Oh! wind that whistles o'er thorns and thistles,Of this fruitful earth like a goblin elf;Why should he labour to help his neighbourWho feels too reckless to help himself?The wail of the breeze in the bending treesIs something between a laugh and a groan;And the hollow roar of the surf on the shoreIs a dull, discordant monotone;I wish I could guess what sense they express,There's a meaning, doubtless, in every sound,Yet no one can tell, and it may be as well—Whom would it profit?—The world goes round!On this earth so rough we know quite enough,And, I sometimes fancy, a little too much;The sage may be wiser than clown or than kaiser,Is he more to be envied for being such?Neither more nor less, in his idlenessThe sage is doom'd to vexation sure;The kaiser may rule, but the slippery stool,That he calls his throne, is no sinecure;And as for the clown, you may give him a crown,Maybe he'll thank you, and maybe not,And before you can wink he may spend it in drink—To whom does it profit?—We ripe and rot!Yet under the sun much work is doneBy clown and kaiser, by serf and sage;All sow and some reap, and few gather the heapOf the garner'd grain of a by-gone age.By sea or by soil man is bound to toil,And the dreamer, waiting for time and tide,For awhile may shirk his share of the work,But he grows with his dream dissatisfied;He may climb to the edge of the beetling ledge,Where the loose crag topples and well-nigh reels'Neath the lashing gale, but the tonic will fail—What does it profit?—Wheels within wheels!Aye! work we must, or with idlers rust,And eat we must our bodies to nurse;Some folk grow fatter—what does it matter?I'm blest if I do—quite the reverse;'Tis a weary round to which we are bound,The same thing over and over again;Much toil and trouble, and a glittering bubble,That rises and bursts, is the best we gain;And we murmur, and yet 'tis certain we getWhat good we deserve—can we hope for more?—They are roaring, those waves, in their echoing caves—To whom do they profit?—Let them roar!
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 angerThat throbs far and near in the breastOf man, by thy presence possess'd.With the brow of a fallen archangel,The lips of a beautiful fiend,And locks that are snake-like to strangle,And eyes from whose depths may be glean'dThe presence of passions, that trembleUnbidden, yet shine as they mayThrough features too proud to dissemble,Too cold and too calm to betrayTheir secrets to creatures of clay.Thy breath stirreth faction and party,Men rise, and no voice can availTo stay them—rose-tinted AstarteHerself at thy presence turns pale.For deeper and richer the crimsonThat gathers behind thee throws forthA halo thy raiment and limbs on,And leaves a red track in the pathThat flows from thy wine-press of wrath.For behind thee red rivulets trickle,Men fall by thy hands swift and lithe,As corn falleth down to the sickle,As grass falleth down to the scythe,Thine arm, strong and cruel, and shapely,Lifts high the sharp, pitiless lance,And rapine and ruin and rape lieAround thee. The Furies advance,And Ares awakes from his trance.We, too, with our bodies thus weakly,With hearts hard and dangerous, thusWe owe thee—the saints suffered meeklyTheir wrongs—it is not so with us.Some share of thy strength thou hast givenTo mortals refusing in vainThine aid. We have suffered and strivenTill we have grown reckless of pain,Though feeble of heart and of brain.Fair spirit, alluring if wicked,False deity, terribly real,Our senses are trapp'd, our souls trickedBy thee and thy hollow ideal.The soldier who falls in his harness,And strikes his last stroke with slack hand,On his dead face thy wrath and thy scorn isImprinted. Oh! seeks he a landWhere he shall escape thy command?When the blood of thy victims lies red onThat stricken field, fiercest and last,In the sunset that gilds ArmageddonWith battle-drift still overcast—When the smoke of thy hot conflagrationsO'ershadows the earth as with wings,Where nations have fought against nations,And kings have encounter'd with kings,When cometh the end of all things—Then those who have patiently waited,And borne, unresisting, the painOf thy vengeance unglutted, unsated,Shall they be rewarded again?Then those who, enticed by thy laurels,Or urged by thy promptings unblest,Have striven and stricken in quarrels,Shall they, too, find pardon and rest?We know not, yet hope for the best.
White steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roarOn the bar of ironstone steep, not a fathom's length from the shore,Is there never a seer nor sophist can interpret your wild refrain,When speech the harshest and roughest is seldom studied in vain?My ears are constantly smitten by that dreary monotone,In a hieroglyphic 'tis written—'tis spoken in a tongue unknown;Gathering, growing, and swelling, and surging, and shivering, say!What is the tale you are telling? What is the drift of your lay?You come, and your crests are hoary with the foam of your countlessyears;You break, with a rainbow of glory,through the spray of your glittering tears.Is your song a song of gladness? a paean of joyous might?Or a wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs you never can right?For the empty seat by the ingle? for children 'reft of their sire?For the bride sitting sad, and single, and pale, by the flickering fire?For your ravenous pools of suction? for your shattering billow swell?For your ceaseless work of destruction? for your hunger insatiable?Not far from this very place, on the sand and the shingle dry,He lay, with his batter'd face upturned to the frowning sky.When your waters wash'd and swill'd high over his drowning head,When his nostrils and lungs were filled,when his feet and hands were as lead,When against the rock he was hurl'd, and suck'd again to the sea,On the shores of another world, on the brink of eternity,On the verge of annihilation, did it come to that swimmer strong,The sudden interpretation of your mystical, weird-like song?"Mortal! that which thou askest, ask not thou of the waves;Fool! thou foolishly taskest us—we are only slaves;Might, more mighty, impels us—we must our lot fulfil,He who gathers and swells us curbs us, too, at His will.Think'st thou the wave that shatters questioneth His decree?Little to us it matters, and naught it matters to thee.Not thus, murmuring idly, we from our duty would swerve,Over the world spread widely ever we labour and serve."
Oh, gaily sings the bird! and the wattle-boughs are stirr'dAnd 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?Oh, tell me, sister dear, parting word and parting tearNever pass'd between us;—let me bear the blame,Are you living, girl, or dead? bitter tears since then I've shedFor the lips that lisp'd with mine a mother's name.Oh, tell me, ancient friend, ever ready to defend,In our boyhood, at the base of life's long hill,Are you waking yet or sleeping? have you left this vale of weeping?Or do you, like your comrade, linger still?Oh, whisper, buried love, is there rest and peace above?—There is little hope or comfort here below;On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed is straight and cold—Near the harbour where the sea-tides ebb and flow.
All silent—they are dumb—and the breezes go and comeWith an apathy that mocks at man's distress;Laugh, scoffer, while you may! I could bow me down and prayFor an answer that might stay my bitterness.Oh, harshly screams the bird! and the wattle-bloom is stirr'd;There's a sullen, weird-like whisper in the bough:"Aye, kneel, and pray, and weep, but HIS BELOVED SLEEPCAN NEVER BE DISTURB'D BY SUCH AS THOU!!"
The shore-boat lies in the morning light,By the good ship ready for sailing;The skies are clear, and the dawn is bright,Tho' the bar of the bay is fleck'd with white,And the wind is fitfully wailing;Near the tiller stands the priest, and the knightLeans over the quarter-railing."There is time while the vessel tarries still,There is time while her shrouds are slack,There is time ere her sails to the west wind fill,Ere her tall masts vanish from town and from hill,Ere cleaves to her keel the track:There is time for confession to those who will,To those who may never come back.""Sir priest, you can shrive these men of mine,And, I pray you, shrive them fast,And shrive those hardy sons of the brine,Captain and mates of the EGLANTINE,And sailors before the mast;Then pledge me a cup of the Cyprus wine,For I fain would bury the past.""And hast thou naught to repent, my son?Dost thou scorn confession and shrift?Ere thy sands from the glass of time shall runIs there naught undone that thou should'st have done,Naught done that thou should'st have left?The guiltiest soul may from guilt be won,And the stoniest heart may be cleft.""Have my ears been closed to the prayer of the poor,Or deaf to the cry of distress?Have I given little, and taken more?Have I brought a curse to the widow's door?Have I wrong'd the fatherless?Have I steep'd my fingers in guiltless gore,That I must perforce confess?""Have thy steps been guided by purityThrough the paths with wickedness rife?Hast thou never smitten thine enemy?Hast thou yielded naught to the lust of the eye,And naught to the pride of life?Hast thou pass'd all snares of pleasure by?Hast thou shunn'd all wrath and strife?""Nay, certes! a sinful life I've led,Yet I've suffered, and lived in hope;I may suffer still, but my hope has fled,—I've nothing now to hope or to dread,And with fate I can fairly cope;Were the waters closing over my head,I should scarcely catch at a rope.""Dost suffer? thy pain may be fraught with grace,Since never by works aloneWe are saved;—the penitent thief may traceThe wealth of love in the Saviour's faceTo the Pharisee rarely shown;And the Magdalene's arms may yet embraceThe foot of the jasper throne.""Sir priest, a heavier doom I dree,For I feel no quickening pain,But a dull, dumb weight when I bow my knee,And (not with the words of the Pharisee)My hard eyes heavenward strain,Where my dead darling prayeth for me!Now, I wot, she prayeth in vain!"Still I hear it over the battle's din,And over the festive cheer,—So she pray'd with clasp'd hands, white and thin,—The prayer of a soul absolved from sin,For a soul that is dark and drear,For the light of repentance bursting in,And the flood of the blinding tear."Say, priest! when the saint must vainly plead,Oh! how shall the sinner fare?I hold your comfort a broken reed;Let the wither'd branch for itself take heed,While the green shoots wait your care;I've striven, though feebly, to grasp your creed,And I've grappled my own despair.""By the little within thee, good and brave,Not wholly shattered, though shaken;By the soul that crieth beyond the grave,The love that He once in His mercy gave,In His mercy since retaken,I conjure thee, oh! sinner, pardon crave,I implore thee, oh! sleeper, waken!""Go to! shall I lay my black soul bareTo a vain, self-righteous man?In my sin, in my sorrow, you may not share,And yet could I meet with one who must bearThe load of an equal ban,With him I might strive to blend one prayer,The wail of the Publican.""My son, I, too, am a withered bough,My place is to others given;Thou hast sinn'd, thou sayest; I ask not how,For I, too, have sinn'd, even as thou,And I, too, have feebly striven,And with thee I must bow, crying, 'Shrive us now!Our Father which art in heaven!'"
[The Philosophy of a Feast]
Make merry, comrades, eat and drink(The sunlight flickers on the sea),The garlands gleam, the glasses clink,The grape juice mantles fair and free,The lamps are trimm'd, although the lightOf day still lingers on the sky;We sit between the day and night,And push the wine flask merrily.I see you feasting round me still,All gay of heart and strong of limb;Make merry, friends, your glasses fill,The lights are growing dim.I miss the voice of one I've heard(The sunlight sinks upon the sea),He sang as blythe as any bird,And shook the rafters with his glee;But times have changed with him, I wot,By fickle fortune cross'd and flung;Far stouter heart than mine he's gotIf now he sings as then he sung.Yet some must swim when others sink,And some must sink when others swim;Make merry, comrades, eat and drink,The lights are growing dim.I miss the face of one I've loved(The sunlight settles on the sea)—Long since to distant climes he roved,He had his faults, and so have we;His name was mentioned here this day,And it was coupled with a sneer;I heard, nor had I aught to say,Though once I held his memory dear.Who cares, 'mid wines and fruits and flowers,Though death or danger compass him;He had his faults, and we have ours,The lights are growing dim.I miss the form of one I know(The sunlight wanes upon the sea)—'Tis not so very long ago,We drank his health with three-times-three,And we were gay when he was here;And he is gone, and we are gay.Where has he gone? or far or near?Good sooth, 'twere somewhat hard to say.You glance aside, you doubtless thinkMy homily a foolish whim,'Twill soon be ended, eat and drink,The lights are growing dim.The fruit is ripe, the wine is red(The sunlight fades upon the sea);To us the absent are the dead,The dead to us must absent be.We, too, the absent ranks must join;And friends will censure and forget:There's metal base in every coin;Men vanish, leaving traces yetOf evil and of good behind,Since false notes taint the skylark's hymn,And dross still lurks in gold refined—The lights are growing dim.We eat and drink or e'er we die(The sunlight flushes on the sea).Three hundred soldiers feasted highAn hour before Thermopylae;Leonidas pour'd out the wine,And shouted ere he drain'd the cup,"Ho! comrades, let us gaily dine—This night with Pluto we shall sup";And if they leant upon a reed,And if their reed was slight and slim,There's something good in Spartan creed—The lights are growing dim.Make merry, comrades, eat and drink(The sunlight flashes on the sea);My spirit is rejoiced to thinkThat even as they were so are we;For they, like us, were mortals vain,The slaves to earthly passions wild,Who slept with heaps of Persians slainFor winding-sheets around them piled.The dead man's deeds are living still—My Festive speech is somewhat grim—Their good obliterates their ill—The lights are growing dim.We eat and drink, we come and go(The sunlight dies upon the open sea).I speak in riddles. Is it so?My riddles need not mar your glee;For I will neither bid you shareMy thoughts, nor will I bid you shun,Though I should see in yonder chairTh' Egyptian's muffled skeleton.One toast with me your glasses fill,Aye, fill them level with the brim,De mortuis, nisi bonum, nil!The lights are growing dim.
[From a Picture]
The sun has gone down, spreading wide onThe 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 lengthHas ended; dost fear for the morrow,Strong man, in the pride of thy strength?Like fire-flies, heavenward clinging,They multiply, star upon star;And the breeze a low murmur is bringingFrom the tents of my people afar.Nay, frown not, I am but a Pagan,Yet little for these things I care;'Tis the hymn to our deity DagonThat comes with the pleasant night air.It shall not disturb thee, nor can it;See, closed are the curtains, the lightsGleam down on the cloven pomegranate,Whose thirst-slaking nectar invites;The red wine of Hebron glows brightlyIn yon goblet—the draught of a king;And through the silk awning steals lightlyThe sweet song my handmaidens sing.Dost think that thy God, in His anger,Will trifle with nature's great laws,And slacken those sinews in languorThat battled so well in His cause?Will He take back that strength He has given,Because to the pleasures of youthThou yieldest? Nay, Godlike, in heaven,He laughs at such follies, forsooth.Oh! were I, for good or for evil,As great and as gifted as thou,Neither God should restrain me, nor devil,To none like a slave would I bow.If fate must indeed overtake thee,And feebleness come to thy clay,Pause not till thy strength shall forsake thee,Enjoy it the more in thy day.Oh, fork'd-tongue of adder, by her pentIn smooth lips!—oh, Sybarite blind!Oh, woman allied to the serpent!Oh, beauty with venom combined!Oh, might overcoming the mighty!Oh, glory departing! oh, shame!Oh, altar of false Aphrodite,What strength is consumed in thy flame!Strong chest, where her drapery rustles,Strong limbs by her black tresses hid!Not alone by the might of your musclesYon lion was rent like a kid!The valour from virtue that sunders,Is 'reft of its nobler part;And Lancelot's arm may work wonders,But braver is Galahad's heart.Sleep sound on that breast fair and ample;Dull brain, and dim eyes, and deaf ears,Feel not the cold touch on your temple,Heed not the faint clash of the shears.It comes!—with the gleam of the lamps onThe curtains—that voice—does it jarOn thy soul in the night-watch? Ho! Samson,Upon thee the Philistines are.
The spring-wind pass'd through the forest, and whispered low in the leaves,And the cedar toss'd her head, and the oak stood firm in his pride;The spring-wind pass'd through the town,through the housetops, casements, and eaves,And whisper'd low in the hearts of the men, and the men replied,Singing—"Let us rejoice in the lightOf our glory, and beauty, and might;Let us follow our own devices, and foster our own desires.As firm as our oaks in our pride, as our cedars fair in our sight,We stand like the trees of the forestthat brave the frosts and the fires."The storm went forth to the forest, the plague went forth to the town,And the men fell down to the plague, as the trees fell down to the gale;And their bloom was a ghastly pallor, and their smile was a ghastly frown,And the song of their hearts was changed to a wild, disconsolate wail,Crying—"God! we have sinn'd, we have sinn'd,We are bruis'd, we are shorn, we are thinn'd,Our strength is turn'd to derision, our pride laid low in the dust,Our cedars are cleft by Thy lightnings, our oaks are strew'd by Thy wind,And we fall on our faces seeking Thine aid, though Thy wrath is just."
The troubles of life are many,The pleasures of life are few;When we sat in the sunlight, Annie,I dreamt that the skies were blue—When we sat in the sunlight, Annie,I dreamt that the earth was green;There is little colour, if any,'Neath the sunlight now to be seen.Then the rays of the sunset glintedThrough the blackwoods' emerald boughOn an emerald sward, rose-tinted,And spangled, and gemm'd;—and nowThe rays of the sunset reddenWith a sullen and lurid frown,From the skies that are dark and leaden,To earth that is dusk and brown.To right and to left extendedThe uplands are blank and drear,And their neutral tints are blendedWith the dead leaves sombre and sere;The cold grey mist from the still sideOf the lake creeps sluggish and sure,Bare and bleak is the hill-side,Barren and bleak the moor.Bright hues and shapes intertwisted,Fair forms and rich colours;—nowThey have flown—if e'er they existed—It matters not why or how.It matters not where or when, dear,They have flown, the blue and the green,I thought on what might be then, dear,Now I think on what might have been.What might have been!—words of folly;What might be!—speech for a fool;With mistletoe round me, and holly,Scarlet and green, at Yule.With the elm in the place of the wattle,And in lieu of the gum, the oak,Years back I believed a little,And as I believed I spoke.Have I done with those childish fancies?They suited the days gone by,When I pulled the poppies and pansies,When I hunted the butterfly,With one who has long been sleeping,A stranger to doubts and cares,And to sowing that ends in reapingThistles, and thorns, and tares.What might be!—the dreams were scatter'd,As chaff is toss'd by the wind,The faith has been rudely shatteredThat listen'd with credence blind;Things were to have been, and thereforeThey were, and they are to be,And will be;—we must prepare forThe doom we are bound to dree.Ah, me! we believe in evil,Where once we believed in good,The world, the flesh, and the devilAre easily understood;The world, the flesh, and the devilTheir traces on earth are plain;Must they always riot and revelWhile footprints of man remain?Talk about better and wiser,Wiser and worse are one,The sophist is the despiserOf all things under the sun;Is nothing real but confusion?Is nothing certain but death?Is nothing fair save illusion?Is nothing good that has breath?Some sprite, malignant and elfish,Seems present whispering close,"All motives of life are selfish,All instincts of life are gross;And the song that the poet fashions,And the love-bird's musical strain,Are jumbles of animal passions,Refined by animal pain."The restless throbbings and burningsThat hope unsatisfied brings,The weary longings and yearningsFor the mystical better things,Are the sands on which is reflectedThe pitiless moving lake,Where the wanderer falls dejected,By a thirst he never can slake.A child blows bubbles that glitter,He snatches them, they disperse;Yet childhood's folly is better,And manhood's folly is worse;Gilt baubles we grasp at blindlyWould turn in our hands to dross;'Tis a fate less cruel than kindlyDenies the gain and the loss.And as one who pursues a shadow,As one who hunts in a dream,As the child who crosses the meadow,Enticed by the rainbow's gleam,I—knowing the course was foolish,And guessing the goal was pain,Stupid, and stubborn, and mulish—Followed and follow again.The sun over Gideon halted,Holding aloof the night,When Joshua's arm was exalted,Yet never retraced his flight;Nor will he turn back, nor can he,He chases the future fast;The future is blank—oh, Annie!I fain would recall the past.There are others toiling and straining'Neath burdens graver than mine—They are weary, yet uncomplaining—I know it, yet I repine;I know it, how time will ravage,How time will level, and yetI long with a longing savage,I regret with a fierce regret.You are no false ideal,Something is left of you,Present, perceptible, real,Palpable, tangible, true;One shred of your broken necklace,One tress of your pale, gold hair,And a heart so utterly reckless,That the worst it would gladly dare.There is little pleasure, if any,In waking the past anew;My days and nights have been many;Lost chances many I rue—My days and nights have been many;Now I pray that they be few,When I think on the hill-side, Annie,Where I dreamt that the skies were blue.
[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;But age will own the bitter truth,"Ars longa, vita brevis."The hill of life with eager feetWe climbed in merry morning,But on the downward track we meetThe shades of twilight warning;The shadows gaunt they fall aslant,And those who scaled Ben Nevis,Against the mole-hills toil and pant,"Ars longa, vita brevis."The obstacles that barr'd our pathWe seldom quail'd to dash onIn youth, for youth one motto hath,"The will, the way must fashion."Those words, I wot, blood thick and hot,Too ready to believe is,But thin and cold our blood hath got,"Ars longa, vita brevis."And "art is long", and "life is short",And man is slow at learning;And yet by divers dealings taught,For divers follies yearning,He owns at last, with grief downcast(For man disposed to grieve is)—One adage old stands true and fast,"Ars longa, vita brevis."We journey, manhood, youth, and age,The matron, and the maiden,Like pilgrims on a pilgrimage,Loins girded, heavy laden:—Each pilgrim strong, who joins our throng,Most eager to achieve is,Foredoom'd ere long to swell the song,"Ars longa, vita brevis."At morn, with staff and sandal-shoon,We travel brisk and cheery,But some have laid them down ere noon,And all at eve are weary;The noontide glows with no repose,And bitter chill the eve is,The grasshopper a burden grows,"Ars longa, vita brevis."The staff is snapp'd, the sandal fray'd,The flint-stone galls and blisters,Our brother's steps we cannot aid,Ah me! nor aid our sister's:The pit prepares its hidden snares,The rock prepared to cleave is,We cry, in falling unawares,"Ars longa, vita brevis."Oh! Wisdom, which we sought to win!Oh! Strength, in which we trusted!Oh! Glory, which we gloried in!Oh! puppets we adjusted!On barren land our seed is sand,And torn the web we weave is,The bruised reed hath pierced the hand,"Ars longa, vita brevis."We, too, "Job's comforters" have met,With steps, like ours, unsteady,They could not help themselves, and yetTo judge us they were ready;Life's path is trod at last, and GodMore ready to reprieve is,They know who rest beneath the sod,"Mors gratum, vita brevis."
All is over! fleet career,Dash of greyhound slipping thongs,Flight of falcon, bound of deer,Mad hoof-thunder in our rear,Cold air rushing up our lungs,Din of many tongues.Once again, one struggle good,One vain effort;—he must dwellNear the shifted post, that stoodWhere the splinters of the wood,Lying in the torn tracks, tellHow he struck and fell.Crest where cold drops beaded cling,Small ear drooping, nostril full,Glazing to a scarlet ring,Flanks and haunches quivering,Sinews stiff'ning, void and null,Dumb eyes sorrowful.Satin coat that seems to shineDuller now, black braided tress,That a softer hand than mineFar away was wont to twine,That in meadows far from thisSofter lips might kiss.All is over! this is death,And I stand to watch thee die,Brave old horse! with 'bated breathHardly drawn through tight-clenched teeth,Lip indented deep, but eyeOnly dull and dry.Musing on the husk and chaffGather'd where life's tares are sown,Thus I speak, and force a laughThat is half a sneer and halfAn involuntary groan,In a stifled tone—"Rest, old friend! thy day, though rifeWith its toil, hath ended soon;We have had our share of strife,Tumblers in the mask of life,In the pantomime of noonClown and pantaloon."With the flash that ends thy painRespite and oblivion blestCome to greet thee. I in vainFall: I rise to fall again:Thou hast fallen to thy rest—And thy fall is best!"
Two years ago I was thinkingOn the changes that years bring forth;Now I stand where I then stood drinkingThe gust and the salt sea froth;And the shuddering wave strikes, linkingWith the waves subsiding and sinking,And clots the coast herbage, shrinking,With the hue of the white cere-cloth.Is there aught worth losing or keeping?The bitters or sweets men quaff?The sowing or the doubtful reaping?The harvest of grain or chaff?Or squandering days or heaping,Or waking seasons or sleeping,The laughter that dries the weeping,Or the weeping that drowns the laugh?For joys wax dim and woes deaden,We forget the sorrowful biers,And the garlands glad that have fled inThe merciful march of years;And the sunny skies, and the leaden,And the faces that pale or redden,And the smiles that lovers are wed inWho are born and buried in tears.And the myrtle bloom turns hoary,And the blush of the rose decays,And sodden with sweat and goryAre the hard won laurels and bays;We are neither joyous nor sorryWhen time has ended our story,And blotted out grief and glory,And pain, and pleasure, and praise.Weigh justly, throw good and bad inThe scales, will the balance veerWith the joys or the sorrows had inThe sum of a life's career?In the end, spite of dreams that saddenThe sad or the sanguine madden,There is nothing to grieve or gladden,There is nothing to hope or fear."Thou hast gone astray," quoth the preacher,"In the gall of thy bitterness,"Thou hast taught me in vain, oh, teacher!I neither blame thee nor bless;If bitter is sure and sweet sure,These vanish with form and feature—Can the creature fathom the creature,Whose Creator is fathomless?Is this dry land sure? Is the sea sure?Is there aught that shall long remain,Pain, or peril, or pleasure,Pleasure, or peril, or pain?Shall we labour or take our leisure,And who shall inherit treasure,If the measure with which we measureIs meted to us again?I am slow in learning and swift inForgetting, and I have grownSo weary with long sand sifting;T'wards the mist where the breakers moanThe rudderless bark is drifting,Through the shoals and the quicksands shifting—In the end shall the night-rack lifting,Discover the shores unknown?
In Five Parts
Part IVisions in the Smoke
Rest, and be thankful! On the vergeOf the tall cliff rugged and grey,But whose granite base the breakers surge,And shiver their frothy spray,Outstretched, I gaze on the eddying wreathThat gathers and flits away,With the surf beneath, and between my teethThe stem of the "ancient clay".With the anodyne cloud on my listless eyes,With its spell on my dreamy brain,As I watch the circling vapours riseFrom the brown bowl up to the sullen skies,My vision becomes more plain,Till a dim kaleidoscope succeedsThrough the smoke-rack drifting and veering,Like ghostly riders on phantom steedsTo a shadowy goal careering.In their own generation the wise may sneer,They hold our sports in derision;Perchance to sophist, or sage, or seer,Were allotted a graver vision.Yet if man, of all the Creator plann'd,His noblest work is reckoned,Of the works of His hand, by sea or by land,The horse may at least rank second.Did they quail, those steeds of the squadrons light,Did they flinch from the battle's roar,When they burst on the guns of the Muscovite,By the echoing Black Sea shore?On! on! to the cannon's mouth they stride,With never a swerve nor a shy,Oh! the minutes of yonder maddening ride,Long years of pleasure outvie!No slave, but a comrade staunch, in this,Is the horse, for he takes his share,Not in peril alone, but in feverish bliss,And in longing to do and dare.Where bullets whistle, and round shot whiz,Hoofs trample, and blades flash bare,God send me an ending as fair as hisWho died in his stirrups there!The wind has slumbered throughout the day,Now a fitful gust springs over the bay,My wandering thoughts no longer stray,I'll fix my overcoat buttons;Secure my old hat as best I may(And a shocking bad one it is, by the way),Blow a denser cloud from my stunted clay,And then, friend BELL, as the Frenchmen say,We'll "go back again to our muttons".There's a lull in the tumult on yonder hill,And the clamour has grown less loud,Though the Babel of tongues is never still,With the presence of such a crowd.The bell has rung. With their riders upAt the starting post they muster,The racers stripp'd for the "Melbourne Cup",All gloss and polish and lustre;And the course is seen, with its emerald sheen,By the bright spring-tide renew'd,Like a ribbon of green stretched out betweenThe ranks of the multitude.The flag is lowered. "They're off!" "They come!"The squadron is sweeping on;A sway in the crowd—a murmuring hum:"They're here!" "They're past!" "They're gone!"They came with the rush of the southern surf,On the bar of the storm-girt bay;And like muffled drums on the sounding turfTheir hoof-strokes echo away.The rose and black draws clear of the ruck,And the murmur swells to a roar,As the brave old colours that never were struck,Are seen with the lead once more.Though the feathery ferns and grasses waveO'er the sod where Lantern sleeps,Though the turf is green on Fisherman's grave,The stable its prestige keeps.Six lengths in front she scours along,She's bringing the field to trouble;She's tailing them off, she's running strong,She shakes her head and pulls double.Now Minstrel falters and Exile flags,The Barb finds the pace too hot,And Toryboy loiters, and Playboy lags,And the BOLT of Ben Bolt is shot.That she never may be caught this day,Is the worst that the public wish her.She won't be caught: she comes right away;Hurrah for Seagull and Fisher!See, Strop falls back, though his reins are slack,Sultana begins to tire,And the top-weight tells on the Sydney crack,And the pace on "the Gippsland flyer".The rowels, as round the turn they sweep,Just graze Tim Whiffler's flanks;Like the hunted deer that flies through the sheep,He strides through the beaten ranks.Daughter of Omen, prove your birth,The colt will take lots of choking;The hot breath steams at your saddle girth,From his scarlet nostril smoking.The shouts of the Ring for a space subside,And slackens the bookmaker's roar;Now, Davis, rally; now, Carter, ride,As man never rode before.When Sparrowhawk's backers cease to cheer,When Yattendon's friends are dumb,When hushed is the clamour for Volunteer—Alone in the race they come!They're neck and neck; they're head and head;They're stroke for stroke in the running;The whalebone whistles, the steel is red,No shirking as yet nor shunning.One effort, Seagull, the blood you boastShould struggle when nerves are strained;—With a rush on the post, by a neck at the most,The verdict for Tim is gained.Tim Whiffler wins. Is blood aloneThe sine qua non for a flyer?The breed of his dam is a myth unknown,And we've doubts respecting his sire.Yet few (if any) those proud names are,On the pages of peerage or stud,In whose 'scutcheon lurks no sinister bar,No taint of the base black blood.Aye, Shorthouse, laugh—laugh loud and long,For pedigree you're a sticker;You may be right, I may be wrong,Wiseacres both! Let's liquor.Our common descent we may each recallTo a lady of old caught tripping,The fair one in fig leaves, who d——d us allFor a bite at a golden pippin.When first on this rocky ledge I lay,There was scarce a ripple in yonder bay,The air was serenely still;Each column that sailed from my swarthy clayHung loitering long ere it passed away,Though the skies wore a tinge of leaden grey,And the atmosphere was chill.But the red sun sank to his evening shroud,Where the western billows are roll'd,Behind a curtain of sable cloud,With a fringe of scarlet and gold;There's a misty glare in the yellow moon,And the drift is scudding fast,There'll be storm, and rattle, and tempest soon,When the heavens are overcast.The neutral tint of the sullen seaIs fleck'd with the snowy foam,And the distant gale sighs drearilie,As the wanderer sighs for his home.The white sea-horses toss their manesOn the bar of the southern reef,And the breakers moan, and—by Jove, it rains(I thought I should come to grief);Though it can't well damage my shabby hat,Though my coat looks best when it's damp;Since the shaking I got (no matter where at),I've a mortal dread of the cramp.My matches are wet, my pipe's put out,And the wind blows colder and stronger;I'll be stiff, and sore, and sorry, no doubt,If I lie here any longer.