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 Australian Poems
 
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 cAdam Lindsay Qordon's 
 cAustralian ^Toems
 
 Adam Lindsay Gordon
 
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 cAdam (Lindsay Qordon's 
 
 °cs\ustralian ^Poems 
 
 Edited by 
 
 CHARLES R. LONG, M.A. 
 
 President, The Gordon Memorial Committee. 
 
 In the spring, when the wattle-gold trembles 
 Twixt shadow and shine, 
 
 ***** 
 
 Some song in all hearts hath existence, — 
 Such songs have been mine. 
 
 — Gordon. 
 
 WHITCOMBE & TOMBS LIMITED 
 
 Melbourne and Sydney 
 
 Auckland, Christchurch, Dunedin, Wellington 
 and London
 
 X* 
 
 
 <#. 
 
 if- '«~<. C* *.. 
 
 From a /erfer written June, 1S63
 
 (X3 
 
 I I ■ 
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 Though there are several biographies of Adam 
 Lindsay Gordon and editions of his poetry, yet this 
 book supplies a need — a biographical outline; a 
 collection of those poems that are distinctively Aus- 
 tralian, accompanied by notes to help to a fuller 
 understanding and appreciation of them; and photo- 
 graphs of the principal monuments to him in 
 Australia. 
 
 1354797
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Adam Lindsay Gordon : Biographical 7 
 
 A Dedication 9 
 
 By Wood and Wold 12 
 
 Wolf and Hound 13 
 
 From the Wreck 17 
 
 Gone 22 
 
 Whisperings in Wattle-Boughs 24 
 
 The Swimmer 26 
 
 The Sick Stockrider 28 
 
 How We Beat the Favourite 32 
 
 A Basket of Flowers 36 
 
 Finis Exoptatus 39 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Page 
 
 Portrait of Gordon Frontispiece 
 
 Specimen of Handwriting 4 
 
 Gordon's Cottage near Port McDonnell 43 
 
 Obelisk, Memorial Drive, Mt. Gambier 43 
 
 Monument over Gordon's Grave 44 
 
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
 
 Statue : A School Paper photo., by courtesy of the Government 
 Printer and the Director of Education, Victoria. 
 
 (Paul R. Montford, Sculptor) 
 
 Handwriting : Part of a letter, reproduced in Adam Lindsay 
 Gordon and His Friends in England and Australia, by Edith 
 Humphris and Douglas Sladen. 
 
 Dingley Dell : Government Photograph, South Australia. 
 
 Obelisk : Tourist Bureau, South Australia. The obelisk is situated 
 on the Memorial Drive near the spot where Gordon caused 
 his horse to jump over a fence on to a narrow ledge some 
 hundreds of feet above the Blue Lake. 
 
 Monument : Photo., by courtesy of Mr. J. K. Moir, Melbourne.
 
 Biographical 
 
 ADAM LINDSAY GORDON 
 October 19th, 1833— June 24th, 1870 
 
 Henry Kendall, Australia's first native-born poet of eminence, 
 after the death of Gordon, whose poems he had read as they 
 appeared, wrote of him as 
 
 "A shining soul with syllables of fire, 
 Who sang the first great songs these lands can claim 
 To be their own." 
 
 These "first great songs" are not many, but they have become 
 well-known and have exercised a strong influence. 
 
 Gordon came of cultured and well-to-do parents, but, being 
 nearly twenty and without satisfactory prospects, though educated 
 at Cheltenham College, Woolwich Military Academy, and Wor- 
 cester Grammar School, he left England for Adelaide in 1853, 
 and, soon after landing, joined the mounted-police force of South 
 Australia. 
 
 After about two years' service he resigned, and, having an 
 exceptional liking for horses, entered upon the occupation of 
 horse-breaker, travelling from station to station in the south- 
 eastern part of South Australia. In '62, he married Maggie Park, 
 and they made their home near Port McDonnell, occupying a 
 cottage, called "Dingley Dell," which, some years ago, was bought 
 by the Government of South Australia to serve as a memorial to 
 the poet's memory. 
 
 Having inherited several thousands of pounds in '64, Gordon 
 consented to stand for the South Australian Parliament, and was 
 elected in March, '65. He continued to keep horses, ride steeple- 
 chases, and make unprofitable investments. Tiring of his parlia- 
 mentary duties, he resigned in November, '66. Having endeavoured 
 without success to form a sheep-run in Western Australia, and 
 his funds being at a low ebb, he, in October, '67, went to Ballarat 
 (where he had ridden steeplechases) , and leased a livery-stable. 
 As the business did not pay, he gave it up after a year's effort. 
 
 Gordon's ability to compose verse had shown itself, before he 
 left England, in rhyming descriptions of the doings of himself and 
 his companions, many of whom were addicted to hunting, racing, 
 and boxing. A song for a convivial meeting begins thus : — 
 
 "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."
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 In '66, some of his racing rhymes appeared in Bell's Life in 
 Victoria, a Melbourne paper whose editor was perhaps the first 
 to recognize Gordon's poetic ability. In parts, these rhymes rise 
 to a poetic level, as the following shows : — - 
 
 "In their own generation the wise may sneer— 
 
 They hold our sport in derision; 
 Perchance to sophist, or sage, or seer 
 
 Was allotted a graver vision. 
 Yet, if man, of all the Creator planned, 
 
 His noblest work is reckoned, 
 Of the works of His hand, by sea or by land, 
 
 The horse may at least rank second." 
 
 In the June of the following year ('67), Gordon published in 
 the same city a lyrical drama Ashtacoth, and, a week or so later, 
 a small book of poems, Sea Spray and Smoke Drift. 
 
 He made many friends in Melbourne after his removal there 
 from Ballarat towards the end of '68. He trained horses, and, as 
 a gentleman rider, rode them in steeplechases. He also occasion- 
 ally contributed poems to The Colonial Monthly (edited by the 
 novelist, Marcus Clarke) and The Australasian (edited by F. W. 
 Haddon). About this time, he learnt from an uncle in England 
 that he was, in all probability, heir to a fine property in Scotland; 
 but, early in June, 1870, after incurring considerable expense in 
 getting legal advice, there came the news that his claim could not 
 be made good. 
 
 On June 24th, owing to the disappointment, his inability to 
 pay his debts, and the sufferings caused by heavy falls when 
 riding, his mind became unhinged, and he took his own life. The 
 day before his death, a volume of his poems, Bush Ballads and 
 Galloping Rhymes, had been published. Though his literary 
 friends highly appreciated his poetry, he was well aware, from 
 his previous experience, that the public would be slow in buying 
 his book. 
 
 Gordon's poems have become popular — popular with all classes, 
 the learned and the unlearned. This is due, in great part, to their 
 melodious rhythms, vigorous expression, and an interest that 
 attaches to persons. In them are revealed an admiration for 
 courage, manliness, and honest dealing; a love of adventure and 
 independence; a passion for the horse; and an appreciation of 
 natural beauty — qualities and tastes dear to the Briton in what- 
 ever land he may be. 
 
 8
 
 A Dedication 
 
 A DEDICATION 
 
 [The following stanzas are from those addressed to the author 
 of Holmby House, the English novelist, Whyte-Melville. They 
 come first in Gordon's last book, Bush Ballads and Galloping 
 Rhymes (1870). Whyte-Melville had contributed to Baily's 
 Magazine a favourable article on Gordon's verse, which the poet 
 had read. "Whyte-Melville was," states Douglas Sladen, "one 
 of the first persons in the Old Country to recognize the genius of 
 Adam Lindsay Gordon." In his letter acknowledging the receipt 
 of Bush Ballads occurs the significant words : "Here and there, 
 one comes upon a couplet or stanza which will be quoted when 
 most of us are forgotten."] 
 
 They are rhymes rudely strung with intent !ess 
 
 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 floodgates 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,
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 The chant 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 nre-flush'd when forest trees redden 
 
 On slopes of the range. 
 When the gnarl'd, knotted trunks eucalyptian 
 Seemed 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 skyline's blue burnish'd resistance 
 Makes deeper the dreamiest distance, 
 Some song in all hearts hath existence, — 
 Such songs have been mine. 
 
 10
 
 A Dedication 
 
 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 renev/d to the rover; 
 That flash'd while the black horse turn'd over 
 
 Before the long sleep. 
 
 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.
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 BY WOOD AND WOLD 
 
 [These melodious and truly Australian verses form the intro- 
 duction to a series entitled Ye Wearie Wayfarer, the publication 
 of which began in October, '65, in Bell's Life in Victoria. Though 
 they appeared when the poet was a member of the South Aus- 
 tralian Parliament, some of them were inspired by his life in the 
 Mt. Gambier District. It was, in a cottage called "Dingley Dell," 
 not far from Port McDonnell, that he and his wife lived for two 
 or three years before they went to Adelaide.] 
 
 Lightly the breath of the spring wind blows, 
 
 Though laden with faint perfume, 
 'Tis the fragrance rare that the bushman knows, 
 
 The scent of the wattle-bloom. 
 Two-thirds of our journey at least are done, 
 
 Old horse! let us take a spell 
 In the shade from the glare of the noonday sun. 
 
 Thus far we have travell'd well; 
 Your bridle I'll slip, your saddle ungirth, 
 
 And lay them beside this log, 
 For you'll roll in that track of reddish earth, 
 
 And shake like a water-dog. 
 
 Upon yonder rise there's a clump of trees — 
 
 Their shadows look cool and broad — 
 You can crop the grass as fast as you please, 
 
 While I stretch my limbs on the sward; 
 'Tis pleasant, I ween, with a leafy screen 
 
 O'er the weary head, to lie 
 On the mossy carpet of emerald green, 
 
 'Neath the vault of the azure sky; 
 Thus all alone by the wood and wold, 
 
 I yield myself once again 
 To the memories old that, like tales fresh told. 
 
 Come flitting across the brain. 
 
 1?
 
 Wolf and Hound 
 
 WOLF AND HOUND 
 
 [This story poem was probably written at the Yallum Park 
 homestead, where Gordon spent most of January and the first half 
 of February, '69, with a friend he had made in Parliament, John 
 Riddoch, and his family. As no evidence has been discovered of 
 the capture of a bushranger by Gordon, though the police records 
 for the period during which he was a member of the South Aus- 
 tralian Mounted Police have been searched, the tradition that the 
 poem describes an incident in his own life is most likely not true.] 
 
 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 sv/ore 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 h:s 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, 
 
 13
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 And I bade 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 Hawthomdell ; 
 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 V/arrigal water-springs. 
 
 1 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 bloomed; 
 Dead black on a curtain of crimson cloth 
 
 14
 
 Wolf and Hound 
 
 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; 
 Some one 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 press'd 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 loath. 
 He knew his life had been forfeited — 
 
 He had even heard of my oath. 
 In my stocking'd 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. 
 
 15
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 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! 
 
 If)
 
 From the Wreck 
 
 FROM THE WRECK 
 
 [This story was probably written at Yallum Park early in '69. 
 It describes an actual occurrence. On August 6th, '59 — a date 
 which falls within the period Gordon was occupied in breaking-in 
 horses in the Mt. Gambier District — the s.s. Admella was wrecked 
 on the rocky coast near C. Banks. Elackfellows took the news 
 to a station where Gordon was staying. He and a companion 
 set out with it to the nearest telegraph office — Mt. Gambier — 
 between 20 and 30 miles distant. The information was also taken 
 to the C Northumberland lighthouse by two seamen who had 
 reached the shore on a raft. From there it was sent to Mt. 
 Gambier, a distance of about 20 miles. There are reasons for 
 thinking that Gordon described his own ride. The Portland life- 
 boat was in time to rescue some of the people. "I have no idea," 
 wrote Alex. Sutherland, to whom Gordonians owe much for his 
 diligent study of the poet's life and works, "where to turn in all 
 literature for a poem more admirable after its own kind."] 
 
 " 'Turn out, boys ! ' What's up with our super, to-night ? 
 
 The man's mad. Tv/o 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. 
 
 17
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 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 new track, 
 
 They've fenced off the old 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 smother'd curse broke through the bushman's brown beard, 
 
 He tum'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 seem'd to curl. 
 
 18
 
 From the Wreck 
 
 We follov/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 Hung the white foam-flakes from nostril to neck, 
 And chased him — I hatless, with shirtsleeves 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 liung 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. 
 
 19
 
 Gordon's Australian Poemi 
 
 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 hcrse 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 Macintyre's hut and Mncallister'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. 
 
 20
 
 From the Wreck 
 
 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-covered 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 slackened 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. 
 
 21
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 GONE 
 
 [The tragic fate of Robert O'Hara Burke, an inspector of police, 
 who was selected as the leader of a party equipped by a com- 
 mittee in Melbourne to explore Central Australia, very much 
 interested Gordon. He greatly admired Burke. About the middle 
 of November, '60, Burke reached Cooper's Creek with some of 
 his party, and a depot was formed. Impatient of delay, he soon 
 set out with Wills, Gray, and King to cross to the Gulf of 
 Carpentaria. Gray died on the way back; and, when the others 
 arrived at the depot, they found it deserted. Burke and Wills 
 perished from starvation towards the end of June, '61, but King 
 was rescued not long afterwards. The laying down of a tramway 
 in Collins Street necessitated the removal of the bronze statue 
 that had been unveiled in '65. It now stands in Spring Street 
 near Parliament House and within sight of the statue of the poet.] 
 
 In Collins Street standeth a statue tall — 
 
 A statue tall on a pillar of stone, 
 Telling its story, to great and small, 
 
 Of the dust reclaimed from the sand-waste lone. 
 Weary and wasted, and worn and wan, 
 
 Feeble and faint, and languid and low, 
 He lay on the desert a dying man, 
 
 Who has gone, my friends, where we all must go. 
 
 There are perils by land, and perils by water, 
 
 Short, I ween, are the obsequies 
 Of the landsman lost, but they may be shorter 
 
 With the mariner lost in the trackless seas; 
 And well for him, when the timbers start, 
 
 And the stout ship reels and settles below, 
 Who goes to his doom with as bold a heart 
 
 As that dead man gone where we all must go. 
 
 22
 
 Gone 
 
 Man is stubborn his rights to yield, 
 
 And redder than dews at eventide 
 Are the dews of battle, shed on the field 
 
 By a nation's wrath or a despot's pride; 
 But few who have heard their death-knell roll 
 
 From the cannon's lips where they faced the foe 
 Have fallen as stout and steady of soul 
 
 As that dead man gone where we all must go. 
 
 Traverse yon spacious burial-ground. 
 
 Many are sleeping soundly there 
 Who pass'd with mourners standing round. 
 
 Kindred, and friends, and children fair. 
 Did he envy such ending? 'Twere hard to say. 
 
 Had he cause to envy such ending? No. 
 Can the spirit feel for the senseless clay 
 
 When it once has gone where we all must go? 
 
 What matters the sand or the whitening chalk, 
 
 The blighted herbage, the black'ning log, 
 The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk, 
 
 Or the hot red tongue of the native dog? 
 That couch was rugged, those sextons rude, 
 
 Yet, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know 
 That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms' food, 
 
 When once they've gone where we all must go. 
 
 With the pistol clenched in his failing hand, 
 
 With the death mist spread o'er his fading eyes. 
 He saw the sun go down on the sand, 
 
 And he slept, and never saw it rise. 
 Twas well; he toil'd till his task was done, 
 
 Constant and calm in his latest throe, 
 The storm was weathered, the battle was won, 
 
 When he went, my friends, where we all must go. 
 
 23
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 WHISPERINGS IN WATTLE-BOUGHS 
 
 [Of this lyric, Alex. Sutherland, in The Development of Aus~ 
 tralian Literature, wrote as follows : — "One of the finest poems 
 in the volume (Sea Spray and Smoke Drift) is entitled 'Whisper- 
 ings in Wattle-Boughs.' It gives us a glimpse of Gordon's mind 
 as, in those days, he pondered over a reckless past and the hearts 
 estranged, then lost for ever. It is one of the three most musical 
 and most pathetic poems ever written in Australia." One might 
 add that the poem exhibits in itself the sources of Gordon's 
 popularity as a poet — personality, subject, style.] 
 
 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! 
 Oh, the voices that are vaguely whispering! 
 
 Oh! tell me, father mine, ere the good ship cross'd the brine, 
 On the gangway one mute hand-grip we exchanged, 
 
 Do you, past the grave, employ for your stubborn, reckless 
 boy 
 Those petitions that in life were ne'er estranged? 
 
 Oh! tell me, sister dear — parting word and parting tear 
 Never pass'd between us; let me bear the blame — 
 
 Are you living, girl, or dead? Bitter tears since then I've 
 shed 
 For the lips that lisp'd with mine a mother's name. 
 
 Oh! tell me, ancient friend, ever ready to defend 
 In our boyhood at the base of life's long hill, 
 
 Are you waking yet or sleeping? Have you left this vale 
 of weeping? 
 Or do you, like your comrade, linger still? 
 
 24
 
 Whisperings in Wattle-boughs 
 
 Oh, whisper, buried love, is there rest and peace above? — 
 There is little hope or comfort here below; — 
 
 On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed is strait 
 and cold 
 Near the harbour where the sea-tides ebb and flow. 
 
 All silent. They are dumb. And the breezes go and come 
 With an apathy that mocks at man's distress. 
 
 Laugh, scoffer, while you may! I could bow me down and 
 pray 
 For an answer that might stay my bitterness. 
 
 Oh, harshly screams the bird, and the wattle-bloom is stirr'd! 
 
 There's a sullen, weird-like whisper in the bough; 
 "Ay, kneel, and pray, and weep; but his beloved sleep 
 
 Can never be disturb 'd by such as thou ! " 
 
 25
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 THE SWIMMER 
 
 [The following stanzas are descriptive of the coast scenery near 
 C. Northumberland, in the vicinity of Port McDonnell. At no 
 great distance from the port was the home to which Gordon took 
 his bride not long after their marriage. From it he moved to the 
 cottage called "Dingley Dell," on the road between the port and 
 the town of Mt. Gambier. He lived there till it became necessary 
 for him, after his election to Parliament, to reside near Adelaide. 
 The place has been purchased by the Government of South Aus- 
 tralia, and is now a museum of Gordon relics, visited by the 
 poet's admirers, and the scene of an annual pilgrimage. Like his 
 remote ancestor Byron, Gordon was passionately fond of the sea, 
 and, when living at Dingley Dell, it became a source of inspiration 
 to him, along with the wattles that grow so plentifully in what is 
 now "The Gordon Country."] 
 
 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. 
 
 26
 
 The Swimmer 
 
 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. 
 
 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 v/ith frothy feet. 
 One gleam like a bloodshot sword-blade swims on 
 The skyline, 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. 
 
 27 
 
 U
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 THE SICK STOCKRIDER 
 
 [Douglas Sladen, in his edition of The Poems of Adam Lindsay 
 Gordon (Constable), gives pride of place to "The Sick Stock- 
 rider," and speaks of it as a masterpiece that no poet but Gordon 
 could have written, and the best poem of its kind in the language. 
 "It was necessary," he asserts, "that poetical genius, ringing, 
 spirited, rhythmical writing, manfulness, experience of the 'old 
 colonial days,' and intimate, loving acquaintance with the bush 
 should unite in one man before a poem like 'The Sick Stockrider' 
 could be born." Though the poem is dramatic — a sick stockrider's 
 review of the excitements and pleasures of a careless bush life 
 and his pathetic self-satisfaction — some of the incidents are believed 
 to have happened to Gordon himself, and some of the reflections 
 to be applicable to him. The poem first appeared in The Colonial 
 Monthly Magazine, Melbourne, in '69. It was at once reprinted 
 in The Australasian, and achieved a decided popularity.] 
 
 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; 
 
 28
 
 The Sick Stockrider 
 
 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 wander'd 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! 
 
 Ay! 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 under- 
 neath ! 
 
 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! 
 
 29
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 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? 
 Ay! 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 30
 
 The Sick Stockrider 
 
 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. 
 
 a 
 
 J
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 HOW WE BEAT THE FAVOURITE 
 [A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup] 
 
 [The poem was published first in The Australasian on June 
 12th, '69. Marcus Clarke, the first of many editors to write a 
 preface to a collection of Gordon's poems, asserted that it was by 
 this piece that the poet's reputation was made. By universal 
 consent it is the best racing poem in the language. It wins 
 inclusion in this collection mainly because, though the scene of 
 the struggle is in England, and the description is that of a cross- 
 country steeplechase in which Gordon had taken part or seen, 
 yet "he wrote it," as Douglas Sladen says, "because he felt Aus- 
 tralia in his veins"; and also, as Desmond Byrne asserts, "because 
 it expresses the one taste which, of all those inherited by Aus- 
 tralians from their British ancestors, seems never likely to be lost." 
 Gordon was not a professional jockey, and never made a race a 
 means of gambling or cheating. He was the laureate of clean 
 sport, and an out-and-out believer in its efficacy as a means of 
 maintaining the nerve and hardihood of the race.] 
 
 "Ay, 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 Abd-el-Kader 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; 
 
 32
 
 How We Beat the Favourite 
 
 The light of their faces they show him: his case is 
 Prejudged and his verdict already secured. 
 
 "But none can outlast her, and fev/ travel faster, 
 She strides in her work clean away from Ihe 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, bestow'd 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; 
 
 33 

 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 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 Grayling 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 knocked off by the hazel-tree bough. 
 
 Where furrows looked lighter, I drew the rein tighter — 
 Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of white form, 
 
 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 shorten'd 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;
 
 How We Beat the Favourite 
 
 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 Hew. 
 
 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!" "Ihe 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. 
 
 Ay! so ends the tussle. I knew the tan muzzle 
 
 Was first, though the ringmen 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. 
 
 35
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 A BASKET OF FLOWERS 
 [From Dawn to Dusk] 
 
 [When Gordon's stay at Yallum Park was drawing to an 
 end, Miss Lizzie Riddoch asked him to write a poem to go with 
 "A Basket of Flowers" that were to be sent to an aunt. It was 
 not commenced when he set out on his journey to Casterton. The 
 story goes that, when he rested under a tree, as he did occasion- 
 ally, for it was very hot, he would write out a verse that he had 
 composed, and, by the time he reached his destination, the poem 
 was complete. It is inscribed "Ad Mariam, Feb. 14th, 1869."] 
 
 DAWN 
 
 On skies still and starlit 
 
 White lustres take hold, 
 And grey flushes scarlet, 
 
 And red flashes gold. 
 And sun-glories cover 
 The rose, shed above her; 
 Like lover and lover 
 
 They flame and unfold. 
 
 Still bloom in the garden 
 
 Green grass-plot, fresh lawn, 
 Though pasture lands harden. 
 And drought fissures yawn. 
 While leaves not a few fall, 
 Let rose-leaves for you fall — 
 Leaves pearl-strung with dew-fall, 
 And gold shot with dawn. 
 
 36
 
 A Basket of Flowers 
 
 Does the grass-plot remember 
 
 The fall of your feet 
 In autumn's red ember 
 
 When drought leagues with heat, 
 When the last of the roses 
 Despairingly closes 
 In the lull that reposes 
 
 Ere storm-winds wax fleet? 
 
 Fresh flowers in a basket — 
 
 An offering to you — 
 Though you did not ask it. 
 
 Unbidden I strew; 
 With heat and drought striving 
 Some blossoms still living 
 May render thanksgiving 
 
 For dawn and for dew. 
 
 The garlands I gather, 
 
 The rhymes I string fast, 
 Are hurriedly rather 
 
 Than heedlessly cast. 
 
 Yon tree's shady awning 
 
 Is short'ning and warning, 
 
 Far spent is the morning, 
 
 And I must ride fast. 
 
 Songs empty, yet airy, 
 
 I've striven to write; 
 For failure, dear Mary, 
 
 Forgive me — Good-night! 
 Songs and flowers may beset you, 
 I can only regret you, 
 While the soil where I met you 
 
 Recedes from my sight. 
 
 37
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 For the sake of past hours, 
 
 For the love of old times, 
 Take "A Basket of Flowers" 
 
 And a bundle of rhymes, 
 Though all the bloom perish 
 E'er your hand can cherish, 
 While churlish and bearish 
 
 The verse-jingle chimes. 
 
 And eastward by nor'ward 
 
 Looms sadly my track; 
 And I must ride forward, 
 
 And still I look back. 
 Look back — Ah, how vainly! 
 For, v/hile I see plainly, 
 My hands on the reins lie 
 
 Uncertain and slack. 
 
 The warm wind breathes strong breath, 
 
 The dust dims mine eye, 
 And I draw one long breath 
 
 And stifle one sigh. 
 Green slopes softly shaded 
 Have flitted and faded. 
 My dreams flit as they did. 
 
 Good-night ! — and — Good-bye ! 
 
 DUSK 
 
 Last rose! end my story! 
 
 Dead core and dry husk — 
 Departed thy glory 
 
 And tainted thy musk. 
 
 Night spreads her dark limbs on 
 The face of the dim sun; 
 So flame fades to crimson, 
 And crimson to dusk. 
 
 38
 
 Finis Exoptatus 
 
 FINIS EXOPTATUS 
 
 (The End Desired) 
 
 [This was the last, as "By Wood and Wold" was the first, of 
 the series of eight poems entitled Ye Weacie Wayfarer. It 
 appeared on Nov. 24th, '66, in Bell's Life in Victoria, and was 
 certainly a strange production for a sporting newspaper. Gordon 
 puts the questions, What is the meaning of life? Whither does it 
 tend? and, in answering them, gives an insight into his philosophy 
 at its noblest. The poem contains some felicitous passages and 
 arresting thoughts that have remained in the memory to give 
 pleasure and consolation to many thousands of readers. "They 
 show us Gordon before the fearlessness and sturdiness of youth 
 were broken by repeated injuries to his head and by pecuniary 
 disillusions." Let us take the last four lines with thankfulness as 
 his valediction.] 
 
 Boot and saddle! See the slanting 
 
 Rays begin to fall, 
 
 Flinging lights and colours flaunting 
 
 Through the shadows tall. 
 Onward, onward, must we travel! 
 
 When will come the goal? 
 Riddle I may not unravel, 
 
 Cease to vex my soul. 
 
 Harshly break those peals of laughter 
 
 From the jays aloft. 
 Can we guess what they cry after? 
 
 We have heard them oft. 
 Perhaps some strain of rude thanksgiving 
 
 Mingles in their song. 
 Are they glad that they are living? 
 
 Are they right or wrong? 
 Right; 'tis joy that makes them call so, 
 
 Why should they be sad? 
 
 39
 
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 Certes! we are living also, 
 
 Shall not we be glad? 
 Onward, onward, must we travel ! 
 
 Is the goal more near? 
 Riddle we may not unravel, 
 
 Why so dark and drear? 
 
 Yon small bird his hymn outpouring 
 
 On the branch close by 
 Recks not for the kestrel soaring 
 
 In the nether sky, 
 Though the hawk with wings extended 
 
 Poises overhead, 
 Motionless as though suspended 
 
 By a viewless thread. 
 See! he stoops, nay, shooting forward 
 
 With the arrow's flight, 
 Swift and straight away to nor'ward 
 
 Sails he out of sight. 
 Onward! onward! thus we travel, 
 
 Comes the goal more nigh? 
 Riddle we may not unravel, 
 
 Who shall make reply? 
 
 Sun and rain and dew from heaven, 
 
 Light and shade and air. 
 Heat and moisture freely given 
 Thorns and thistles share. 
 Vegetation rank and rotten 
 
 Feels the cheering ray; 
 Not uncared for, unforgotten. 
 
 We, too, have our day. 
 Unforgotten! though we cumber 
 
 Earth, we work His will. 
 
 40 

 
 Finis Exoptatus 
 
 ishall we sleep through night's long slumber 
 
 Unforgotten still? 
 Onward! onward! toiling ever, 
 
 Weary steps and slow, 
 Doubting oft, despairing never. 
 
 To the goal we go! 
 
 Hark! the bells on distant cattle 
 
 Waft across the range, 
 Through the golden-tufted wattle, 
 
 Music low and strange; 
 Like the marriage peal of fairies 
 
 Comes the tinkling sound, 
 Or like chimes of sweet St. Mary's 
 
 On far English ground. 
 How my courser champs the snaffle, 
 
 And with nostril spread, 
 Snorts and scarcely seems to ruffle 
 Fern leaves with his tread; 
 Cool and pleasant on his haunches 
 
 Blows the evening breeze 
 Through the overhanging branches 
 
 Of the wattle-trees. 
 Onward, to the Southern Ocean 
 
 Glides the breath of spring. 
 Onward, with a dreamy motion, 
 
 I, too, glide and sing. 
 Forward! forward! still we wander — 
 
 Tinted hills that lie 
 In the red horizon yonder — 
 
 Is the goal so nigh? 
 
 41
 
 Gordon's Australian Poems 
 
 Whisper, spring-wind, sottly singing, 
 
 Whisper in my ear; 
 Respite and nepenthe bringing, 
 
 Can the goal be near? 
 Laden with the dew of vespers 
 From the fragrant sky. 
 In my ear the wind that whispers 
 
 Seems to make reply — 
 "Question not, but live and labour 
 Till yon goal be won, 
 Helping every feeble neighbour. 
 
 Seeking help from none; 
 Life is mostly froth and bubble, 
 Two things stand like stone — 
 Kindness in another's trouble, 
 
 Courage in your own." 
 
 Courage! comrades, this is certain. 
 
 All is for the best: 
 There are lights behind the curtain — 
 
 Gentles, let us rest. 
 
 W. & K. Purbrick Pty. Ltd., Tattersall's Lane, Melbourne, C.l.
 
 Dinglcy Dell, near Port McDonnell 
 (Now a Gordon Museum) 
 
 Obelisk near "Lindsay Gordon's Leap," Mt. Gambier 
 (Erected 1887)
 
 Monument over Gordon's Grave, Brighton Cemetery 
 (Erected October, 1870) 
 
 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 [lowers on my 
 grave, 
 
 I may chance to hear them romping overhead. 
 
 -The Sick Stockrider.
 
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