Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall :: :: University of Virginia Library

Still must thou haunt the Apulian strand
O ghost of the mind that ranged so far!
That measured the sea and the numberless sand,
That roamed the world over and soared to the star;

II

Little thy profit—since here it lies
Thy corpse, for the lack of a sprinkling of dust—
In thought to have traversed the world and the skies;
Death was awaiting thee; Die we must.

140

III

He who of yore with the gods fared well;
And he who could wed an immortal bride;
And that ancient king who is ruling in Hell
Minos the lawgiver—all have died.

IV

Even he who once on the Trojan field
Was slain in the battle of centuries past,
Yet returned to the earth and remembered his shield;
He is lost in the blackness of death at last.

V

His body he left to the grave's decay,
No more—that spirit of wisdom and light;
But we all once travel that same dark way,
And the end that awaits us beyond is Night.

141

VI

The War god joys to see warriors slain;
The wild wave rolls o'er the mariner's head;
Old and young, in the funeral train,
Throng to the throne of the Queen of the dead.

Archytas.

VII

Yes—I too sank in Illyrian waves
When the south wind raged, and Orion was low;
But, mariner, spare not the rite that saves,
Scatter a handful, ere hence you go,

VIII

O'er my bones unburied and skull that's bare—
And so, when a storm in the western seas
Shall lash the billows, thou safe mayest fare;
Venusian forests may lose their trees,

142

IX

Fear not; for the God, who is just, rewards;
So may thy freights ride safely home
To the sacred harbour that Neptune loves
Where Tarentum lies by the white seafoam.

X

But if thou disdainfully pass me by,
With thee and thy sons may the curse abide
That follows to punish impiety
For laws that are broken, the doom of pride.

XI

If my prayers be in vain they shall work thee woe,
No penitent vows shall thy soul release;
Tarry a moment, thou soon mayest go,
Three times cast earth, and depart in peace.

143

II.—Aequam memento rebus in arduis—

Lib. II., Ode III.

Keep up your spirits in grief, my friend,
And an equal temper, if luck runs low:
When times grow better and fortunes mend,
Don't be too ready to chuckle and crow;
For whether you swelter the live-long day
Toiling under an Indian sun,
Or whether you lie amid English hay
Drinking the summer hours away—
What will it matter?—when life is done.

Where the spreading beech, and the poplar tall
Join their boughs o'er a shady nook,

144

Just as the slanting waterfall
Hurries the flow of the gliding brook,
Carry my wine to that cool green bower,
Light me a leaf of choice Manille,
Cull me the rose which blooms for an hour,
While lasts our money, and life's young flower,
While the Fates still pity and spare us still.

Soon you must leave your favourite wold,
And the pleasant villa by Isis laved,
And the heir will reckon your piles of gold,
Hardly won, and thriftily saved.
Be you a wretched labouring kerne
Or a Baron rich with a blazoned coat,
Soon as your lot is drawn from the urn
Go you must—there is no return,
When you have stepped into Charon's boat

145

III.—Septimi Gades aditure mecum.

Hor., Lib. II., Ode VI.

The Return from Furlough.

Charley—it's time that we were away,
Well I know you will come with me,
We must be tossing in Biscay's Bay,
Cross the desert, and steam away
Down the Gulf to the Indian Sea.

Ah! that hamlet in Saxon Kent,
Shall I find it when I come home
With toil and travelling well nigh spent,
Tired with life in jungle and tent,
Eastward never again to roam?

Pleasantest corner the world can show,
In a vale which slopes to the English sea;
Where strawberries wild in the woodland grow,

146

And the cherry-tree branches are bending low,
No such fruit in the South countree.

Winter melting in spring sunshine,
Flowering hops in the autumn vale;
Little care we for the trailing vine,
Mightier drink than Gascon wine
Foams in the tankard of Kentish ale.

Shelter for me, and for you, my friend,
There let us settle when both are old,
And whenever I come to my journey's end
There you shall see me laid, and blend
Just one tear with the falling mould.

147

IV.—O saepe mecum tempus in ultimum.

Lib. II., Ode VII.

Furlough, 1861.

Ah Frank, with whom often reclining
Under canvas at close of the day,
In a very loose uniform dining,
I have drank the short twilight away.

With whom through those perilous shindies
I rode in the days of old Clyde—
What has brought you at last from the Indies,
To your country and quiet fire-side?

'Twas with you that I bolted from Delhi,
When our soldiers joined arms with the foe,
And, basely shot down in the melée,
The best of our mess were laid low:

148

But, saved by kind Fate from the shooting, I
Was sent from the battle-field far,
While you the high flood tide of mutiny
Swept off down the torrent of war.

Then a banquet in honour preparing,
'Tis meet that we gratefully dine;
Come, rest your worn limbs this armchair in,
And try just a glass of this wine.

We'll drown all our sorrows in claret,
In balmy care-soothing Lafitte,
(I have broached it for you, so don't spare it,)
And a thimble of eau-de-vie neat.

Let propriety go to the devil,
Be Anonyma queen of the feast—
I can't see the harm of a revel,
With a friend who is home from the East.

149

V.—Eheu! fugaces, Posthume, Posthume!

Lib. II., Ode XIV.

Alas, old friend, that each year
Of our life is rapidly flying!
No charity softens the sentence drear
Of wrinkles, and age, and dying.

You may fill with gold the church plate
Each Sabbath-day morn in the portal,
You can never appease remorseless Fate,
Who laughs at the tears of a mortal.

Monarchs and warriors stout,
She holds them all in her tether,
So whether you now be a lord or a lout,
We must travel that road together.

A prince of lofty birth,
Or a half-starved labouring slave,

150

You've had your share of the bountiful earth.
You'll both be one in the grave.

In vain you keep clear of your foes,
Are cautious in crossing the Channel,
Stay at home when the piercing east wind blows,
And wrap up your chest in flannel.

You must go from your hall and estate,
Of your loving wife they'll bereave you;
They may plant some yew at the sepulchre gate,
But that will be all they'll leave you.

The heir will inherit your keys,
And deep from the bins he'll fish up
The Madeira you thought to drink at your ease,
And port laid down for the Bishop.