fashion, Song shaped without form.
Whence gather'd?--The locust's glad chirrup May furnish a stave; The ring of a rowel and stirrup, The wash of a wave. The chaunt of the marsh frog in rushes, That chimes through the pauses and hushes Of nightfall, the torrent that gushes, The tempests that rave.
In the deep'ning of dawn, when it dapples The dusk of the sky, With streaks like the redd'ning of apples, The ripening of rye. To eastward, when cluster by cluster, Dim stars and dull planets that muster, Wax wan in a world of white lustre That spreads far and high.
In the gathering of night gloom o'erhead, in The still silent change, All fire-flushed when forest trees redden On slopes of the range. When the gnarl'd, knotted trunks Eucalyptian Seem carved, like weird columns Egyptian, With curious device--quaint inscription, And hieroglyph strange.
In the Spring, when the wattle gold trembles 'Twixt shadow and shine, When each dew-laden air draught resembles A long draught of wine; When the sky-line's blue burnish'd resistance Makes deeper the dreamiest distance, Some song in all hearts hath existence,-- Such songs have been mine.
They came in all guises, some vivid To clasp and to keep; Some sudden and swift as the livid Blue thunder-flame's leap. This swept through the first breath of clover With memories renew'd to the rover-- That flash'd while the black horse turn'd over Before the long sleep.
To you (having cunning to colour A page with your pen, That through dull days, and nights even duller, Long years ago ten, Fair pictures in fever afforded)-- I send these rude staves, roughly worded By one in whose brain stands recorded As clear now as then,
"The great rush of grey 'Northern water', The green ridge of bank, The 'sorrel' with curved sweep of quarter Curl'd close to clean flank, The Royalist saddlefast squarely, And where the bright uplands stretch fairly, Behind, beyond pistol-shot barely, The Roundheaded rank.
"A long launch, with clinging of muscles, And clenching of teeth! The loose doublet ripples and rustles! The swirl shoots beneath!" Enough. In return for your garland-- In lieu of the flowers from your far land-- Take wild growth of dreamland or starland, Take weeds for your wreath.
Yet rhyme had not fail'd me for reason, Nor reason for rhyme, Sweet Song! had I sought you in season, And found you in time. You beckon in your bright beauty yonder, And I, waxing fainter, yet fonder, Now weary too soon when I wander-- Now fall when I climb.
It matters but little in the long run, The weak have some right-- Some share in the race that the strong run, The fight the strong fight. If words that are worthless go westward, Yet the worst word shall be as the best word, In the day when all riot sweeps restward, In darkness or light.
The Sick Stockrider
Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade. Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I sway'd, All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride. The dawn at "Moorabinda" was a mist rack dull and dense, The sunrise was a sullen, sluggish lamp; I was dozing in the gateway at Arbuthnot's bound'ry fence, I was dreaming on the Limestone cattle camp. We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze, And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth; To southward lay "Katawa", with the sandpeaks all ablaze, And the flush'd fields of Glen Lomond lay to north. Now westward winds the bridle path that leads to Lindisfarm, And yonder looms the double-headed Bluff; From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm, You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough. Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch; 'Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase Eight years ago--or was it nine?--last March.
'Twas merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming grass, To wander as we've wandered many a mile, And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass, 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 fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs; Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard!
Aye! 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 beside 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!
We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the grey, And the troopers were three hundred yards behind, While we emptied our six-shooters on the bushrangers at bay, In the creek with stunted box-tree for a blind! There you grappled with the leader, man to man and horse to horse, And you roll'd together when the chestnut rear'd; He blazed away and missed you in that shallow watercourse-- A narrow shave--his powder singed your beard!
In these hours when life is ebbing, how those days when life was young Come back to us; how clearly I recall Even the yarns Jack Hall invented, and the songs Jem Roper sung; And where are now Jem Roper and Jack Hall?
Aye! nearly all our comrades of the old colonial school, Our ancient boon companions, Ned, are gone; Hard livers for the most part, somewhat reckless as a rule, It seems that you and I are left alone.
There was Hughes, who got in trouble through that business with the cards, It matters little what became of him; But a steer ripp'd up MacPherson in the Cooraminta yards, And Sullivan was drown'd at Sink-or-swim; And Mostyn--poor Frank Mostyn--died at last a fearful wreck, In "the horrors", at the Upper Wandinong, And Carisbrooke, the rider, at the Horsefall broke his neck, Faith! the wonder was he saved his neck so long!
Ah! those days and nights we squandered at the Logans' in the glen-- The Logans, man and wife, have long been dead. Elsie's tallest girl seems taller than your little Elsie then; And Ethel is a woman grown and wed.
I've had my share of pastime, and I've done my share of toil, And life is short--the longest life a span; I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil, Or for the wine that maketh glad the heart of man. For good undone and gifts misspent and resolutions vain, 'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know-- I should live the same life over, if I had to live again; And the chances are I go where most men go.
The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim, The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall; And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim, And on the very sun's face weave their pall. Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave, With never stone or rail to fence my bed; Should the sturdy station children pull the bush flowers on my grave, I may chance to hear them romping overhead.
The Swimmer
With short, sharp, violent lights made vivid, To southward far as the sight can roam, Only the swirl of the surges livid, The seas that climb and the surfs that comb. Only the crag and the cliff to nor'ward, And the rocks receding, and reefs flung forward, And waifs wreck'd seaward and wasted shoreward On shallows sheeted with flaming foam.
A grim, grey coast and a seaboard ghastly, And shores trod seldom by feet of men-- Where the batter'd hull and the broken mast lie, They have lain embedded these long years ten. Love! when we wander'd here together, Hand in hand through the sparkling weather, From the heights and hollows of fern and heather, God surely loved us a little then.
The skies were fairer and shores were firmer-- The blue sea over the bright sand roll'd; Babble and prattle, and ripple and murmur, Sheen of silver and glamour of gold-- And the sunset bath'd in the gulf to lend her A garland of pinks and of purples tender, A tinge of the sun-god's rosy splendour, A tithe of his glories manifold.
Man's works are graven, cunning, and skilful On earth, where his tabernacles are; But the sea is wanton, the sea is wilful, And who shall mend her and who shall mar? Shall we carve success or record disaster On the bosom of her heaving alabaster? Will her purple pulse beat fainter or faster For fallen sparrow or fallen star?
I would that with sleepy, soft embraces The sea would fold me--would find me rest, In luminous shades of her secret places, In depths where her marvels are manifest; So the earth beneath her should not discover My hidden couch--nor the heaven above her-- As a strong love shielding a weary lover, I would have her shield me with shining breast.
When light in the realms of space lay hidden, When life was yet in the womb of time, Ere flesh was fettered to fruits forbidden, And souls were wedded to care and crime, Was the course foreshaped for the future spirit-- A burden of folly, a void of merit-- That would fain the wisdom of stars inherit, And cannot fathom the seas sublime?
Under the sea or the soil (what matter? The sea and the soil are under the sun), As in the former days in the latter, The sleeping or waking is known of none. Surely the sleeper shall not awaken To griefs forgotten or joys forsaken, For the price of all things given and taken, The sum of all things done and undone.
Shall we count offences or coin excuses, Or weigh with scales the soul of a man, Whom a strong hand binds and a sure hand looses, Whose light is a spark and his life a span? The seed he sow'd or the soil he cumber'd, The time he served or the space he slumber'd, Will it profit a man when his days are number'd, Or his deeds since the days of his life began?
One, glad because of the light, saith, "Shall not The righteous Judge of all the earth do right, For behold the sparrows on the house-tops fall not Save as seemeth to Him good in His sight?" And this man's joy shall have no abiding, Through lights departing and lives dividing, He is soon as one in the darkness hiding, One loving darkness rather than light.
A little season of love and laughter, Of light and life, and pleasure and pain, And a horror of outer darkness after, And dust returneth to dust again. Then the lesser life shall be as the greater, And the lover of life shall join the hater, And the one thing cometh sooner or later, And no one knoweth the loss or gain.
Love of my life! we had lights in season-- Hard to part from, harder to keep-- We had strength to labour and souls to reason, And seed to scatter and fruits to reap. Though time estranges and fate disperses, We have HAD our loves and our loving mercies; Though the gifts of the light in the end are curses, Yet bides the gift of the darkness--sleep!
See! girt with tempest and wing'd with thunder, And clad with lightning and shod with sleet, The strong winds treading the swift waves sunder The flying rollers with frothy feet. One gleam like a bloodshot sword-blade swims on The sky-line, staining the green gulf crimson, A death stroke fiercely dealt by a dim sun, That strikes through his stormy winding-sheet.
Oh! brave white horses! you gather and gallop, The storm sprite loosens the gusty reins; Now the stoutest ship were the frailest shallop In your hollow backs, or your high arch'd manes. I would ride as never a man has ridden In your sleepy, swirling surges hidden, To gulfs foreshadow'd through straits forbidden, Where no light wearies and no love wanes.
From the Wreck
"Turn out, boys!"--"What's up with our super. to-night? The man's mad--Two hours to daybreak I'd swear-- Stark mad--why, there isn't a glimmer of light." "Take Bolingbroke, Alec, give Jack the young mare; Look sharp. A large vessel lies jamm'd on the reef, And many on board still, and some wash'd on shore. Ride straight with the news--they may send some relief From the township; and we--we can do little more. You, Alec, you know the near cuts; you can cross 'The Sugarloaf' ford with a scramble, I think; Don't spare the blood filly, nor yet the black horse; Should the wind rise, God help them! the ship will soon sink. Old Peter's away down the paddock, to drive The nags to the stockyard as fast as he can-- A life and death matter; so, lads, look alive." Half-dress'd, in the dark, to the stockyard we ran.
There was bridling with hurry, and saddling with haste, Confusion and cursing for lack of a moon; "Be quick with these buckles, we've no time to waste;" "Mind the mare, she can use her hind legs to some tune." "Make sure of the crossing-place; strike the old track, They've fenced off the new one; look out for the holes On the wombat hills." "Down with the slip rails; stand back." "And ride, boys, the pair of you, ride for your souls."
In the low branches heavily laden with dew, In the long grasses spoiling with deadwood that day, Where the blackwood, the box, and the bastard oak grew, Between the tall gum-trees we gallop'd away-- We crash'd through a brush fence, we splash'd through a swamp-- We steered for the north near "The Eaglehawk's Nest"-- We bore to the left, just beyond "The Red Camp", And round the black tea-tree belt wheel'd to the west-- We cross'd a low range sickly scented with musk From wattle-tree blossom--we skirted a marsh-- Then the dawn faintly dappled with orange the dusk, And peal'd overhead the jay's laughter note harsh, And shot the first sunstreak behind us, and soon The dim dewy uplands were dreamy with light; And full on our left flash'd "The Reedy Lagoon", And sharply "The Sugarloaf" rear'd on our right. A smothered curse broke through the bushman's brown beard, He turn'd in his saddle, his brick-colour'd cheek Flush'd feebly with sundawn, said, "Just what I fear'd; Last fortnight's late rainfall has flooded the creek."
Black Bolingbroke snorted, and stood on the brink One instant, then deep in the dark sluggish swirl Plunged headlong. I saw the horse suddenly sink, Till round the man's armpits the waves seemed to curl. We follow'd,--one cold shock, and deeper we sank Than they did, and twice tried the landing in vain; The third struggle won it; straight up the steep bank We stagger'd, then out on the skirts of the plain.
The stockrider, Alec, at starting had got The lead, and had kept it throughout; 'twas his boast That through thickest of scrub he could steer like a shot, And the black horse was counted the best on the coast. The mare had been awkward enough in the dark, She was eager and headstrong, and barely half broke; She had had me too close to a big stringy-bark, And had made a near thing of a crooked sheoak; But now on the open, lit up by the morn, She flung the white foam-flakes from nostril to neck, And chased him--I hatless, with shirt sleeves all torn (For he may ride ragged who rides from a wreck)-- And faster and faster across the wide heath We rode till we raced. Then I gave her her head, And she--stretching out with the bit in her teeth-- She caught him, outpaced him, and passed him, and led.
We neared the new fence, we were wide of the track; I look'd right and left--she had never been tried At a stiff leap; 'twas little he cared on the black. "You're more than a mile from the gateway," he cried. I hung to her head, touched her flank with the spurs (In the red streak of rail not the ghost of a gap); She shortened her long stroke, she pricked her sharp ears, She flung it behind her with hardly a rap-- I saw the post quiver where Bolingbroke struck, And guessed that the pace we had come the last mile Had blown him a bit (he could jump like a buck). We galloped more steadily then for a while.
The heath was soon pass'd, in the dim distance lay The mountain. The sun was just clearing the tips Of the ranges to eastward. The mare--could she stay? She was bred very nearly as clean as Eclipse; She led, and as oft as he came to her side, She took the bit free and untiring as yet; Her neck was arched double, her nostrils were wide, And the tips of her tapering ears nearly met-- "You're lighter than I am," said Alec at last; "The horse is dead beat and the mare isn't blown. She must be a good one--ride on and ride fast, You know your way now." So I rode on alone.
Still galloping forward we pass'd the two flocks At M'Intyre's hut and M'Allister's hill-- She was galloping strong at the Warrigal Rocks-- On the Wallaby Range she was galloping still-- And over the wasteland and under the wood, By down and by dale, and by fell and by flat, She gallop'd, and here in the stirrups I stood To ease her, and there in the saddle I sat To steer her. We suddenly struck the red loam Of the track near the troughs--then she reeled on the rise-- From her crest to her croup covered over with foam, And blood-red her nostrils, and bloodshot her eyes, A dip in the dell where the wattle fire bloomed-- A bend round a bank that had shut out the view-- Large framed in the mild light the mountain had loomed, With a tall, purple peak bursting out from the blue.
I pull'd her together, I press'd her, and she Shot down the decline to the Company's yard, And on by the paddocks, yet under my knee I could feel her heart thumping the saddle-flaps hard. Yet a mile and another, and now we were near The goal, and the fields and the farms flitted past; And 'twixt the two fences I turned with a cheer, For a green grass-fed mare 'twas a far thing and fast; And labourers, roused by her galloping hoofs, Saw bare-headed rider and foam-sheeted steed; And shone the white walls and the slate-coloured roofs Of the township. I steadied her then--I had need-- Where stood the old chapel (where stands the new church-- Since chapels to churches have changed in that town). A short, sidelong stagger, a long, forward lurch, A slight, choking sob, and the mare had gone down. I slipp'd off the bridle, I slacken'd the girth, I ran on and left her and told them my news; I saw her soon afterwards. What was she worth? How much for her hide? She had never worn shoes.
No Name
"A stone upon her heart and head, But no name written on that stone; Sweet neighbours whisper low instead, This sinner was a loving one."--Mrs. Browning.
'Tis a nameless stone that stands at your head-- The gusts in the gloomy gorges whirl Brown leaves and red till they cover your bed-- Now I trust that your sleep is a sound one, girl!
I said in my wrath, when his shadow cross'd From your garden gate to your cottage door, "What does it matter for one soul lost? Millions of souls have been lost before."
Yet I warn'd you--ah! but my words came true-- "Perhaps some day you will find him out." He who was not worthy to loosen your shoe, Does his conscience therefore prick him? I doubt.
You laughed and were deaf to my warning voice-- Blush'd and were blind to his cloven hoof-- You have had your chance, you have taken your choice How could I help you, standing aloof?
He has prosper'd well with the world--he says I am mad--if so, and if he be sane, I, at least, give God thanksgiving and praise That there lies between us one difference plain.
* * * * *
You in your beauty above me bent In the pause of a wild west country ball-- Spoke to me--touched me without intent-- Made me your servant for once and all.
Light laughter rippled your rose-red lip, And you swept my cheek with a shining curl, That stray'd from your shoulder's snowy tip-- Now I pray that your sleep is a sound one, girl!
From a long way off to look at your charms Made my blood run redder in every vein, And he--he has held you long in his arms, And has kiss'd you over and over again.
Is it well that he keeps well out of my way? If we met, he and I--we alone--we two-- Would I give him one moment's grace to pray? Not I, for the sake of the soul he slew.
A life like a shuttlecock may be toss'd With the hand of fate for a battledore; But it matters much for your sweet soul lost, As much as a million souls and more.
And I know that if, here or there, alone, I found him, fairly and face to face, Having slain his body, I would slay my own, That my soul to Satan his soul might chase.
He hardens his heart in the public way-- Who am I? I am but a nameless churl; But God will put all things straight some day-- Till then may your sleep be a sound one, girl!
Wolf and Hound
"The hills like giants at a hunting lay Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay."--Browning.
You'll take my tale with a little salt, But it needs none, nevertheless, I was foil'd completely, fairly at fault, Dishearten'd, too, I confess. At the splitters' tent I had seen the track Of horse-hoofs fresh on the sward, And though Darby Lynch and Donovan Jack (Who could swear through a ten-inch board) Solemnly swore he had not been there, I was just as sure that they lied, For to Darby all that is foul was fair, And Jack for his life was tried.
We had run him for seven miles and more As hard as our nags could split; At the start they were all too weary and sore, And his was quite fresh and fit. Young Marsden's pony had had enough On the plain, where the chase was hot; We breasted the swell of the Bittern's Bluff, And Mark couldn't raise a trot; When the sea, like a splendid silver shield, To the south-west suddenly lay; On the brow of the Beetle the chestnut reel'd, And I bid good-bye to M'Crea-- And I was alone when the mare fell lame, With a pointed flint in her shoe, On the Stony Flats: I had lost the game, And what was a man to do?
I turned away with no fixed intent And headed for Hawthorndell; I could neither eat in the splitters' tent, Nor drink at the splitters' well; I knew that they gloried in my mishap, And I cursed them between my teeth-- A blood-red sunset through Brayton's Gap Flung a lurid fire on the heath.
Could I reach the Dell? I had little reck, And with scarce a choice of my own I threw the reins on Miladi's neck-- I had freed her foot from the stone. That season most of the swamps were dry, And after so hard a burst, In the sultry noon of so hot a sky, She was keen to appease her thirst-- Or by instinct urged or impelled by fate-- I care not to solve these things-- Certain it is that she took me straight To the Warrigal water springs.
I can shut my eyes and recall the ground As though it were yesterday-- With a shelf of the low, grey rocks girt round, The springs in their basin lay; Woods to the east and wolds to the north In the sundown sullenly bloom'd; Dead black on a curtain of crimson cloth Large peaks to the westward loomed. I led Miladi through weed and sedge, She leisurely drank her fill; There was something close to the water's edge, And my heart with one leap stood still,
For a horse's shoe and a rider's boot Had left clean prints on the clay; Someone had watered his beast on foot. 'Twas he--he had gone. Which way? Then the mouth of the cavern faced me fair, As I turned and fronted the rocks; So, at last, I had pressed the wolf to his lair, I had run to his earth the fox.
I thought so. Perhaps he was resting. Perhaps He was waiting, watching for me. I examined all my revolver caps, I hitched my mare to a tree-- I had sworn to have him, alive or dead, And to give him a chance was loth. He knew his life had been forfeited-- He had even heard of my oath. In my stocking soles to the shelf I crept, I crawl'd safe into the cave-- All silent--if he was there he slept Not there. All dark as the grave.
Through the crack I could hear the leaden hiss! See the livid face through the flame! How strange it seems that a man should miss When his life depends on his aim! There couldn't have been a better light For him, nor a worse for me. We were coop'd up, caged like beasts for a fight, And dumb as dumb beasts were we.
Flash! flash! bang! bang! and we blazed away, And the grey roof reddened and rang; Flash! flash! and I felt his bullet flay The tip of my ear. Flash! bang! Bang! flash! and my pistol arm fell broke; I struck with my left hand then-- Struck at a corpse through a cloud of smoke-- I had shot him dead in his den!
De Te
A burning glass of burnished brass, The calm sea caught the noontide rays, And sunny slopes of golden grass And wastes of weed-flower seem to blaze. Beyond the shining silver-greys, Beyond the shades of denser bloom, The sky-line girt with glowing haze The farthest, faintest forest gloom, And the everlasting hills that loom.
We heard the hound beneath the mound, We scared the swamp hawk hovering nigh-- We had not sought for that we found-- He lay as dead men only lie, With wan cheek whitening in the sky, Through the wild heath flowers, white and red, The dumb brute that had seen him die, Close crouching, howl'd beside the head, Brute burial service o'er the dead.
The brow was rife with seams of strife-- A lawless death made doubly plain The ravage of a reckless life; The havoc of a hurricane Of passions through that breadth of brain, Like headlong horses that had run Riot, regardless of the rein-- "Madman, he might have lived and done Better than most men," whispered one.
The beams and blots that Heaven allots To every life with life begin. Fool! would you change the leopard's spots, Or blanch the Ethiopian's skin? What more could he have hoped to win, What better things have thought to gain, So shapen--so conceived in sin? No life is wholly void and vain, Just and unjust share sun and rain.
Were new life sent, and life misspent, Wiped out (if such to God seemed good), Would he (being as he was) repent, Or could he, even if he would, Who heeded not things understood (Though dimly) even in savage lands By some who worship stone or wood, Or bird or beast, or who stretch hands Sunward on shining Eastern sands?
And crime has cause. Nay, never pause Idly to feel a pulseless wrist; Brace up the massive, square-shaped jaws, Unclench the stubborn, stiff'ning fist, And close those eyes through film and mist That kept the old defiant glare; And answer, wise Psychologist, Whose science claims some little share Of truth, what better things lay there?
Aye! thought and mind were there,--some kind Of faculty that men mistake For talent when their wits are blind,-- An aptitude to mar and break What others diligently make. This was the worst and best of him-- Wise with the cunning of the snake, Brave with the she wolf's courage grim, Dying hard and dumb, torn limb from limb.
And you, Brown, you're a doctor; cure You can't, but you can kill, and he-- "WITNESS HIS MARK"--he signed last year, And now he signs John Smith, J.P. We'll hold our inquest NOW, we three; I'll be your coroner for once; I think old Oswald ought to be Our foreman--Jones is such a dunce,-- There's more brain in the bloodhound's sconce.
No man may shirk the allotted work, The deed to do, the death to die; At least I think so,--neither Turk, Nor Jew, nor infidel am I,-- And yet I wonder when I try To solve one question, may or must, And shall I solve it by-and-by, Beyond the dark, beneath the dust? I trust so, and I only trust.
Aye, what they will, such trifles kill. Comrade, for one good deed of yours, Your history shall not help to fill The mouths of many brainless boors. It may be death absolves or cures The sin of life. 'Twere hazardous To assert so. If the sin endures, Say only, "God, who has judged him thus, Be merciful to him and us."
How we Beat the Favourite
A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup
"Aye, squire," said Stevens, "they back him at evens; The race is all over, bar shouting, they say; The Clown ought to beat her; Dick Neville is sweeter Than ever--he swears he can win all the way.
"A gentleman rider--well, I'm an outsider, But if he's a gent who the mischief's a jock? You swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for the plunder, He rides, too, like thunder--he sits like a rock.
"He calls 'hunted fairly' a horse that has barely Been stripp'd for a trot within sight of the hounds, A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and Yorick, And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds.
"They say we have no test to warrant a protest; Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward; The light of their faces they show him--his case is Prejudged and his verdict already secured.
"But none can outlast her, and few travel faster, She strides in her work clean away from The Drag; You hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter, Whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag.
"And p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though they back it, May fall, or there's no knowing what may turn up; The mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady, Keep cool; and I think you may just win the Cup."
Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle, Stood Iseult, arching her neck to the curb, A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry, A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb.
Some parting injunction, bestowed with great unction, I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce, When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White Surrey, Came down in a hurry to start us at once.
"Keep back in the yellow! Come up on Othello! Hold hard on the chestnut! Turn round on The Drag! Keep back there on Spartan! Back you, sir, in tartan! So, steady there, easy!" and down went the flag.
We started, and Kerr made strong running on Mermaid, Through furrows that led to the first stake-and-bound, The crack, half extended, look'd bloodlike and splendid, Held wide on the right where the headland was sound.
I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle, Before her two-thirds of the field got away, All through the wet pasture where floods of the last year Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with clay.
The fourth fence, a wattle, floor'd Monk and Bluebottle; The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn and ditch, The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover, The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire Witch.
She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock Sparrow, And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone wall; And Giles on The Greyling came down at the paling, And I was left sailing in front of them all.
I took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed her Until the Black Bullfinch led into the plough, And through the strong bramble we bored with a scramble-- My cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree bough.
Where furrows looked lighter I drew the rein tighter-- Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of white foam, Her flanks mud-bespattered, a weak rail she shattered-- We landed on turf with our heads turn'd for home.
Then crash'd a low binder, and then close behind her The sward to the strokes of the favourite shook; His rush roused her mettle, yet ever so little She shortened her stride as we raced at the brook.
She rose when I hit her. I saw the stream glitter, A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee, Between sky and water The Clown came and caught her, The space that he cleared was a caution to see.
And forcing the running, discarding all cunning, A length to the front went the rider in green; A long strip of stubble, and then the big double, Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset between.
She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her, I found my hands give to her strain on the bit; She rose when The Clown did--our silks as we bounded Brush'd lightly, our stirrups clash'd loud as we lit.
A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone coping-- The last--we diverged round the base of the hill; His path was the nearer, his leap was the clearer, I flogg'd up the straight, and he led sitting still.
She came to his quarter, and on still I brought her, And up to his girth, to his breastplate she drew; A short prayer from Neville just reach'd me, "The devil!" He mutter'd--lock'd level the hurdles we flew.
A hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd careering, All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely heard; "The green wins!" "The crimson!" The multitude swims on, And figures are blended and features are blurr'd.
"The horse is her master!" "The green forges past her!" "The Clown will outlast her!" "The Clown wins!" "The Clown!" The white railing races with all the white faces, The chestnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.
On still past the gateway she strains in the straightway, Still struggles, "The Clown by a short neck at most," He swerves, the green scourges, the stand rocks and surges, And flashes, and verges, and flits the white post.
Aye! so ends the tussle,--I knew the tan muzzle Was first, though the ring-men were yelling "Dead heat!" A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said, "The mare by A short head." And that's how the favourite was beat.
Fragmentary Scenes from the Road to Avernus
An Unpublished Dramatic Lyric