Adam Lindsay Gordon Poems

Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill
Too oft gets broken at last,
There are scores of others its place to fill
When its earth to the earth is cast
...

A mellower light doth Sol afford,
His meridian glare has pass'd
And the trees on the broad and sloping sward
Their length'ning shadows cast
...

I'LL tell you a story ; but pass the 'jack',
And let us make merry to-night, my men.
...

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
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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,
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The sword slew one in deadly strife ;
One perished by the bowl ;
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The maiden sat by the river side
(The rippling water murmurs by)
And sadly into the clear blue tide
The salt tear fell from her clear blue eye.
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Aye ! Many a sport old Homer names.
By Achilles held ' at his little games ',
On the banks of the swift Scamander ;
And Pindar sings the Olympian deeds
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The Lord shall slay or the Lord shall save !
He is righteous whether He save or slay—
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To beasts of the field, and fowls of the air,
And fish of the sea alike,
Man's hand is ever slow to spare,
And ever ready to strike
...