Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 19

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An Unpublished Dramatic Lyric

Scene I "Discontent"

LAURENCE RABY.

Laurence: I said to young Allan M'Ilveray, Beside the swift swirls of the North, When, in lilac shot through with a silver ray, We haul'd the strong salmon fish forth-- Said only, "He gave us some trouble To land him, and what does he weigh?

Our friend has caught one that weighs double, The game for the candle won't pay Us to-day, We may tie up our rods and away."

I said to old Norman M'Gregor, Three leagues to the west of Glen Dhu-- I had drawn, with a touch of the trigger, The best BEAD that ever I drew-- Said merely, "For birds in the stubble I once had an eye--I could swear He's down--but he's not worth the trouble Of seeking. You once shot a bear In his lair-- 'Tis only a buck that lies there."

I said to Lord Charles only last year, The time that we topp'd the oak rail Between Wharton's plough and Whynne's pasture, And clear'd the big brook in Blakesvale-- We only--at Warburton's double He fell, then I finish'd the run And kill'd clean--said, "So bursts a bubble That shone half an hour in the sun-- What is won?

Your sire clear'd and captured a gun."

I said to myself, in true sorrow, I said yestere'en, "A fair prize Is won, and it may be to-morrow 'Twill not seem so fair in thine eyes-- Real life is a race through sore trouble, That gains not an inch on the goal, And bliss an intangible bubble That cheats an unsatisfied soul, And the whole Of the rest an illegible scroll."

Scene VII "Two Exhortations"

A Shooting-box in the West of Ireland. A Bedchamber.

LAURENCE RABY and MELCHIOR. Night.

Melchior: Surely in the great beginning G.o.d made all things good, and still That soul-sickness men call sinning entered not without His will.

Nay, our wisest have a.s.serted that, as shade enhances light, Evil is but good perverted, wrong is but the foil of right.

Banish sickness, then you banish joy for health to all that live; Slay all sin, all good must vanish, good being but comparative.

Sophistry, you say--yet listen: look you skyward, there 'tis known Worlds on worlds in myriads glisten--larger, lovelier than our own-- This has been, and this still shall be, here as there, in sun or star; These things are to be and will be, those things were to be and are.

Man in man's imperfect nature is by imperfection taught: Add one cubit to your stature if you can by taking thought.

Laurence: Thus you would not teach that peasant, though he calls you "father".

Melchior: True, I should magnify this present, mystify that future, too-- We adapt our conversation always to our hearer's light.

Laurence: I am not of your persuasion.

Melchior: Yet the difference is but slight.

Laurence: I, EVEN I, say, "He who barters worldly weal for heavenly worth He does well"--your saints and martyrs were examples here on earth.

Melchior: Aye, in earlier Christian ages, while the heathen empire stood, When the war 'twixt saints and sages cried aloud for saintly blood, Christ was then their model truly. Now, if all were meek and pure, Save the unG.o.dly and the unruly, would the Christian Church endure?

Shall the toiler or the fighter dream by day and watch by night, Turn the left cheek to the smiter, smitten rudely on the right?

Strong men must encounter bad men--so-called saints of latter days Have been mostly pious madmen, l.u.s.ting after righteous praise-- Or the thralls of superst.i.tion, doubtless worthy some reward, Since they came by their condition hardly of their free accord.

'Tis but madness, sad and solemn, that these fakir-Christians feel-- Saint Stylites on his column gratified a morbid zeal.

Laurence: By your showing, good is really on a par (of worth) with ill.

Melchior: Nay, I said not so; I merely tell you both some ends fulfil-- Priestly vows were my vocation, fast and vigil wait for me.

You must work and face temptation. Never should the strong man flee, Though G.o.d wills the inclination with the soul at war to be. (Pauses.) In the strife 'twixt flesh and spirit, while you can the spirit aid.

Should you fall not less your merit, be not for a fall afraid.

Whatsoe'er most right, most fit is you shall do. When all is done Chaunt the n.o.ble Nunc Dimittis--Benedicimur, my son.

[Exit MELCHIOR.]

Laurence (alone): Why do I provoke these wrangles? Melchior talks (as well he may) With the tongues of men and angels.

(Takes up a pamphlet.) What has this man got to say?

(Reads.) Sic sacerdos fatur (ejus nomen quondam erat Burgo.) Mala mens est, caro pejus, anima infirma, ergo I nunc, ora, sine mora--orat etiam Sancta Virgo.

(Thinks.) (Speaks.) So it seems they mean to make her wed the usurer, Nathan Lee.

Poor Estelle! her friends forsake her; what has this to do with me?

Glad I am, at least, that Helen still refuses to discard Her, through tales false gossips tell in spite or heedlessness.--'Tis hard!-- Lee, the Levite!--some few years back Herbert horsewhipp'd him--the cur Show'd his teeth and laid his ears back. Now his wealth has purchased her.

Must his baseness mar her brightness? Shall the callous, cunning churl Revel in the rosy whiteness of that golden-headed girl?

(Thinks and smokes.) (Reads.) Cito certe venit vitae finis (sic sacerdos fatur), Nunc audite omnes, ite, vobis fabula narratur Nunc orate et laudate, laudat etiam Alma Mater.

(Muses.) Such has been, and such shall still be, here as there, in sun or star; These things are to be and will be, those things were to be and are.

If I thought that speech worth heeding I should--Nay, it seems to me More like Satan's special pleading than like Gloria Domine.

(Lies down on his couch.) (Reads.) Et tuquoque frater meus facta mala quod fecisti Denique confundit Deus omnes res quas tetegisti.

Nunc si unquam, nunc aut nunquam, sanguine adjuro Christi.

Scene IX "In the Garden"

Aylmer's Garden, near the Lake. LAURENCE RABY and ESTELLE.

He: Come to the bank where the boat is moor'd to the willow-tree low; Bertha, the baby, won't notice, Brian, the blockhead, won't know.

She: Bertha is not such a baby, sir, as you seem to suppose; Brian, a blockhead he may be, more than you think for he knows.

He: This much, at least, of your brother, from the beginning he knew Somewhat concerning that other made such a fool of by you.

She: Firmer those bonds were and faster, Frank was my spaniel, my slave.

You! you would fain be my master; mark you! the difference is grave.

He: Call me your spaniel, your starling, take me and treat me as these, I would be anything, darling! aye, whatsoever you please.