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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339867" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Part V: Ex Fumo Dare Lucem</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">['Twixt the Cup and the Lip]<br> <br>Prologue<br> <br>Calm and clear ! the bright day is declining,<br>The crystal expanse of the bay,<br>Like a shield of pure metal, lies shining<br>'Twixt headlands of purple and grey,<br>While the little waves leap in the sunset,<br>And strike with a miniature shock,<br>In sportive and infantine onset,<br>The base of the iron-stone rock.<br> <br>Calm and clear ! the sea-breezes are laden<br>With a fragrance, a freshness, a power,<br>With a song like the song of a maiden,<br>With a scent like the scent of a flower ;<br>And a whisper, half-weird, half-prophetic,<br>Comes home with the sigh of the surf ;—<br>But I pause, for your fancies poetic<br>Never rise from the level of 'Turf.'<br> <br>Fellow-bungler of mine, fellow-sinner,<br>In public performances past,<br>In trials whence touts take their winner,<br>In rumours that circulate fast,<br>In strains from Prunella or Priam,<br>Staying stayers, or goers that go,<br>You're much better posted than I am,<br>'Tis little I care, less I know.<br> <br>Alas ! neither poet nor prophet<br>Am I, though a jingler of rhymes—<br>'Tis a hobby of mine, and I'm off it<br>At times, and I'm on it at times ;<br>And whether I'm off it or on it,<br>Your readers my counsels will shun,<br>Since I scarce know Van Tromp from Blue Bonnet,<br>Though I might know Cigar from The Nun.<br> <br>With 'visions' you ought to be sated<br>And sicken'd by this time ; I swear<br>That mine are all myths self-created,<br>Air visions that vanish in air ;<br>If I had some loose coins I might chuck one,<br>To settle this question and say,<br>Here goes ! 'this is tails for the black one,<br>And heads for my fav'rite, the bay.'<br> <br>And must I rob Paul to pay Peter,<br>Or Peter defraud to pay Paul ?<br>My rhymes, are they stale ? if my metre<br>Is varied, one chime rings through all ;<br>One chime—though I sing more or sing less,<br>I have but one string to my lute,<br>And it might have been better if, stringless<br>And songless, the same had been mute.<br> <br>Yet not as a seer of visions,<br>Nor yet as a dreamer of dreams,<br>I send you these partial decisions<br>On hackney'd, impoverish'd themes ;<br>But with song out of tune, sung to pass time,<br>Flung heedless to friends or to foes,<br>Where the false notes that ring for the last time<br>May blend with some real ones, who knows ?<br> <br>THE RACE<br> <br>On the hill they are crowding together,<br>In the stand they are crushing for room,<br>Like midge-flies they swarm on the heather,<br>They gather like bees on the broom ;<br>They flutter like moths round a candle—<br>Stale similes, granted, what then ?<br>I've got a stale subject to handle,<br>A very stale stump of a pen.<br> <br>Hark ! the shuffle of feet that are many,<br>Of voices the many-tongued clang—<br>'Has he had a bad night ?' 'Has he any<br>Friends left ?'—How I hate your turf slang ;<br>'Tis stale to begin with, not witty,<br>But dull, and inclined to be coarse,<br>But bad men can't use (more's the pity)<br>Good words when they slate a good horse.<br> <br>Heu ! heu ! quantus equis (that's Latin<br>For 'bellows to mend' with the weeds),<br>They're off ! lights and shades ! silk and satin !<br>A rainbow of riders and steeds !<br>And one shows in front, and another<br>Goes up and is seen in his place,<br>Sic transit (more Latin)—Oh ! bother,<br>Let's get to the end of the race.<br> <br>. . . . . . .<br> <br>See, they come round the last turn careering,<br>Already Tait's colours are struck,<br>And the green in the vanguard is steering,<br>And the red's in the rear of the ruck !<br>Are the stripes in the shade doom'd to lie long ?<br>Do the blue stars on white skies wax dim ?<br>Is it Tamworth or Smuggler ? 'Tis Bylong<br>That wins—either Bylong or Tim.<br> <br>As the shell through the breach that is riven<br>And sapp'd by the springing of mines,<br>As the bolt from the thunder-cloud driven,<br>That levels the larches and pines<br>Through yon mass parti-colour'd that dashes<br>Goal-turn'd, clad in many-hued garb,<br>From rear to van, surges and flashes<br>The yellow and black of The Barb.<br> <br>Past The Fly, falling back on the right, and<br>The Gull, giving way on the left,<br>Past Tamworth, who feels the whip smite, and<br>Whose sides by the rowels are cleft ;<br>Where Tim and the chestnut together<br>Still bear of the battle the brunt,<br>As if eight stone twelve were a feather,<br>He comes with a rush to the front.<br> <br>Tim Whiffler may yet prove a Tartar,<br>And Bylong's the horse that can stay,<br>But Kean is in trouble—and Carter<br>Is hard on the satin-skinn'd bay ;<br>And The Barb comes away unextended,<br>Hard held, like a second Eclipse,<br>While behind, the hoof-thunder is blended<br>With the whistling and crackling of whips.<br> <br>EPILOGUE<br> <br>He wins ; yes, he wins upon paper,<br>He hasn't yet won upon turf,<br>And these rhymes are but moonshine and vapour,<br>Air-bubbles and spume from the surf.<br>So be it, at least they are given<br>Free, gratis, for just what they're worth,<br>And (whatever there may be in heaven)<br>There's little worth much upon earth.<br> <br>When, with satellites round them, the centre<br>Of all eyes, hard press'd by the crowd,<br>The pair, horse and rider, re-enter<br>The gate, 'mid a shout long and loud,<br>You may feel, as you might feel, just landed<br>Full length on the grass from the clip<br>Of a vicious cross-counter, right-handed,<br>Or upper-cut whizzing from hip.<br> <br>And that's not so bad if you're pick'd up<br>Discreetly, and carefully nursed ;<br>Loose teeth by the sponge are soon lick'd up,<br>And next time you may get home first.<br>Still I'm not sure you'd like it exactly<br>(Such tastes as a rule are acquired),<br>And you'll find in a nutshell this fact lie,<br>Bruised optics are not much admired.<br> <br>Do I bore you with vulgar allusions ?<br>Forgive me, I speak as I feel,<br>I've ponder'd and made my conclusions—<br>As the mill grinds the corn to the meal ;<br>So man striving boldly but blindly,<br>Ground piecemeal in Destiny's mill,<br>At his best, taking punishment kindly,<br>Is only a chopping-block still.<br> <br>Are we wise ? Our abstruse calculations<br>Are based on experience long ;<br>Are we sanguine ? Our high expectations<br>Are founded on hope that is strong ;<br>Thus we build an air-castle that crumbles<br>And drifts till no traces remain,<br>And the fool builds again while he grumbles,<br>And the wise one laughs, building again.<br> <br>'How came they to pass, these rash blunders,<br>These false steps so hard to defend ?'<br>Our friend puts the question and wonders,<br>We laugh and reply, 'Ah ! my friend,<br>Could you trace the first stride falsely taken,<br>The distance misjudged, where or how,<br>When you pick'd yourself up, stunn'd and shaken,<br>At the fence 'twixt the turf and the plough ?'<br> <br>In the jar of the panel rebounding !<br>In the crash of the splintering wood !<br>In the ears to the earth shock resounding<br>In the eyes flashing fire and blood !<br>In the quarters above you revolving !<br>In the sods underneath heaving high !<br>There was little to aid you in solving<br>Such questions—the how or the why.<br> <br>And destiny, steadfast in trifles,<br>Is steadfast for better or worse<br>In great things, it crushes and stifles,<br>And swallows the hopes that we nurse.<br>Men wiser than we are may wonder,<br>When the future they cling to so fast,<br>To the roll of that destiny's thunder,<br>Goes down with the wrecks of the past.<br> <br>. . . . . . .<br> <br>The past! the dead past! that has swallow'd<br>All the honey of life and the milk,<br>Brighter dreams than mere pastimes we've follow'd,<br>Better things than our scarlet or silk ;<br>Aye, and worse things—that past is it really<br>Dead to us who again and again<br>Feel sharply, hear plainly, see clearly,<br>Past days with their joy and their pain ?<br> <br>Like corpses embalm'd and unburied<br>They lie, and in spite of our will,<br>Our souls on the wings of thought carried,<br>Revisit their sepulchres still ;<br>Down the channels of mystery gliding,<br>They conjure strange tales, rarely read,<br>Of the priests of dead Pharaohs presiding<br>At mystical feasts of the dead.<br> <br>Weird pictures arise, quaint devices,<br>Rude emblems, baked funeral meats,<br>Strong incense, rare wines, and rich spices,<br>The ashes, the shrouds, and the sheets ;<br>Does our thraldom fall short of completeness<br>For the magic of a charnel-house charm,<br>And the flavour of a poisonous sweetness,<br>And the odour of a poisonous balm ?<br> <br>And the links of the past—but, no matter,<br>For I'm getting beyond you, I guess,<br>And you'll call me 'as mad as a hatter'<br>If my thoughts I too freely express ;<br>I subjoin a quotation, pray learn it,<br>And with the aid of your lexicon tell us<br>The meaning thereof—'Res discernit<br>Sapiens, quas confundit asellus.'<br> <br>Already green hillocks are swelling,<br>And combing white locks on the bar,<br>Where a dull, droning murmur is telling<br>Of winds that have gather'd afar ;<br>Thus we know not the day, nor the morrow,<br>Nor yet what the night may bring forth,<br>Nor the storm, nor the sleep, nor the sorrow,<br>Nor the strife, nor the rest, nor the wrath.<br> <br>Yet the skies are still tranquil and starlit,<br>The sun 'twixt the wave and the west<br>Dies in purple, and crimson, and scarlet,<br>And gold ; let us hope for the best,<br>Since again from the earth his effulgence<br>The darkness and damp-dews shall wipe,<br>Kind reader, extend your indulgence<br>To this the last lay of 'The Pipe.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Adam+Lindsay+Gordon">Adam Lindsay Gordon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339867" data-title="Part V: Ex Fumo Dare Lucem de Adam Lindsay Gordon" data-description="['Twixt the Cup and the Lip]
 
Prologue
 
Calm and clear ! the bright day is declining,
The crystal expanse of the bay,
Like a shield of pure metal, lies shining
'Twixt headlands of purple and grey,
While the little waves leap in the sunset,
And s..."></div>
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