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Thick-headed Thoughts: Part 1

I've something of the bull-dog in my breed,

The spaniel is developed somewhat less;

While life is in me I can fight and bleed,

But never the chastising hand caress.

You say the stroke was well intended. "True."

You mention "It was meant to do me good."

"That may be." "You deserve it." "Granted, too."

"Then take it kindly." "No — I never could."

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

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.

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

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 with 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

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Borrow'd Plumes

[A Preface and a Piracy]

Prologue

Of borrow'd plumes I take the sin,

My extracts will apply

To some few silly songs which in

These pages scatter'd lie.

The words are Edgar Allan Poe's,

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Ars 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;

Your dream, forsooth, of buoyant youth,

Most ready to deceive is;

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Quare 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, linking

With the waves subsiding and sinking,

And clots the coast herbage, shrinking,

With the hue of the white cere-cloth.

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

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,

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

The Three Friends

(From the French)

The sword slew one in deadly strife;

One perish'd by the bowl;

The third lies self-slain by the knife;

For three the bells may toll —

I loved her better than my life,

And better than my soul.

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Cui 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 neighbour

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;

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Whisperings in Wattle-Boughs

Oh, gaily sings the bird! and the wattle-boughs are stirr'd

And rustled by the scented breath of spring;

Oh, the dreary 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'd the brine,

On the gangway one mute hand-grip we exchang'd;

Do you, past the grave, employ, for your stubborn, reckless boy,

Those petitions that in life were ne'er estranged?

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Gone

IN Collins Street standeth a statute 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 friends, where we all must go.

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Delilah

[From 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

by Adam Lindsay Gordon