Sea Spray and Smoke Drift/Finis Exoptatus

by Adam Lindsay Gordon

FYTTE VIII.
FINIS EXOPTATUS.
[A METAPHYSICAL SONG.]

There's something in this world amissShall 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 byReeks 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 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?

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 checks that shine,Surely you set no example In the fasting line—

Could you, like yon bird, discov'ring Fate, as close at handAs the kestrel o'er him hov'ring 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 heal'd”—'Twas not thus their gospel redly Saints and martyrs scal'dYou had seem'd more like a martyr Than you seem to usTo the beasts that caught a Tartar Once at Ephesus;Rather than the stout apostle Of the Gentiles, who,Pagan-like, could cuff and wrestle, They'd have chosen you.

Yet I ween on such occasion Your dissenting voiceWould 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 spiritYou strive most to save? Vain is half this care and cautionO'er the earthly shell, We can neither baffle nor shunDark plumed Azrael. Onward! onward! still we wander, Nearer draws the goal;Half the riddle's 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' vanquish'd 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 ceas'd to be;Units! in God's vast creation, Ciphers! What are we?Onward! onward! oh! faint-hearted; Nearer and more nearHas 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 night's long slumber Unforgotten still?Onward! onward! toiling ever, Weary steps and slow,Doubting aft, 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 lieIn 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 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.As the smoke-rack veers to seaward, From “the ancient clay,”With its moral drifting leeward. Ends the wanderer's lay.