Finis Exoptatus - A Metaphysical Song

By Adam Lindsay Gordon

Theres something in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by-and-bye. - Tennyson. 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? 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 over head, Motionless as though suspended By a viewless thread. See, he stoops, nay, shooting forward With the arrows flight, Swift and straight away to norward Sails he out of sight. Onward! onward! thus we travel, Comes the goal more nigh? Riddle we may not unravel, Who shall make reply? Ha! Friend Ephraim, saint or sinner, Tell me if you can, Tho we may not judge the inner, By the outer man, Yet by girth of broadcloth ample, And by cheeks that shine, Surely you set no example In the fasting line, Could you, like yon bird, discovring, Fate as close at hand, As the kestrel oer him hovring, Still, as he did, stand? Trusting grandly, singing gaily, Confident and calm, Not one false note in your daily Hymn or weekly psalm? Oft your oily tones are heard in Chapel, where you preach, This the everlasting burden Of the tale you teach: We are d--d, our sins are deadly, You alone are heald, Twas not thus their gospel redly Saints and martyrs seald. You had seemd more like a martyr, Than you seem to us, To the beasts that caught a Tartar Once at Ephesus; Rather than the stout apostle Of the Gentiles, who, Pagan-like, could cuff and wrestle, Theyd have chosen you. Yet, I ween, on such occasion, Your dissenting voice Would have been, in mild persuasion, Raised against their choice; Man of peace, and man of merit, Pompous, wise, and grave, Ephraim! is it flesh or spirit You strive most to save? Vain is half this care and caution Oer the earthly shell, We can neither baffle nor shun Dark plumed Azrael. Onward! onward! still we wander, Nearer draws the goal; Half the riddles read, we ponder Vainly on the whole. Eastward! in the pink horizon, Fleecy hillocks shame This dim range dull earth that lies on, Tinged with rosy flame. Westward! as a stricken giant Stoops his bloody crest, And tho vanquished, frowns defiant, Sinks the sun to rest. Distant, yet approaching quickly, From the shades that lurk, Like a black pall gathers thickly, Night, when none may work. Soon our restless occupation Shall have ceasd to be; Units! in Gods vast creation, Ciphers! what are we? Onward! onward! oh! faint-hearted; Nearer and more near Has the goal drawn since we started, Be of better cheer. Preacher! all forbearance ask, for All are worthless found, Man must aye take man to task for Faults while earth goes round. On this dank soil thistles muster, Thorns are broadcast sown; Seek not figs where thistles cluster, Grapes where thorns have grown. 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. Shall we sleep through nights 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. Marys 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 dreary 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? Whisper, spring-wind, softly 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 anothers trouble, Courage in your own. Courage, comrades, this is certain, All is for the best, There are lights behind the curtain, Gentiles, let us rest. As the smoke-rack veers to seaward, From the ancient clay, With its moral drifting leeward, Ends the wanderers lay.