Adam Lindsay Gordon

Dawn On skies still and starlit White lustres take hold,

They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less Of sound than of words, In lands where bright blossoms are scentless,

They say that poison-sprinkled flowers Are sweeter in perfume Than when, untouched by deadly dew,

Here's a health to every sportsman, be he stableman or lord, If his heart be true, I care not what his pocket may afford; And may he ever pleasantly each gallant sport pursue,

Translated from the Spanish Francesca. Crush'd and throng'd are all the places

'Where shall we go for our garlands glad At the falling of the year, When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad,

Laurence Raby's Chamber. LAURENCE enters, a little the worse for liquor. Laurence: He never gave me a chance to speak,

The ocean heaves around us still With long and measured swell, The autumn gales our canvas fill,

Our hopes are wild imaginings, Our schemes are airy castles, Yet these, on earth, are lords and kings,

Dramatis Personae HUGO,a Norman Baron and a Scholar.ERIC,a friend of Hugo's.THURSTON,|EUSTACE,|RALPH,| Followers of Hugo.HENRY,a Page.LUKE,|HUBERT,| Monks living in a Norman Chapel.BASIL,Abbot of a Convent on the Rhine.CYRIL,a Monk of the same Convent.OSRIC,a Norwegian Adventurer, and formerly a Corsair.RUDOLPH,an Outlawed Count, and the Captain of a Band of Robbers.DAGOBERT,the Captain of some predatory Soldiers called 'Free Lances'.HAROLD,a Danish Knight.ORION.|THORA,|AGATHA,|ELSPETH, a Nurse of Thora's,|URSULA, Abbess of the Convent on the Rhine,|NUNS, etc.| Women. Men-at-arms, Soldiers, and Robbers; Monks, Friars, and Churchmen, Spirits, etc.

Thou art moulded in marble impassive, False goddess, fair statue of strife, Yet standest on pedestal massive,

A Preface and a Piracy Prologue Of borrow'd plumes I take the sin,

'They have saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, They have bridled a hundred black.' Old Ballad. 'He turned in his saddle, now follow who dare.

'Beneath the greenwood bough.' - W. Scott. Lightly the breath of the spring wind blows,

'Gillian's dead, God rest her bier, How I loved her many years syne; Marion's married, but I sit here,

The shore-boat lies in the morning light, By the good ship ready for sailing; The skies are clear, and the dawn is bright,

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,

Oh! wind that whistles o'er thorns and thistles, Of this fruitful earth like a goblin elf; Why should he labour to help his neighbour

A burning glass of burnished brass, The calm sea caught the noontide rays, And sunny slopes of golden grass

From a Picture The sun has gone down, spreading wide on The sky-line one ray of red fire;

LAURENCE RABY. Laurence: I said to young Allan M'Ilveray,

Aye, snows are rife in December, And sheaves are in August yet, And you would have me remember,

Adieu to kindred hearts and home, To pleasure, joy, and mirth, A fitter foot than mine to roam

Prologue Calm and clear! the bright day is declining, The crystal expanse of the bay,

HELEN RABY. Where the grave-deeps rot, where the grave-dews rust, They dug, crying, 'Earth to earth',

To fetch clear water out of the spring The little maid Margaret ran; From the stream to the castle's western wing

'There's something in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by-and-bye.' - Tennyson.

Scene I 'Discontent' LAURENCE RABY.

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,

'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.'

In Collins-street standeth a statue tall,* A statue tall on a pillar of stone, Telling its story, to great and small,

In Five Parts Part I Visions in the Smoke

'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

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;

'Then hey for boot and horse, lad! And round the world away! Young blood will have its course, lad!

The Lord shall slay or the Lord shall save! He is righteous whether He save or slay, Brother, give thanks for the gifts He gave,

'And if there's blood upon his hand, 'Tis but the blood of deer.' - W. Scott.

'A stone upon her heart and head, But no name written on that stone; Sweet neighbours whisper low instead,

Translation from Horace When he, that shepherd false, 'neath Phrygian sails, Carried his hostess Helen o'er the seas,

Am I waking? Was I sleeping? Dearest, are you watching yet? Traces on your cheeks of weeping

'Nec propter vitam vivendi perdere causas.' Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill Too oft gets broken at last,

Two years ago I was thinking On the changes that years bring forth; Now I stand where I then stood drinking

The maiden sat by the river side (The rippling water murmurs by), And sadly into the clear blue tide

Podas Okus Am I waking? Was I sleeping? Dearest, are you watching yet?

The Philosophy of a Feast Make merry, comrades, eat and drink (The sunlight flickers on the sea),

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

PLATE I Rixa super mero They sat by their wine in the tavern that night,

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,

All is over! fleet career, Dash of greyhound slipping thongs, Flight of falcon, bound of deer,

Mark: So, Maurice, you sail to-morrow, you say? And you may or may not return?

On the hill they are crowding together, In the stand they are crushing for room, Like midge-flies they swarm on the heather,

Through the lattice rushes the south wind, dense With fumes of the flowery frankincense From hawthorn blossoming thickly;

'You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget

As related by Sergeant Leigh on the night he got his captaincy at the Restoration. I'll tell you a story; but pass the 'jack', And let us make merry to-night, my men.

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,

White steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roar On the bar of ironstone steep, not a fathom's length from the shore, Is there never a seer nor sophist can interpret your wild refrain,

With short, sharp, violent lights made vivid, To southward far as the sight can roam, Only the swirl of the surges livid,

The sword slew one in deadly strife; One perish'd by the bowl; The third lies self-slain by the knife;

No. I I've something of the bull-dog in my breed, The spaniel is developed somewhat less;

We severed in autumn early, Ere the earth was torn by the plough; The wheat and the oats and the barley

Though I have loved you well, I ween, And you, too, fancied me, Your heart hath too divided been

Lines written by the late A. L. Gordon On 4th August, 1853, Being three days before he sailed for Australia.

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

Oh! the sun rose on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie, And the steed stood ready harness'd in the hall, And he left his lady's bower, and he sought the eastern tower,

Lay me low, my work is done; I am weary. Lay me low, Where the wild flowers woo the sun,

Rest, and be thankful! On the verge Of the tall cliff rugged and grey, But whose granite base the breakers surge,

Oh, gaily sings the bird! and the wattle-boughs are stirr'd And rustled by the scented breath of spring; Oh, the dreary wistful longing! Oh, the faces that are thronging!

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

The troubles of life are many, The pleasures of life are few; When we sat in the sunlight, Annie,

Fytte I By Wood and Wold [A Preamble]

'Now, welcome, welcome, masters mine, Thrice welcome to the noble chase, Nor earthly sport, nor sport divine,