Adam Lindsay Gordon: Всі вірші поета

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A Dedication

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.

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

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!

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Rippling Water

The maiden sat by the river side

(The rippling water murmurs by),

And sadly into the clear blue tide

The salt tear fell from her clear blue eye.

"'Tis fixed for better, for worse," she cried,

"And to-morrow the bridegroom claims the bride.

Oh! wealth and power and rank and pride

Can surely peace and happiness buy.

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Pastor Cum

When he, that shepherd false, 'neath Phrygian sails,

Carried his hostess Helen o'er the seas,

In fitful slumber Nereus hush'd the gales,

That he might sing their future destinies.

A curse to your ancestral home you take

With her, whom Greece, with many a soldier bold

Shall seek again, in concert sworn to break

Your nuptial ties and Priam's kingdom old.

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

A Song Of Autumn

‘WHERE shall we go for our garlands glad

At the falling of the year,

When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad,

When the boughs are yellow and sere?

Where are the old ones that once we had,

And when are the new ones near?

What shall we do for our garlands glad

At the falling of the year?’

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

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.

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

A Hunting Song

Here's a health to every sportsman, be he stableman or lord,

If his heart be true, I care not what his pocket may afford;

And may he ever pleasantly each gallant sport pursue,

If he takes his liquor fairly, and his fences fairly, too.

He cares not for the bubbles of Fortune's fickle tide,

Who like Bendigo can battle, and like Olliver can ride.

He laughs at those who caution, at those who chide he'll frown,

As he clears a five-foot paling, or he knocks a peeler down.

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric

Dramatis Personae:

HUGO, a Norman Baron and a Scholar.

ERIC, a friend of Hugo's.

THURSTON,

EUSTACE,

RALPH, Followers of Hugo.

HENRY, a Page.

LUKE,

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

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!

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

To A Proud Beauty

"A Valentine"

Though I have loved you well, I ween,

And you, too, fancied me,

Your heart hath too divided been

A constant heart to be.

And like the gay and youthful knight,

Who loved and rode away,

Your fleeting fancy takes a flight

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

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 swayed,

All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride.

The dawn at "Moorabinda" was a mist rack dull and dense,

The sun-rise 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.

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

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?

by Adam Lindsay Gordon