Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon Part 25

A Basket of Flowers

from Dawn to Dusk

Dawn

On skies still and starlit White l.u.s.tres 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 gra.s.s-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 gra.s.s-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" rehea.r.s.es Love's blessings and curses In pa.s.sionate 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 gla.s.s, A hand that waves adieu, And from my sight they soon will pa.s.s, 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 s.h.i.+ne; Her red lips faltered in reply, And then were pressed to mine.