Dost think that thy God, in His anger, Will trifle with nature's great laws, And slacken those sinews in languor That battled so well in His cause? Will He take back that strength He has given, Because to the pleasures of youth Thou 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 pent In 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 muscles Yon 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 on The curtains—that voice—does it jar On thy soul in the night-watch? Ho! Samson, Upon thee the Philistines are.



From Lightning and Tempest



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 light Of 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 forest that 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."



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 gemm'd;—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 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;—now They 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 reaping Thistles, 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 shattered That listen'd with credence blind; Things were to have been, and therefore They were, and they are to be, And will be;—we must prepare for The doom we are bound to dree.

Ah, me! we believe in evil, Where once we believed in good, The world, the flesh, and the devil Are easily understood; The world, the flesh, and the devil Their traces on earth are plain; Must they always riot and revel While footprints of man remain?

Talk about better and wiser, Wiser and worse are one, The sophist is the despiser Of 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 burnings That hope unsatisfied brings, The weary longings and yearnings For the mystical better things, Are the sands on which is reflected The 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 blindly Would turn in our hands to dross; 'Tis a fate less cruel than kindly Denies 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 yet I 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.



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; But age will own the bitter truth, "Ars longa, vita brevis."

The hill of life with eager feet We climbed in merry morning, But on the downward track we meet The 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 path We seldom quail'd to dash on In 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 yet To judge us they were ready; Life's path is trod at last, and God More ready to reprieve is, They know who rest beneath the sod, "Mors gratum, vita brevis."



The Last Leap



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 dwell Near the shifted post, that stood Where the splinters of the wood, Lying in the torn tracks, tell How 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 shine Duller now, black braided tress, That a softer hand than mine Far away was wont to twine, That in meadows far from this Softer lips might kiss.

All is over! this is death, And I stand to watch thee die, Brave old horse! with 'bated breath Hardly drawn through tight-clenched teeth, Lip indented deep, but eye Only dull and dry.

Musing on the husk and chaff Gather'd where life's tares are sown, Thus I speak, and force a laugh That is half a sneer and half An involuntary groan, In a stifled tone—

"Rest, old friend! thy day, though rife With its toil, hath ended soon; We have had our share of strife, Tumblers in the mask of life, In the pantomime of noon Clown and pantaloon.

"With the flash that ends thy pain Respite and oblivion blest Come to greet thee. I in vain Fall: I rise to fall again: Thou hast fallen to thy rest— And thy fall is best!"



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 leaden, And the faces that pale or redden, And the smiles that lovers are wed in Who are born and buried in tears.

And the myrtle bloom turns hoary, And the blush of the rose decays, And sodden with sweat and gory Are the hard won laurels and bays; We are neither joyous nor sorry When time has ended our story, And blotted out grief and glory, And pain, and pleasure, and praise.

Weigh justly, throw good and bad in The scales, will the balance veer With the joys or the sorrows had in The sum of a life's career? In the end, spite of dreams that sadden The 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 measure Is meted to us again?

I am slow in learning and swift in Forgetting, and I have grown So weary with long sand sifting; T'wards the mist where the breakers moan The rudderless bark is drifting, Through the shoals and the quicksands shifting— In the end shall the night-rack lifting, Discover the shores unknown?



HIPPODROMANIA; OR, WHIFFS FROM THE PIPE

In Five Parts



Part I Visions in the Smoke



Rest, and be thankful! On the verge Of the tall cliff rugged and grey, But whose granite base the breakers surge, And shiver their frothy spray, Outstretched, I gaze on the eddying wreath That gathers and flits away, With the surf beneath, and between my teeth The 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 rise From the brown bowl up to the sullen skies, My vision becomes more plain, Till a dim kaleidoscope succeeds Through the smoke-rack drifting and veering, Like ghostly riders on phantom steeds To 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 his Who 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 up At 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 between The 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 turf Their 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 wave O'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 boast Should 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 alone The 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 recall To a lady of old caught tripping, The fair one in fig leaves, who d——d us all For 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 clay Hung 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 sea Is 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 manes On 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.



Part II The Fields of Coleraine



On the fields of Col'raine there'll be labour in vain Before the Great Western is ended, The nags will have toil'd, and the silks will be soil'd, And the rails will require to be mended.

For the gullies are deep, and the uplands are steep, And mud will of purls be the token, And the tough stringy-bark, that invites us to lark, With impunity may not be broken.

Though Ballarat's fast, and they say he can last, And that may be granted hereafter, Yet the judge's decision to the Border division Will bring neither shouting nor laughter.

And Blueskin, I've heard that he goes like a bird, And I'm told that to back him would pay me; He's a good bit of stuff, but not quite good enough, "Non licuit credere famae."

Alfred ought to be there, we all of us swear By the blood of King Alfred, his sire; He's not the real jam, by the blood of his dam, So I sha'n't put him down as a flyer.

Now, Hynam, my boy, I wish you great joy, I know that when fresh you can jump, sir; But you'll scarce be in clover, when you're ridden all over, And punished from shoulder to rump, sir.

Archer goes like a shot, they can put on their pot, And boil it to cover expenses; Their pot will boil over, the run of his dover He'll never earn over big fences.

There's a horse in the race, with a blaze on his face, And we know he can gallop a docker! He's proved himself stout, of his speed there's no doubt, And his jumping's according to Cocker.

When Hynam's outstripp'd, and when Alfred is whipp'd, To keep him in sight of the leaders, While Blueskin runs true, but his backers look blue, For his rider's at work with the bleeders;

When his carcase of beef brings "the bullock" to grief, And the rush of the tartan is ended; When Archer's in trouble—who's that pulling double, And taking his leaps unextended?

He wins all the way, and the rest—sweet, they say, Is the smell of the newly-turned plough, friend, But you smell it too close when it stops eyes and nose, And you can't tell your horse from your cow, friend.



Part III Credat Judaeus Apella



Dear Bell,—I enclose what you ask in a letter, A short rhyme at random, no more and no less, And you may insert it, for want of a better, Or leave it, it doesn't much matter, I guess; And as for a tip, why, there isn't much in it, I may hit the right nail, but first, I declare, I haven't a notion what's going to win it (The Champion, I mean), and what's more, I don't care. Imprimis, there's Cowra—few nags can go quicker Than she can—and Smith takes his oath she can fly; While Brown, Jones, and Robinson swear she's a sticker, But "credat Judaeus Apella", say I.

There's old Volunteer, I'd be sorry to sneer At his chance; he'll be there, if he goes at the rate He went at last year, when a customer queer, Johnny Higgerson, fancied him lock'd in the straight; I've heard that the old horse has never been fitter, I've heard all performances past he'll outvie; He may gallop a docker, and finish a splitter, But "credat Judaeus Apella", say I.

I know what they say, sir, "The Hook" he can stay, sir, And stick to his work like a sleuth-hound or beagle; He stays "with a HOOK", and he sticks in the clay, sir; I'd rather, for choice, pop my money on Seagull; I'm told that the Sydney division will rue, sir, Their rashness in front of the stand when they spy, With a clear lead, the white jacket spotted with blue, sir, But "credat Judaeus Apella", say I.

There's The Barb—you may talk of your flyers and stayers, All bosh—when he strips you can see his eye range Round his rivals, with much the same look as Tom Sayers Once wore when he faced the big novice, Bill Bainge. Like Stow, at our hustings, confronting the hisses Of roughs, with his queer Mephistopheles' smile; Like Baker, or Baker's more wonderful MRS., The terror of blacks at the source of the Nile; Like Triton 'mid minnows; like hawk among chickens; Like—anything better than everything else: He stands at the post. Now they're off! the plot thickens! Quoth Stanley to Davis, "How is your pulse?" He skims o'er the smooth turf, he scuds through the mire, He waits with them, passes them, bids them good-bye! Two miles and three-quarters, cries Filgate, "He'll tire." Oh! "credat Judaeus Apella", say I.

Lest my tale should come true, let me give you fair warning, You may "shout" some cheroots, if you like, no champagne For this child—"Oh! think of my head in the morning," Old chap, you don't get me on that lay again. The last time those games I look'd likely to try on, Says Bradshawe, "You'll feel very sheepish and shy When you are haul'd up and caution'd by D——g——y and L——n," Oh! "credat Judaeus Apella", say I.

This writing bad verses is very fatiguing, The brain and the liver against it combine, And nerves with digestion in concert are leaguing, To punish excess in the pen and ink line; Already I feel just as if I'd been rowing Hard all—on a supper of onions and tripe (A thing I abhor), but my steam I've done blowing, I am, my dear BELL, yours truly, "The Pipe".

P.S.—Tell J. P., if he fancies a good 'un, That old chestnut pony of mine is for sale. N.B.—His forelegs are uncommonly wooden, I fancy the near one's beginning to fail, And why shouldn't I do as W——n does oft, And swear that a cripple is sound—on the Bible— Hold hard! though the man I allude to is soft, He's game to go in for an action of libel.



Part IV Banker's Dream



Of chases and courses dogs dream, so do horses— Last night I was dozing and dreaming, The crowd and the bustle were there, and the rustle Of the silk in the autumn sky gleaming.

The stand throng'd with faces, the broadcloth and laces, The booths, and the tents, and the cars, The bookmakers' jargon, for odds making bargain, The nasty stale smell of cigars.

We formed into line, 'neath the merry sunshine, Near the logs at the end of the railing; "Are you ready, boys? Go!" cried the starter, and low Sank the flag, and away we went sailing.

In the van of the battle we heard the stones rattle, Some slogging was done, but no slaughter, A shout from the stand, and the whole of our band Skimm'd merrily over the water.

Two fences we clear'd, and the roadway we near'd, When three of our troop came to trouble; Like a bird on the wing, or a stone from a sling, Flew Cadger, first over the double.

And Western was there, head and tail in the air, And Pondon was there, too—what noodle Could so name a horse? I should feel some remorse If I gave such a name to a poodle.

In and out of the lane, to the racecourse again, Craig's pony was first, I was third, And Ingleside lit in my tracks, with the bit In his teeth, and came up "like a bird".

In the van of the battle we heard the rails rattle, Says he, "Though I don't care for shunning My share of the raps, I shall look out for gaps, When the light weight's away with the running."

At the fence just ahead the outsider still led, The chestnut play'd follow my leader; Oh! the devil a gap, he went into it slap, And he and his jock took a header.

Says Ingleside, "Mate, should the pony go straight, You've no time to stop or turn restive;" Says I, "Who means to stop? I shall go till I drop;" Says he, "Go it, old cuss, gay and festive."

The fence stiff and tall, just beyond the log wall, We cross'd, and the walls, and the water,— I took off too near, a small made fence to clear, And just touch'd the grass with my snorter.

At the next post and rail up went Western's bang tail, And down (by the very same token) To earth went his nose, for the panel he chose Stood firm and refused to be broken.

I dreamt someone said that the bay would have made The race safe if he'd STOOD a while longer; IF he had,—but, like if, there the panel stands stiff— He stood, but the panel stood stronger.

In and out of the road, with a clear lead still show'd The violet fluted with amber; Says Johnson, "Old man, catch him now if you can, 'Tis the second time round you'll remember."

At the road once again, pulling hard on the rein, Craig's pony popp'd in and popp'd out; I followed like smoke and the pace was no joke, For his friends were beginning to shout.

And Ingleside came to my side, strong and game, And once he appear'd to outstrip me, But I felt the steel gore, and I shot to the fore, Only Cadger seem'd likely to whip me.

In the van of the battle I heard the logs rattle, His stroke never seem'd to diminish, And thrice I drew near him, and thrice he drew clear, For the weight served him well at the finish.

Ha! Cadger goes down, see, he stands on his crown— Those rails take a power of clouting— A long sliding blunder—he's up—well, I wonder If now it's all over but shouting.

All loosely he's striding, the amateur's riding All loosely, some reverie locked in Of a "vision in smoke", or a "wayfaring bloke", His poetical rubbish concocting.

Now comes from afar the faint cry, "Here they are," "The violet winning with ease," "Fred goes up like a shot," "Does he catch him or not?" Level money, I'll take the cerise.

To his haunches I spring, and my muzzle I bring To his flank, to his girth, to his shoulder; Through the shouting and yelling I hear my name swelling, The hearts of my backers grow bolder.

Neck and neck! head and head! staring eye! nostril spread! Girth and stifle laid close to the ground! Stride for stride! stroke for stroke! through one hurdle we've broke! On the splinters we've lit with one bound.

And "Banker for choice" is the cry, and one voice Screams "Six to four once upon Banker;" "Banker wins," "Banker's beat," "Cadger wins," "A dead heat"— Ah! there goes Fred's whalebone a flanker.

Springs the whip with a crack! nine stone ten on his back, Fit and light he can race like the devil; I draw past him—'tis vain; he draws past me again, Springs the whip! and again we are level.

Steel and cord do their worst, now my head struggles first! That tug my last spurt has expended— Nose to nose! lip to lip! from the sound of the whip He strains to the utmost extended.

How they swim through the air, as we roll to the chair, Stand, faces, and railings flit past; Now I spring * * * from my lair with a snort and a stare, Rous'd by Fred with my supper at last.



Part V Ex Fumo Dare Lucem ['Twixt the Cup and the Lip]



Prologue

Calm and clear! the bright day is declining, The crystal expanse of the bay, Like a shield of pure metal, lies shining 'Twixt headlands of purple and grey, While the little waves leap in the sunset, And strike with a miniature shock, In sportive and infantine onset, The base of the iron-stone rock.

Calm and clear! the sea-breezes are laden With a fragrance, a freshness, a power, With a song like the song of a maiden, With a scent like the scent of a flower; And a whisper, half-weird, half-prophetic, Comes home with the sigh of the surf;— But I pause, for your fancies poetic Never rise from the level of "Turf".

Fellow-bungler of mine, fellow-sinner, In public performances past, In trials whence touts take their winner, In rumours that circulate fast, In strains from Prunella or Priam, Staying stayers, or goers that go, You're much better posted than I am, 'Tis little I care, less I know.

Alas! neither poet nor prophet Am I, though a jingler of rhymes— 'Tis a hobby of mine, and I'm off it At times, and I'm on it at times; And whether I'm off it or on it, Your readers my counsels will shun, Since I scarce know Van Tromp from Blue Bonnet, Though I might know Cigar from the Nun.

With "visions" you ought to be sated And sicken'd by this time, I swear That mine are all myths self-created, Air visions that vanish in air; If I had some loose coins I might chuck one, To settle this question and say, "Here goes! this is tails for the black one, And heads for my fav'rite the bay."

And must I rob Paul to pay Peter, Or Peter defraud to pay Paul? My rhymes, are they stale? if my metre Is varied, one chime rings through all: One chime—though I sing more or sing less, I have but one string to my lute, And it might have been better if, stringless And songless, the same had been mute.

Yet not as a seer of visions, Nor yet as a dreamer of dreams, I send you these partial decisions On hackney'd, impoverish'd themes; But with song out of tune, sung to pass time, Flung heedless to friends or to foes, Where the false notes that ring for the last time, May blend with some real ones, who knows?

The Race

On the hill they are crowding together, In the stand they are crushing for room, Like midge-flies they swarm on the heather, They gather like bees on the broom; They flutter like moths round a candle— Stale similes, granted, what then? I've got a stale subject to handle, A very stale stump of a pen.

Hark! the shuffle of feet that are many, Of voices the many-tongued clang— "Has he had a bad night?" "Has he any Friends left?"—How I hate your turf slang; 'Tis stale to begin with, not witty, But dull, and inclined to be coarse, But bad men can't use (more's the pity) Good words when they slate a good horse.

Heu! heu! quantus equis (that's Latin For "bellows to mend" with the weeds), They're off! lights and shades! silk and satin! A rainbow of riders and steeds! And one shows in front, and another Goes up and is seen in his place, Sic transit (more Latin)—Oh! bother, Let's get to the end of the race.

* * * * *

See, they come round the last turn careering, Already Tait's colours are struck, And the green in the vanguard is steering, And the red's in the rear of the ruck! Are the stripes in the shade doom'd to lie long? Do the blue stars on white skies wax dim? Is it Tamworth or Smuggler? 'Tis Bylong That wins—either Bylong or Tim.

As the shell through the breach that is riven And sapp'd by the springing of mines, As the bolt from the thunder-cloud driven, That levels the larches and pines, Through yon mass parti-colour'd that dashes Goal-turn'd, clad in many-hued garb, From rear to van, surges and flashes The yellow and black of The Barb.

Past The Fly, falling back on the right, and The Gull, giving way on the left, Past Tamworth, who feels the whip smite, and Whose sides by the rowels are cleft; Where Tim and the chestnut together Still bear of the battle the brunt, As if eight stone twelve were a feather, He comes with a rush to the front.

Tim Whiffler may yet prove a Tartar, And Bylong's the horse that can stay, But Kean is in trouble—and Carter Is hard on the satin-skinn'd bay; And The Barb comes away unextended, Hard held, like a second Eclipse, While behind the hoof-thunder is blended With the whistling and crackling of whips.

Epilogue

He wins; yes, he wins upon paper, He hasn't yet won upon turf, And these rhymes are but moonshine and vapour, Air-bubbles and spume from the surf. So be it, at least they are given Free, gratis, for just what they're worth, And (whatever there may be in heaven) There's little worth much upon earth.

When, with satellites round them the centre, Of all eyes, hard press'd by the crowd, The pair, horse and rider, re-enter The gate, 'mid a shout long and loud, You may feel, as you might feel, just landed Full length on the grass from the clip Of a vicious cross-counter, right-handed, Or upper-cut whizzing from hip.

And that's not so bad if you're pick'd up Discreetly, and carefully nursed; Loose teeth by the sponge are soon lick'd up, And next time you MAY get home first. Still I'm not sure you'd like it exactly (Such tastes as a rule are acquired), And you'll find in a nutshell this fact lie, Bruised optics are not much admired.

Do I bore you with vulgar allusions? Forgive me, I speak as I feel, I've pondered and made my conclusions— As the mill grinds the corn to the meal; So man striving boldly but blindly, Ground piecemeal in Destiny's mill, At his best, taking punishment kindly, Is only a chopping-block still.

Are we wise? Our abstruse calculations Are based on experience long; Are we sanguine? Our high expectations Are founded on hope that is strong; Thus we build an air-castle that crumbles And drifts till no traces remain, And the fool builds again while he grumbles, And the wise one laughs, building again.

"How came they to pass, these rash blunders, These false steps so hard to defend?" Our friend puts the question and wonders, We laugh and reply, "Ah! my friend, Could you trace the first stride falsely taken, The distance misjudged, where or how, When you pick'd yourself up, stunn'd and shaken, At the fence 'twixt the turf and the plough?"

In the jar of the panel rebounding! In the crash of the splintering wood! In the ears to the earth shock resounding! In the eyes flashing fire and blood! In the quarters above you revolving! In the sods underneath heaving high! There was little to aid you in solving Such questions—the how or the why.

And destiny, steadfast in trifles, Is steadfast for better or worse In great things, it crushes and stifles, And swallows the hopes that we nurse. Men wiser than we are may wonder, When the future they cling to so fast, To the roll of that destiny's thunder, Goes down with the wrecks of the past.

* * * * *

The past! the dead past! that has swallow'd All the honey of life and the milk, Brighter dreams than mere pastimes we've follow'd, Better things than our scarlet or silk; Aye, and worse things—that past is it really Dead to us who again and again Feel sharply, hear plainly, see clearly, Past days with their joy and their pain?

Like corpses embalm'd and unburied They lie, and in spite of our will, Our souls on the wings of thought carried, Revisit their sepulchres still; Down the channels of mystery gliding, They conjure strange tales, rarely read, Of the priests of dead Pharaohs presiding At mystical feasts of the dead.

Weird pictures arise, quaint devices, Rude emblems, baked funeral meats, Strong incense, rare wines, and rich spices, The ashes, the shrouds, and the sheets; Does our thraldom fall short of completeness For the magic of a charnel-house charm, And the flavour of a poisonous sweetness, And the odour of a poisonous balm?

And the links of the past—but, no matter, For I'm getting beyond you, I guess, And you'll call me "as mad as a hatter" If my thoughts I too freely express; I subjoin a quotation, pray learn it, And with the aid of your lexicon tell us The meaning thereof—"Res discernit Sapiens, quas confundit asellus."

Already green hillocks are swelling, And combing white locks on the bar, Where a dull, droning murmur is telling Of winds that have gather'd afar; Thus we know not the day, nor the morrow, Nor yet what the night may bring forth, Nor the storm, nor the sleep, nor the sorrow, Nor the strife, nor the rest, nor the wrath.

Yet the skies are still tranquil and starlit, The sun 'twixt the wave and the west Dies in purple, and crimson, and scarlet, And gold; let us hope for the best, Since again from the earth his effulgence The darkness and damp-dews shall wipe. Kind reader, extend your indulgence To this the last lay of "The Pipe".



The Roll of the Kettledrum; or, The Lay of the Last Charger

"You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one?"—Byron.



One line of swart profiles and bearded lips dressing, One ridge of bright helmets, one crest of fair plumes, One streak of blue sword-blades all bared for the fleshing, One row of red nostrils that scent battle-fumes.

Forward! the trumpets were sounding the charge, The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran, That music, like wild-fire spreading at large, Madden'd the war-horse as well as the man.

Forward! still forward! we thunder'd along, Steadily yet, for our strength we were nursing; Tall Ewart, our sergeant, was humming a song, Lance-corporal Black Will was blaspheming and cursing.

Open'd their volley of guns on our right, Puffs of grey smoke, veiling gleams of red flame, Curling to leeward, were seen on the height, Where the batteries were posted, as onward we came.

Spreading before us their cavalry lay, Squadron on squadron, troop upon troop; We were so few, and so many were they— Eagles wait calmly the sparrow-hawk's stoop.

Forward! still forward! steed answering steed Cheerily neigh'd, while the foam flakes were toss'd From bridle to bridle—the top of our speed Was gain'd, but the pride of our order was lost.

One was there leading by nearly a rood, Though we were racing he kept to the fore, Still as a rock in his stirrups he stood, High in the sunlight his sabre he bore.

Suddenly tottering, backwards he crash'd, Loudly his helm right in front of us rung; Iron hoofs thunder'd, and naked steel flash'd Over him—youngest, where many were young.

Now we were close to them, every horse striding Madly;—St. Luce pass'd with never a groan;— Sadly my master look'd round—he was riding On the boy's right, with a line of his own.

Thrusting his hand in his breast or breast-pocket, While from his wrist the sword swung by a chain, Swiftly he drew out some trinket or locket, Kiss'd it (I think) and replaced it again.

Burst, while his fingers reclosed on the haft, Jarring concussion and earth shaking din, Horse 'counter'd horse, and I reel'd, but he laugh'd, Down went his man, cloven clean to the chin!

Wedged in the midst of that struggling mass, After the first shock, where each his foe singled, Little was seen, save a dazzle, like glass In the sun, with grey smoke and black dust intermingled.

Here and there redden'd a pistol shot, flashing Through the red sparkle of steel upon steel! Redder the spark seem'd, and louder the clashing, Struck from the helm by the iron-shod heel!

Over fallen riders, like wither'd leaves strewing Uplands in autumn, we sunder'd their ranks; Steeds rearing and plunging, men hacking and hewing, Fierce grinding of sword-blades, sharp goading of flanks.

Short was the crisis of conflict soon over, Being too good (I suppose) to last long; Through them we cut, as the scythe cuts the clover, Batter'd and stain'd we emerg'd from their throng.

Some of our saddles were emptied, of course; To heaven (or elsewhere) Black Will had been carried! Ned Sullivan mounted Will's riderless horse, His mare being hurt, while ten seconds we tarried.

And then we re-formed, and went at them once more, And ere they had rightly closed up the old track, We broke through the lane we had open'd before, And as we went forward e'en so we came back.

Our numbers were few, and our loss far from small, They could fight, and, besides, they were twenty to one; We were clear of them all when we heard the recall, And thus we returned, but my tale is not done.

For the hand of my rider felt strange on my bit, He breathed once or twice like one partially choked, And sway'd in his seat, then I knew he was hit;— He must have bled fast, for my withers were soak'd,

And scarcely an inch of my housing was dry; I slacken'd my speed, yet I never quite stopp'd, Ere he patted my neck, said, "Old fellow, good-bye!" And dropp'd off me gently, and lay where he dropp'd!

Ah, me! after all, they may call us dumb creatures— I tried hard to neigh, but the sobs took my breath, Yet I guess'd gazing down at those still, quiet features, He was never more happy in life than in death.

* * * * *

Two years back, at Aldershot, Elrington mentioned My name to our colonel one field-day. He said, "'Count', 'Steeltrap', and 'Challenger' ought to be pension'd;" "Count" died the same week, and now "Steeltrap" is dead.

That morning our colonel was riding "Theresa", The filly by "Teddington" out of "Mistake"; His girls, pretty Alice and fair-haired Louisa, Were there on the ponies he purchased from Blake.

I remember he pointed me out to his daughters, Said he, "In this troop I may fairly take pride, But I've none left like him in my officers' quarters, Whose life-blood the mane of old 'Challenger' dyed."

Where are they? the war-steeds who shared in our glory, The "Lanercost" colt, and the "Acrobat" mare, And the Irish division, "Kate Kearney" and "Rory", And rushing "Roscommon", and eager "Kildare",

And "Freeny", a favourite once with my master, And "Warlock", a sluggard, but honest and true, And "Tancred", as honest as "Warlock", but faster, And "Blacklock", and "Birdlime", and "Molly Carew"?—

All vanish'd, what wonder! twelve summers have pass'd Since then, and my comrade lies buried this day,— Old "Steeltrap", the kicker,—and now I'm the last Of the chargers who shared in that glorious fray.

* * * * *

Come, "Harlequin", keep your nose out of my manger, You'll get your allowance, my boy, and no more; Snort! "Silvertail", snort! when you've seen as much danger As I have, you won't mind the rats in the straw.

* * * * *

Our gallant old colonel came limping and halting, The day before yesterday, into my stall; Oh! light to the saddle I've once seen him vaulting, In full marching order, steel broadsword and all.

And now his left leg than his right is made shorter Three inches, he stoops, and his chest is unsound; He spoke to me gently, and patted my quarter, I laid my ears back, and look'd playfully round.

For that word kindly meant, that caress kindly given, I thank'd him, though dumb, but my cheerfulness fled; More sadness I drew from the face of the living Than years back I did from the face of the dead.

For the dead face, upturn'd, tranquil, joyous, and fearless, Look'd straight from green sod to blue fathomless sky With a smile; but the living face, gloomy and tearless, And haggard and harass'd, look'd down with a sigh.

Did he think on the first time he kiss'd Lady Mary? On the morning he wing'd Horace Greville the beau? On the winner he steer'd in the grand military? On the charge that he headed twelve long years ago?

Did he think on each fresh year, of fresh grief the herald? On lids that are sunken, and locks that are grey? On Alice, who bolted with Brian Fitzgerald? On Rupert, his first-born, dishonour'd by "play"?

On Louey, his darling, who sleeps 'neath the cypress, That shades her and one whose last breath gave her life? I saw those strong fingers hard over each eye press— Oh! the dead rest in peace when the quick toil in strife!

* * * * *

Scoff, man! egotistical, proud, unobservant, Since I with man's grief dare to sympathise thus; Why scoff?—fellow-creature I am, fellow-servant Of God, can man fathom God's dealings with us?

The wide gulf that parts us may yet be no wider Than that which parts you from some being more blest; And there may be more links 'twixt the horse and his rider Than ever your shallow philosophy guess'd.

You are proud of your power, and vain of your courage, And your blood, Anglo-Saxon, or Norman, or Celt; Though your gifts you extol, and our gifts you disparage, Your perils, your pleasures, your sorrows we've felt.

We, too, sprung from mares of the prophet of Mecca, And nursed on the pride that was born with the milk, And filtered through "Crucifix", "Beeswing", "Rebecca", We love sheen of scarlet and shimmer of silk.

We, too, sprung from loins of the Ishmaelite stallions, We glory in daring that dies or prevails; From 'counter of squadrons, and crash of battalions, To rending of blackthorns, and rattle of rails.

In all strife where courage is tested, and power, From the meet on the hill-side, the horn-blast, the find, The burst, the long gallop that seems to devour The champaign, all obstacles flinging behind,

To the cheer and the clarion, the war-music blended With war-cry, the furious dash at the foe, The terrible shock, the recoil, and the splendid Bare sword, flashing blue, rising red from the blow.

I've borne ONE through perils where many have seen us, No tyrant, a kind friend, a patient instructor, And I've felt some strange element flashing between us, Till the saddle seem'd turn'd to a lightning conductor.

Did he see? could he feel through the faintness, the numbness, While linger'd the spirit half-loosed from the clay, Dumb eyes seeking his in their piteous dumbness, Dumb quivering nostrils, too stricken to neigh?

And what then? the colours reversed, the drums muffled, The black nodding plumes, the dead march and the pall, The stern faces, soldier-like, silent, unruffled, The slow sacred music that floats over all!

Cross carbine and boar-spear, hang bugle and banner, Spur, sabre, and snaffle, and helm—Is it well? Vain 'scutcheon, false trophies of Mars and Diana,— Can the dead laurel sprout with the live immortelle?

It may be,—we follow, and though we inherit Our strength for a season, our pride for a span, Say! vanity are they? vexation of spirit? Not so, since they serve for a time horse and man.

They serve for a time, and they make life worth living, In spite of life's troubles—'tis vain to despond; Oh, man! WE at least, WE enjoy, with thanksgiving, God's gifts on this earth, though we look not beyond.

YOU sin, and YOU suffer, and we, too, find sorrow, Perchance through YOUR sin—yet it soon will be o'er; We labour to-day, and we slumber to-morrow, Strong horse and bold rider!—and WHO KNOWETH MORE?

* * * * *

In our barrack-square shouted Drill-sergeant M'Cluskie, The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran, The colonel wheel'd short, speaking once, dry and husky, "Would to God I had died with your master, old man!"

[End of Sea Spray and Smoke Drift.]



BUSH BALLADS & GALLOPING RHYMES



A Dedication

to the Author of "Holmby House"



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.

Where in dreariest days, when all dews end, And all winds are warm, Wild Winter's large flood-gates are loosen'd, And floods, freed by storm, From broken up fountain heads, dash on Dry deserts with long pent up passion— Here rhyme was first framed without fashion, Song shaped without form.

Whence gather'd?—The locust's glad chirrup May furnish a stave; The ring of a rowel and stirrup, The wash of a wave. The chaunt of the marsh frog in rushes, That chimes through the pauses and hushes Of nightfall, the torrent that gushes, The tempests that rave.

In the deep'ning of dawn, when it dapples The dusk of the sky, With streaks like the redd'ning of apples, The ripening of rye. To eastward, when cluster by cluster, Dim stars and dull planets that muster, Wax wan in a world of white lustre That spreads far and high.

In the gathering of night gloom o'erhead, in The still silent change, All fire-flushed when forest trees redden On slopes of the range. When the gnarl'd, knotted trunks Eucalyptian Seem carved, like weird columns Egyptian, With curious device—quaint inscription, And hieroglyph strange.

In the Spring, when the wattle gold trembles 'Twixt shadow and shine, When each dew-laden air draught resembles A long draught of wine; When the sky-line's blue burnish'd resistance Makes deeper the dreamiest distance, Some song in all hearts hath existence,— Such songs have been mine.

They came in all guises, some vivid To clasp and to keep; Some sudden and swift as the livid Blue thunder-flame's leap. This swept through the first breath of clover With memories renew'd to the rover— That flash'd while the black horse turn'd over Before the long sleep.

To you (having cunning to colour A page with your pen, That through dull days, and nights even duller, Long years ago ten, Fair pictures in fever afforded)— I send these rude staves, roughly worded By one in whose brain stands recorded As clear now as then,

"The great rush of grey 'Northern water', The green ridge of bank, The 'sorrel' with curved sweep of quarter Curl'd close to clean flank, The Royalist saddlefast squarely, And where the bright uplands stretch fairly, Behind, beyond pistol-shot barely, The Roundheaded rank.

"A long launch, with clinging of muscles, And clenching of teeth! The loose doublet ripples and rustles! The swirl shoots beneath!" Enough. In return for your garland— In lieu of the flowers from your far land— Take wild growth of dreamland or starland, Take weeds for your wreath.

Yet rhyme had not fail'd me for reason, Nor reason for rhyme, Sweet Song! had I sought you in season, And found you in time. You beckon in your bright beauty yonder, And I, waxing fainter, yet fonder, Now weary too soon when I wander— Now fall when I climb.

It matters but little in the long run, The weak have some right— Some share in the race that the strong run, The fight the strong fight. If words that are worthless go westward, Yet the worst word shall be as the best word, In the day when all riot sweeps restward, In darkness or light.



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 sway'd, All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride. The dawn at "Moorabinda" was a mist rack dull and dense, The sunrise 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. We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze, And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth; To southward lay "Katawa", with the sandpeaks all ablaze, And the flush'd fields of Glen Lomond lay to north. Now westward winds the bridle path that leads to Lindisfarm, And yonder looms the double-headed Bluff; From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm, You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough. Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch; 'Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase Eight years ago—or was it nine?—last March.

'Twas merry in the glowing morn, among the gleaming grass, To wander as we've wandered many a mile, And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass, Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while. 'Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs, To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard, With a running fire of stockwhips and a fiery run of hoofs; Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard!

Aye! we had a glorious gallop after "Starlight" and his gang, When they bolted from Sylvester's on the flat; How the sun-dried reed-beds crackled, how the flint-strewn ranges rang To the strokes of "Mountaineer" and "Acrobat". Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath, Close beside them through the tea-tree scrub we dash'd; And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath! And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash'd!

We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the grey, And the troopers were three hundred yards behind, While we emptied our six-shooters on the bushrangers at bay, In the creek with stunted box-tree for a blind! There you grappled with the leader, man to man and horse to horse, And you roll'd together when the chestnut rear'd; He blazed away and missed you in that shallow watercourse— A narrow shave—his powder singed your beard!

In these hours when life is ebbing, how those days when life was young Come back to us; how clearly I recall Even the yarns Jack Hall invented, and the songs Jem Roper sung; And where are now Jem Roper and Jack Hall?

Aye! nearly all our comrades of the old colonial school, Our ancient boon companions, Ned, are gone; Hard livers for the most part, somewhat reckless as a rule, It seems that you and I are left alone.

There was Hughes, who got in trouble through that business with the cards, It matters little what became of him; But a steer ripp'd up MacPherson in the Cooraminta yards, And Sullivan was drown'd at Sink-or-swim; And Mostyn—poor Frank Mostyn—died at last a fearful wreck, In "the horrors", at the Upper Wandinong, And Carisbrooke, the rider, at the Horsefall broke his neck, Faith! the wonder was he saved his neck so long!

Ah! those days and nights we squandered at the Logans' in the glen— The Logans, man and wife, have long been dead. Elsie's tallest girl seems taller than your little Elsie then; And Ethel is a woman grown and wed.

I've had my share of pastime, and I've done my share of toil, And life is short—the longest life a span; I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil, Or for the wine that maketh glad the heart of man. For good undone and gifts misspent and resolutions vain, 'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know— I should live the same life over, if I had to live again; And the chances are I go where most men go.

The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim, The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall; And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim, And on the very sun's face weave their pall. Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave, With never stone or rail to fence my bed; Should the sturdy station children pull the bush flowers on my grave, I may chance to hear them romping overhead.



The Swimmer



With short, sharp, violent lights made vivid, To southward far as the sight can roam, Only the swirl of the surges livid, The seas that climb and the surfs that comb. Only the crag and the cliff to nor'ward, And the rocks receding, and reefs flung forward, And waifs wreck'd seaward and wasted shoreward On shallows sheeted with flaming foam.

A grim, grey coast and a seaboard ghastly, And shores trod seldom by feet of men— Where the batter'd hull and the broken mast lie, They have lain embedded these long years ten. Love! when we wander'd here together, Hand in hand through the sparkling weather, From the heights and hollows of fern and heather, God surely loved us a little then.

The skies were fairer and shores were firmer— The blue sea over the bright sand roll'd; Babble and prattle, and ripple and murmur, Sheen of silver and glamour of gold— And the sunset bath'd in the gulf to lend her A garland of pinks and of purples tender, A tinge of the sun-god's rosy splendour, A tithe of his glories manifold.

Man's works are graven, cunning, and skilful On earth, where his tabernacles are; But the sea is wanton, the sea is wilful, And who shall mend her and who shall mar? Shall we carve success or record disaster On the bosom of her heaving alabaster? Will her purple pulse beat fainter or faster For fallen sparrow or fallen star?

I would that with sleepy, soft embraces The sea would fold me—would find me rest, In luminous shades of her secret places, In depths where her marvels are manifest; So the earth beneath her should not discover My hidden couch—nor the heaven above her— As a strong love shielding a weary lover, I would have her shield me with shining breast.

When light in the realms of space lay hidden, When life was yet in the womb of time, Ere flesh was fettered to fruits forbidden, And souls were wedded to care and crime, Was the course foreshaped for the future spirit— A burden of folly, a void of merit— That would fain the wisdom of stars inherit, And cannot fathom the seas sublime?

Under the sea or the soil (what matter? The sea and the soil are under the sun), As in the former days in the latter, The sleeping or waking is known of none. Surely the sleeper shall not awaken To griefs forgotten or joys forsaken, For the price of all things given and taken, The sum of all things done and undone.

Shall we count offences or coin excuses, Or weigh with scales the soul of a man, Whom a strong hand binds and a sure hand looses, Whose light is a spark and his life a span? The seed he sow'd or the soil he cumber'd, The time he served or the space he slumber'd, Will it profit a man when his days are number'd, Or his deeds since the days of his life began?

One, glad because of the light, saith, "Shall not The righteous Judge of all the earth do right, For behold the sparrows on the house-tops fall not Save as seemeth to Him good in His sight?" And this man's joy shall have no abiding, Through lights departing and lives dividing, He is soon as one in the darkness hiding, One loving darkness rather than light.

A little season of love and laughter, Of light and life, and pleasure and pain, And a horror of outer darkness after, And dust returneth to dust again. Then the lesser life shall be as the greater, And the lover of life shall join the hater, And the one thing cometh sooner or later, And no one knoweth the loss or gain.

Love of my life! we had lights in season— Hard to part from, harder to keep— We had strength to labour and souls to reason, And seed to scatter and fruits to reap. Though time estranges and fate disperses, We have HAD our loves and our loving mercies; Though the gifts of the light in the end are curses, Yet bides the gift of the darkness—sleep!

See! girt with tempest and wing'd with thunder, And clad with lightning and shod with sleet, The strong winds treading the swift waves sunder The flying rollers with frothy feet. One gleam like a bloodshot sword-blade swims on The sky-line, staining the green gulf crimson, A death stroke fiercely dealt by a dim sun, That strikes through his stormy winding-sheet.

Oh! brave white horses! you gather and gallop, The storm sprite loosens the gusty reins; Now the stoutest ship were the frailest shallop In your hollow backs, or your high arch'd manes. I would ride as never a man has ridden In your sleepy, swirling surges hidden, To gulfs foreshadow'd through straits forbidden, Where no light wearies and no love wanes.



From the Wreck



"Turn out, boys!"—"What's up with our super. to-night? The man's mad—Two hours to daybreak I'd swear— Stark mad—why, there isn't a glimmer of light." "Take Bolingbroke, Alec, give Jack the young mare; Look sharp. A large vessel lies jamm'd on the reef, And many on board still, and some wash'd on shore. Ride straight with the news—they may send some relief From the township; and we—we can do little more. You, Alec, you know the near cuts; you can cross 'The Sugarloaf' ford with a scramble, I think; Don't spare the blood filly, nor yet the black horse; Should the wind rise, God help them! the ship will soon sink. Old Peter's away down the paddock, to drive The nags to the stockyard as fast as he can— A life and death matter; so, lads, look alive." Half-dress'd, in the dark, to the stockyard we ran.

There was bridling with hurry, and saddling with haste, Confusion and cursing for lack of a moon; "Be quick with these buckles, we've no time to waste;" "Mind the mare, she can use her hind legs to some tune." "Make sure of the crossing-place; strike the old track, They've fenced off the new one; look out for the holes On the wombat hills." "Down with the slip rails; stand back." "And ride, boys, the pair of you, ride for your souls."

In the low branches heavily laden with dew, In the long grasses spoiling with deadwood that day, Where the blackwood, the box, and the bastard oak grew, Between the tall gum-trees we gallop'd away— We crash'd through a brush fence, we splash'd through a swamp— We steered for the north near "The Eaglehawk's Nest"— We bore to the left, just beyond "The Red Camp", And round the black tea-tree belt wheel'd to the west— We cross'd a low range sickly scented with musk From wattle-tree blossom—we skirted a marsh— Then the dawn faintly dappled with orange the dusk, And peal'd overhead the jay's laughter note harsh, And shot the first sunstreak behind us, and soon The dim dewy uplands were dreamy with light; And full on our left flash'd "The Reedy Lagoon", And sharply "The Sugarloaf" rear'd on our right. A smothered curse broke through the bushman's brown beard, He turn'd in his saddle, his brick-colour'd cheek Flush'd feebly with sundawn, said, "Just what I fear'd; Last fortnight's late rainfall has flooded the creek."

Black Bolingbroke snorted, and stood on the brink One instant, then deep in the dark sluggish swirl Plunged headlong. I saw the horse suddenly sink, Till round the man's armpits the waves seemed to curl. We follow'd,—one cold shock, and deeper we sank Than they did, and twice tried the landing in vain; The third struggle won it; straight up the steep bank We stagger'd, then out on the skirts of the plain.

The stockrider, Alec, at starting had got The lead, and had kept it throughout; 'twas his boast That through thickest of scrub he could steer like a shot, And the black horse was counted the best on the coast. The mare had been awkward enough in the dark, She was eager and headstrong, and barely half broke; She had had me too close to a big stringy-bark, And had made a near thing of a crooked sheoak; But now on the open, lit up by the morn, She flung the white foam-flakes from nostril to neck, And chased him—I hatless, with shirt sleeves all torn (For he may ride ragged who rides from a wreck)— And faster and faster across the wide heath We rode till we raced. Then I gave her her head, And she—stretching out with the bit in her teeth— She caught him, outpaced him, and passed him, and led.

We neared the new fence, we were wide of the track; I look'd right and left—she had never been tried At a stiff leap; 'twas little he cared on the black. "You're more than a mile from the gateway," he cried. I hung to her head, touched her flank with the spurs (In the red streak of rail not the ghost of a gap); She shortened her long stroke, she pricked her sharp ears, She flung it behind her with hardly a rap— I saw the post quiver where Bolingbroke struck, And guessed that the pace we had come the last mile Had blown him a bit (he could jump like a buck). We galloped more steadily then for a while.

The heath was soon pass'd, in the dim distance lay The mountain. The sun was just clearing the tips Of the ranges to eastward. The mare—could she stay? She was bred very nearly as clean as Eclipse; She led, and as oft as he came to her side, She took the bit free and untiring as yet; Her neck was arched double, her nostrils were wide, And the tips of her tapering ears nearly met— "You're lighter than I am," said Alec at last; "The horse is dead beat and the mare isn't blown. She must be a good one—ride on and ride fast, You know your way now." So I rode on alone.

Still galloping forward we pass'd the two flocks At M'Intyre's hut and M'Allister's hill— She was galloping strong at the Warrigal Rocks— On the Wallaby Range she was galloping still— And over the wasteland and under the wood, By down and by dale, and by fell and by flat, She gallop'd, and here in the stirrups I stood To ease her, and there in the saddle I sat To steer her. We suddenly struck the red loam Of the track near the troughs—then she reeled on the rise— From her crest to her croup covered over with foam, And blood-red her nostrils, and bloodshot her eyes, A dip in the dell where the wattle fire bloomed— A bend round a bank that had shut out the view— Large framed in the mild light the mountain had loomed, With a tall, purple peak bursting out from the blue.

I pull'd her together, I press'd her, and she Shot down the decline to the Company's yard, And on by the paddocks, yet under my knee I could feel her heart thumping the saddle-flaps hard. Yet a mile and another, and now we were near The goal, and the fields and the farms flitted past; And 'twixt the two fences I turned with a cheer, For a green grass-fed mare 'twas a far thing and fast; And labourers, roused by her galloping hoofs, Saw bare-headed rider and foam-sheeted steed; And shone the white walls and the slate-coloured roofs Of the township. I steadied her then—I had need— Where stood the old chapel (where stands the new church— Since chapels to churches have changed in that town). A short, sidelong stagger, a long, forward lurch, A slight, choking sob, and the mare had gone down. I slipp'd off the bridle, I slacken'd the girth, I ran on and left her and told them my news; I saw her soon afterwards. What was she worth? How much for her hide? She had never worn shoes.



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 cross'd 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 warn'd 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 warning voice— Blush'd and were blind to his cloven hoof— You have had your chance, you have taken your choice How could I help you, standing aloof?

He has prosper'd well with the world—he says I am mad—if so, and if he be sane, I, at least, give God thanksgiving and praise That there lies between us one difference plain.

* * * * *

You in your beauty above me bent In the pause of a wild west country ball— Spoke to me—touched me without intent— Made me your servant for once and all.

Light laughter rippled your rose-red lip, And you swept my cheek with a shining curl, That stray'd from your shoulder's snowy tip— Now I pray that your sleep is a sound one, girl!

From a long way off to look at your charms Made my blood run redder in every vein, And he—he has held you long in his arms, And has kiss'd you over and over again.

Is it well that he keeps well out of my way? If we met, he and I—we alone—we two— Would I give him one moment's grace to pray? Not I, for the sake of the soul he slew.

A life like a shuttlecock may be toss'd With the hand of fate for a battledore; But it matters much for your sweet soul lost, As much as a million souls and more.

And I know that if, here or there, alone, I found him, fairly and face to face, Having slain his body, I would slay my own, That my soul to Satan his soul might chase.

He hardens his heart in the public way— Who am I? I am but a nameless churl; But God will put all things straight some day— Till then may your sleep be a sound one, girl!



Wolf and Hound

"The hills like giants at a hunting lay Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay."—Browning.



You'll take my tale with a little salt, But it needs none, nevertheless, I was foil'd completely, fairly at fault, Dishearten'd, too, I confess. At the splitters' tent I had seen the track Of horse-hoofs fresh on the sward, And though Darby Lynch and Donovan Jack (Who could swear through a ten-inch board) Solemnly swore he had not been there, I was just as sure that they lied, For to Darby all that is foul was fair, And Jack for his life was tried.

We had run him for seven miles and more As hard as our nags could split; At the start they were all too weary and sore, And his was quite fresh and fit. Young Marsden's pony had had enough On the plain, where the chase was hot; We breasted the swell of the Bittern's Bluff, And Mark couldn't raise a trot; When the sea, like a splendid silver shield, To the south-west suddenly lay; On the brow of the Beetle the chestnut reel'd, And I bid good-bye to M'Crea— And I was alone when the mare fell lame, With a pointed flint in her shoe, On the Stony Flats: I had lost the game, And what was a man to do?

I turned away with no fixed intent And headed for Hawthorndell; I could neither eat in the splitters' tent, Nor drink at the splitters' well; I knew that they gloried in my mishap, And I cursed them between my teeth— A blood-red sunset through Brayton's Gap Flung a lurid fire on the heath.

Could I reach the Dell? I had little reck, And with scarce a choice of my own I threw the reins on Miladi's neck— I had freed her foot from the stone. That season most of the swamps were dry, And after so hard a burst, In the sultry noon of so hot a sky, She was keen to appease her thirst— Or by instinct urged or impelled by fate— I care not to solve these things— Certain it is that she took me straight To the Warrigal water springs.

I can shut my eyes and recall the ground As though it were yesterday— With a shelf of the low, grey rocks girt round, The springs in their basin lay; Woods to the east and wolds to the north In the sundown sullenly bloom'd; Dead black on a curtain of crimson cloth Large peaks to the westward loomed. I led Miladi through weed and sedge, She leisurely drank her fill; There was something close to the water's edge, And my heart with one leap stood still,

For a horse's shoe and a rider's boot Had left clean prints on the clay; Someone had watered his beast on foot. 'Twas he—he had gone. Which way? Then the mouth of the cavern faced me fair, As I turned and fronted the rocks; So, at last, I had pressed the wolf to his lair, I had run to his earth the fox.

I thought so. Perhaps he was resting. Perhaps He was waiting, watching for me. I examined all my revolver caps, I hitched my mare to a tree— I had sworn to have him, alive or dead, And to give him a chance was loth. He knew his life had been forfeited— He had even heard of my oath. In my stocking soles to the shelf I crept, I crawl'd safe into the cave— All silent—if he was there he slept Not there. All dark as the grave.

Through the crack I could hear the leaden hiss! See the livid face through the flame! How strange it seems that a man should miss When his life depends on his aim! There couldn't have been a better light For him, nor a worse for me. We were coop'd up, caged like beasts for a fight, And dumb as dumb beasts were we.

Flash! flash! bang! bang! and we blazed away, And the grey roof reddened and rang; Flash! flash! and I felt his bullet flay The tip of my ear. Flash! bang! Bang! flash! and my pistol arm fell broke; I struck with my left hand then— Struck at a corpse through a cloud of smoke— I had shot him dead in his den!



De Te



A burning glass of burnished brass, The calm sea caught the noontide rays, And sunny slopes of golden grass And wastes of weed-flower seem to blaze. Beyond the shining silver-greys, Beyond the shades of denser bloom, The sky-line girt with glowing haze The farthest, faintest forest gloom, And the everlasting hills that loom.

We heard the hound beneath the mound, We scared the swamp hawk hovering nigh— We had not sought for that we found— He lay as dead men only lie, With wan cheek whitening in the sky, Through the wild heath flowers, white and red, The dumb brute that had seen him die, Close crouching, howl'd beside the head, Brute burial service o'er the dead.

The brow was rife with seams of strife— A lawless death made doubly plain The ravage of a reckless life; The havoc of a hurricane Of passions through that breadth of brain, Like headlong horses that had run Riot, regardless of the rein— "Madman, he might have lived and done Better than most men," whispered one.

The beams and blots that Heaven allots To every life with life begin. Fool! would you change the leopard's spots, Or blanch the Ethiopian's skin? What more could he have hoped to win, What better things have thought to gain, So shapen—so conceived in sin? No life is wholly void and vain, Just and unjust share sun and rain.

Were new life sent, and life misspent, Wiped out (if such to God seemed good), Would he (being as he was) repent, Or could he, even if he would, Who heeded not things understood (Though dimly) even in savage lands By some who worship stone or wood, Or bird or beast, or who stretch hands Sunward on shining Eastern sands?

And crime has cause. Nay, never pause Idly to feel a pulseless wrist; Brace up the massive, square-shaped jaws, Unclench the stubborn, stiff'ning fist, And close those eyes through film and mist That kept the old defiant glare; And answer, wise Psychologist, Whose science claims some little share Of truth, what better things lay there?

Aye! thought and mind were there,—some kind Of faculty that men mistake For talent when their wits are blind,— An aptitude to mar and break What others diligently make. This was the worst and best of him— Wise with the cunning of the snake, Brave with the she wolf's courage grim, Dying hard and dumb, torn limb from limb.

And you, Brown, you're a doctor; cure You can't, but you can kill, and he— "WITNESS HIS MARK"—he signed last year, And now he signs John Smith, J.P. We'll hold our inquest NOW, we three; I'll be your coroner for once; I think old Oswald ought to be Our foreman—Jones is such a dunce,— There's more brain in the bloodhound's sconce.

No man may shirk the allotted work, The deed to do, the death to die; At least I think so,—neither Turk, Nor Jew, nor infidel am I,— And yet I wonder when I try To solve one question, may or must, And shall I solve it by-and-by, Beyond the dark, beneath the dust? I trust so, and I only trust.

Aye, what they will, such trifles kill. Comrade, for one good deed of yours, Your history shall not help to fill The mouths of many brainless boors. It may be death absolves or cures The sin of life. 'Twere hazardous To assert so. If the sin endures, Say only, "God, who has judged him thus, Be merciful to him and us."



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? You swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for the plunder, He rides, too, like thunder—he sits like a rock.

"He calls 'hunted fairly' a horse that has barely Been stripp'd for a trot within sight of the hounds, A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and Yorick, And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds.

"They say we have no test to warrant a protest; Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward; The light of their faces they show him—his case is Prejudged and his verdict already secured.

"But none can outlast her, and few travel faster, She strides in her work clean away from The Drag; You hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter, Whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag.

"And p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though they back it, May fall, or there's no knowing what may turn up; The mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady, Keep cool; and I think you may just win the Cup."

Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle, Stood Iseult, arching her neck to the curb, A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry, A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb.

Some parting injunction, bestowed with great unction, I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce, When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White Surrey, Came down in a hurry to start us at once.

"Keep back in the yellow! Come up on Othello! Hold hard on the chestnut! Turn round on The Drag! Keep back there on Spartan! Back you, sir, in tartan! So, steady there, easy!" and down went the flag.

We started, and Kerr made strong running on Mermaid, Through furrows that led to the first stake-and-bound, The crack, half extended, look'd bloodlike and splendid, Held wide on the right where the headland was sound.

I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle, Before her two-thirds of the field got away, All through the wet pasture where floods of the last year Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with clay.

The fourth fence, a wattle, floor'd Monk and Bluebottle; The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn and ditch, The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover, The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire Witch.

She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock Sparrow, And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone wall; And Giles on The Greyling came down at the paling, And I was left sailing in front of them all.

I took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed her Until the Black Bullfinch led into the plough, And through the strong bramble we bored with a scramble— My cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree bough.

Where furrows looked lighter I drew the rein tighter— Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of white foam, Her flanks mud-bespattered, a weak rail she shattered— We landed on turf with our heads turn'd for home.

Then crash'd a low binder, and then close behind her The sward to the strokes of the favourite shook; His rush roused her mettle, yet ever so little She shortened her stride as we raced at the brook.

She rose when I hit her. I saw the stream glitter, A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee, Between sky and water The Clown came and caught her, The space that he cleared was a caution to see.

And forcing the running, discarding all cunning, A length to the front went the rider in green; A long strip of stubble, and then the big double, Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset between.

She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her, I found my hands give to her strain on the bit; She rose when The Clown did—our silks as we bounded Brush'd lightly, our stirrups clash'd loud as we lit.

A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone coping— The last—we diverged round the base of the hill; His path was the nearer, his leap was the clearer, I flogg'd up the straight, and he led sitting still.

She came to his quarter, and on still I brought her, And up to his girth, to his breastplate she drew; A short prayer from Neville just reach'd me, "The devil!" He mutter'd—lock'd level the hurdles we flew.

A hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd careering, All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely heard; "The green wins!" "The crimson!" The multitude swims on, And figures are blended and features are blurr'd.

"The horse is her master!" "The green forges past her!" "The Clown will outlast her!" "The Clown wins!" "The Clown!" The white railing races with all the white faces, The chestnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.

On still past the gateway she strains in the straightway, Still struggles, "The Clown by a short neck at most," He swerves, the green scourges, the stand rocks and surges, And flashes, and verges, and flits the white post.

Aye! so ends the tussle,—I knew the tan muzzle Was first, though the ring-men were yelling "Dead heat!" A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said, "The mare by A short head." And that's how the favourite was beat.



Fragmentary Scenes from the Road to Avernus

An Unpublished Dramatic Lyric



Scene I "Discontent"

LAURENCE RABY.



Laurence: I said to young Allan M'Ilveray, Beside the swift swirls of the North, When, in lilac shot through with a silver ray, We haul'd 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 won't pay Us to-day, We may tie up our rods and away."

I said to old Norman M'Gregor, 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 He's down—but he's not worth the trouble Of seeking. You once shot a bear In his lair— 'Tis only a buck that lies there."

I said to Lord Charles only last year, The time that we topp'd the oak rail Between Wharton's plough and Whynne's pasture, And clear'd the big brook in Blakesvale— We only—at Warburton's double He fell, then I finish'd the run And kill'd clean—said, "So bursts a bubble That shone half an hour in the sun— What is won? Your sire clear'd and captured a gun."

I said to myself, in true sorrow, I said yestere'en, "A fair prize Is won, and it may be to-morrow 'Twill not seem so fair in thine eyes— Real life is a race through sore trouble, That gains not an inch on the goal, And bliss an intangible bubble That cheats an unsatisfied soul, And the whole Of the rest an illegible scroll."



Scene VII "Two Exhortations"

A Shooting-box in the West of Ireland. A Bedchamber. LAURENCE RABY and MELCHIOR. Night.



Melchior: Surely in the great beginning God made all things good, and still That soul-sickness men call sinning entered not without His will. Nay, our wisest have asserted that, as shade enhances light, Evil is but good perverted, wrong is but the foil of right. Banish sickness, then you banish joy for health to all that live; Slay all sin, all good must vanish, good being but comparative. Sophistry, you say—yet listen: look you skyward, there 'tis known Worlds on worlds in myriads glisten—larger, lovelier than our own— This has been, and this still shall be, here as there, in sun or star; These things are to be and will be, those things were to be and are. Man in man's imperfect nature is by imperfection taught: Add one cubit to your stature if you can by taking thought.

Laurence: Thus you would not teach that peasant, though he calls you "father".

Melchior: True, I should magnify this present, mystify that future, too— We adapt our conversation always to our hearer's light.

Laurence: I am not of your persuasion.

Melchior: Yet the difference is but slight.

Laurence: I, EVEN I, say, "He who barters worldly weal for heavenly worth He does well"—your saints and martyrs were examples here on earth.

Melchior: Aye, in earlier Christian ages, while the heathen empire stood, When the war 'twixt saints and sages cried aloud for saintly blood, Christ was then their model truly. Now, if all were meek and pure, Save the ungodly and the unruly, would the Christian Church endure? Shall the toiler or the fighter dream by day and watch by night, Turn the left cheek to the smiter, smitten rudely on the right? Strong men must encounter bad men—so-called saints of latter days Have been mostly pious madmen, lusting after righteous praise— Or the thralls of superstition, doubtless worthy some reward, Since they came by their condition hardly of their free accord. 'Tis but madness, sad and solemn, that these fakir-Christians feel— Saint Stylites on his column gratified a morbid zeal.

Laurence: By your showing, good is really on a par (of worth) with ill.

Melchior: Nay, I said not so; I merely tell you both some ends fulfil— Priestly vows were my vocation, fast and vigil wait for me. You must work and face temptation. Never should the strong man flee, Though God wills the inclination with the soul at war to be. (Pauses.) In the strife 'twixt flesh and spirit, while you can the spirit aid. Should you fall not less your merit, be not for a fall afraid. Whatsoe'er most right, most fit is you shall do. When all is done Chaunt the noble Nunc Dimittis—Benedicimur, my son. [Exit MELCHIOR.]

Laurence (alone): Why do I provoke these wrangles? Melchior talks (as well he may) With the tongues of men and angels. (Takes up a pamphlet.) What has this man got to say? (Reads.) Sic sacerdos fatur (ejus nomen quondam erat Burgo.) Mala mens est, caro pejus, anima infirma, ergo I nunc, ora, sine mora—orat etiam Sancta Virgo. (Thinks.) (Speaks.) So it seems they mean to make her wed the usurer, Nathan Lee. Poor Estelle! her friends forsake her; what has this to do with me? Glad I am, at least, that Helen still refuses to discard Her, through tales false gossips tell in spite or heedlessness.—'Tis hard!— Lee, the Levite!—some few years back Herbert horsewhipp'd him—the cur Show'd his teeth and laid his ears back. Now his wealth has purchased her. Must his baseness mar her brightness? Shall the callous, cunning churl Revel in the rosy whiteness of that golden-headed girl? (Thinks and smokes.) (Reads.) Cito certe venit vitae finis (sic sacerdos fatur), Nunc audite omnes, ite, vobis fabula narratur Nunc orate et laudate, laudat etiam Alma Mater. (Muses.) Such has been, and such shall still be, here as there, in sun or star; These things are to be and will be, those things were to be and are. If I thought that speech worth heeding I should—Nay, it seems to me More like Satan's special pleading than like Gloria Domine. (Lies down on his couch.) (Reads.) Et tuquoque frater meus facta mala quod fecisti Denique confundit Deus omnes res quas tetegisti. Nunc si unquam, nunc aut nunquam, sanguine adjuro Christi.



Scene IX "In the Garden"

Aylmer's Garden, near the Lake. LAURENCE RABY and ESTELLE.



He: Come to the bank where the boat is moor'd to the willow-tree low; Bertha, the baby, won't notice, Brian, the blockhead, won't know.

She: Bertha is not such a baby, sir, as you seem to suppose; Brian, a blockhead he may be, more than you think for he knows.

He: This much, at least, of your brother, from the beginning he knew Somewhat concerning that other made such a fool of by you.

She: Firmer those bonds were and faster, Frank was my spaniel, my slave. You! you would fain be my master; mark you! the difference is grave.

He: Call me your spaniel, your starling, take me and treat me as these, I would be anything, darling! aye, whatsoever you please. Brian and Basil are "punting", leave them their dice and their wine, Bertha is butterfly hunting, surely one hour shall be mine. See, I have done with all duty; see, I can dare all disgrace, Only to look at your beauty, feasting my eyes on your face.

She: Look at me, aye, till your eyes ache! How, let me ask, will it end? Neither for your sake, nor my sake, but for the sake of my friend?

He: Is she your friend then? I own it, this is all wrong, and the rest, Frustra sed anima monet, caro quod fortius est.

She: Not quite so close, Laurence Raby, not with your arm round my waist; Something to look at I may be, nothing to touch or to taste.

He: Wilful as ever and wayward; why did you tempt me, Estelle?

She: You misinterpret each stray word, you for each inch take an ell. Lightly all laws and ties trammel me, I am warn'd for all that.

He (aside): Perhaps she will swallow her camel when she has strained at her gnat.

She: Therefore take thought and consider, weigh well, as I do, the whole, You for mere beauty a bidder, say, would you barter a soul?

He: Girl! THAT MAY happen, but THIS IS; after this welcome the worst; Blest for one hour by your kisses, let me be evermore curs'd. Talk not of ties to me reckless, here every tie I discard— Make me your girdle, your necklace—

She: Laurence, you kiss me too hard.

He: Aye, 'tis the road to Avernus, n'est ce pas vrai donc, ma belle? There let them bind us or burn us, mais le jeu vaut la chandelle. Am I your lord or your vassal? Are you my sun or my torch? You, when I look at you, dazzle, yet when I touch you, you scorch.

She: Yonder are Brian and Basil watching us fools from the porch.



Scene X "After the Quarrel"

Laurence Raby's Chamber. LAURENCE enters, a little the worse for liquor.



Laurence: He never gave me a chance to speak, And he call'd her—worse than a dog— The girl stood up with a crimson cheek, And I fell'd him there like a log.

I can feel the blow on my knuckles yet— He feels it more on his brow. In a thousand years we shall all forget The things that trouble us now.



Scene XI "Ten Paces Off"

An open country. LAURENCE RABY and FORREST, BRIAN AYLMER and PRESCOT.



Forrest: I've won the two tosses from Prescot; Now hear me, and hearken and heed, And pull that vile flower from your waistcoat, And throw down that beast of a weed; I'm going to give you the signal I gave Harry Hunt at Boulogne, The morning he met Major Bignell, And shot him as dead as a stone; For he must look round on his right hand To watch the white flutter—that stops His aim, for it takes off his sight, and I COUGH WHILE THE HANDKERCHIEF DROPS. And you keep both eyes on his figure, Old fellow, and don't take them off. You've got the sawhandled hair trigger— You sight him and shoot when I cough.

Laurence (aside): Though God will never forgive me, Though men make light of my name, Though my sin and my shame outlive me, I shall not outlast my shame. The coward, does he mean to miss me? His right hand shakes like a leaf; Shall I live for my friends to hiss me, Of fools and of knaves the chief? Shall I live for my foes to twit me? He has master'd his nerve again— He is firm, he will surely hit me— Will he reach the heart or the brain? One long look eastward and northward— One prayer—"Our Father which art"— And the cough chimes in with the fourth word, And I shoot skyward—the heart.