Exeunt

HELEN RABY.

Where the grave-deeps rot, where the grave-dews rust,
They dug, crying, Earth to earth,
Crying, Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
And what are my poor prayers worth?
Upon whom shall I call, or in whom shall I trust,
Though death were indeed new birth.

And they bid me be glad for my babys sake
That she suffered sinless and young,
Would they have me be glad when my breasts still ache
Where that small, soft, sweet mouth clung?
I am glad that the heart will so surely break
That has been so bitterly wrung.

He was false, they tell me, and what if he were?
I can only shudder and pray,
Pouring out my soul in a passionate prayer
For the soul that he cast away;
Was there nothing that once was created fair
In the potters perishing clay?

Is it well for the sinner that souls endure?
For the sinless soul is it well?
Does the pure child lisp to the angels pure?
And where does the strong man dwell,
If the sad assurance of priests be sure,
Or the tale that our preachers tell?

The unclean has followd the undefiled,
And the ill may regain the good,
And the man may be even as the little child!
We are children lost in the wood,
Lord! lead us out of this tangled wild,
Where the wise and the prudent have been beguild,
And only the babes have stood.

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Adam Lindsay Gordon was an Australian poet, jockey, and politician. Born in the Azores to Scottish parents, he moved to Australia in 1853. Known for his bush ballads and lyrical poetry, Gordon's works often reflect his passions for horse racing and the Australian landscape. His notable works include "The Sick Stockrider" and "Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes." Unfortunately, he struggled with depression and financial troubles, leading to his untimely death at the age of 36.

Adam Lindsay Gordon

A Hunting Song

Adam Lindsay Gordon, Simple Poetry

Wormwood And Nightshade

Adam Lindsay Gordon, Simple Poetry

Lex Talionis - A Moral Discourse

Adam Lindsay Gordon, Simple Poetry

Cui Bono

Adam Lindsay Gordon, Simple Poetry

English

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Fragmentary Scenes From The Road To Avernus - An Unpublished Dramatic Lyric

Scene I
Discontent

LAURENCE RABY.

Laurence:
I said to young Allan MIlveray,
Beside the swift swirls of the North,
When, in lilac shot through with a silver ray,
We hauld 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 wont pay
Us to-day,
We may tie up our rods and away.

I said to old Norman MGregor,
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
Hes down, but hes not worth the trouble
Of seeking. You once shot a bear
In his l...

Adam Lindsay Gordon

The Rhyme Of Joyous Garde

Through the lattice rushes the south wind, dense
With fumes of the flowery frankincense
From hawthorn blossoming thickly;
And gold is showerd on grass unshorn,
And poppy-fire on shuddering corn,
With May-dew flooded and flushd with morn,
And scented with sweetness sickly.

The bloom and brilliance of summer days,
The buds that brighten, the fields that blaze,
The fruits that ripen and redden,
And all the gifts of a God-sent light
Are sadder things in my shameful sight
Than the blackest gloom of the bitterest night,
When the senses darken and deaden.

For the days recall what the nights efface,
Scenes of glory and seasons of grace,
For which there is no returning,
Else the days were even as the nights to me,
Now the axe is laid to the root...

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Confiteor

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 fleckd with white,
And the wind is fitfully wailing;
Near the tiller stands the priest, and the knight
Leans 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 Eglantin...

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!

I said in my wrath, when his shadow crossd
From your garden gate to your cottage door,
What does it matter for one soul lost?
Millions of souls have been lost before.

Yet I warnd you, ah! but my words came true,
Perhaps some day you will find him out.
He who was not worthy to loosen your shoe,
Does his conscience therefore prick him? I doubt.

You laughed and were deaf to my wa...

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Wormwood And Nightshade

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 glinted
Through the blackwoods emerald bough
On an emerald sward, rose-tinted,
And spangled, and gemmd; and now
The rays of the sunset redden
With 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 extended
The uplands are blank and drear,
And their neutral tints are blended
With the dead leaves sombre and sere;
The cold grey mist from the still side
Of the l...

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.

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 in
The merciful march of years;
And the sunny skies, and the...

Adam Lindsay Gordon