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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/2997-0.txt b/2997-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e87b5f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/2997-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5170 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Time's Laughingstocks, by Thomas Hardy + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Time's Laughingstocks + and Other Verses + + +Author: Thomas Hardy + + + +Release Date: December 21, 2014 [eBook #2997] +[This file was first posted on October 12, 2000] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIME'S LAUGHINGSTOCKS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1919 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + TIME’S + LAUGHINGSTOCKS + AND OTHER VERSES + + + * * * * * + + BY + THOMAS HARDY + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED + ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON + 1928 + + * * * * * + + COPYRIGHT + + _First Edition_ 1909 + _Reprinted_ 1910 + _Second Edition_ 1915 + _Reprinted_ 1919 + _Pocket Edition_ 1919 + _Reprinted_ 1923, 1924, 1928 + + * * * * * + + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN + BY R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, EDINBURGH + + * * * * * + + + + +PREFACE + + +IN collecting the following poems I have to thank the editors and +proprietors of the periodicals in which certain of them have appeared for +permission to reclaim them. + +Now that the miscellany is brought together, some lack of concord in +pieces written at widely severed dates, and in contrasting moods and +circumstances, will be obvious enough. This I cannot help, but the sense +of disconnection, particularly in respect of those lyrics penned in the +first person, will be immaterial when it is borne in mind that they are +to be regarded, in the main, as dramatic monologues by different +characters. + +As a whole they will, I hope, take the reader forward, even if not far, +rather than backward. I should add that some lines in the early-dated +poems have been rewritten, though they have been left substantially +unchanged. + + T. H. + +_September_ 1909. + + + + +CONTENTS + +TIME’S LAUGHINGSTOCKS— PAGE + The Revisitation 3 + A Trampwoman’s Tragedy 11 + The Two Rosalinds 17 + A Sunday Morning Tragedy 21 + The House of Hospitalities 27 + Bereft 28 + John and Jane 30 + The Curate’s Kindness 31 + The Flirt’s Tragedy 34 + The Rejected Member’s Wife 40 + The Farm-Woman’s Winter 42 + Autumn in King’s Hintock Park 43 + Shut out that Moon 45 + Reminiscences of a Dancing Man 47 + The Dead Man Walking 49 +MORE LOVE LYRICS— + 1967 53 + Her Definition 54 + The Division 55 + On the Departure Platform 56 + In a Cathedral City 58 + “I say I’ll seek Her” 59 + Her Father 60 + At Waking 61 + Four Footprints 63 + In the Vaulted Way 65 + In the Mind’s Eye 66 + The End of the Episode 67 + The Sigh 68 + “In the Night She Came” 70 + The Conformers 72 + The Dawn after the Dance 74 + The Sun on the Letter 76 + The Night of the Dance 77 + Misconception 78 + The Voice of the Thorn 80 + From Her in the Country 82 + Her Confession 83 + To an Impersonator of Rosalind 84 + To an Actress 85 + The Minute before Meeting 86 + He abjures Love 87 +A SET OF COUNTRY SONGS— + Let me Enjoy 91 + At Casterbridge Fair: + I. The Ballad-Singer 93 + II. Former Beauties 94 + III. After the Club Dance 95 + IV. The Market-Girl 95 + V. The Inquiry 96 + VI. A Wife Waits 97 + VII. After the Fair 98 + The Dark-eyed Gentleman 100 + To Carrey Clavel 102 + The Orphaned Old Maid 103 + The Spring Call 104 + Julie-Jane 106 + News for Her Mother 108 + The Fiddler 110 + The Husband’s View 111 + Rose-Ann 113 + The Homecoming 115 +PIECES OCCASIONAL AND VARIOUS— + A Church Romance 121 + The Rash Bride 122 + The Dead Quire 128 + The Christening 135 + A Dream Question 137 + By the Barrows 139 + A Wife and Another 140 + The Roman Road 144 + The Vampirine Fair 145 + The Reminder 150 + The Rambler 151 + Night in the Old Home 152 + After the Last Breath 154 + In Childbed 156 + The Pine Planters 158 + The Dear 161 + One We Knew 163 + She Hears the Storm 166 + A Wet Night 167 + Before Life and After 168 + New Year’s Eve 169 + God’s Education 171 + To Sincerity 172 + Panthera 173 + The Unborn 184 + The Man He Killed 186 + Geographical Knowledge 187 + One Ralph Blossom Soliloquizes 189 + The Noble Lady’s Tale 191 + Unrealized 201 + Wagtail and Baby 203 + Aberdeen: 1905 204 + George Meredith, 1828–1909 205 + Yell’ham-wood’s Story 207 + A Young Man’s Epigram on 208 + Existence + +TIME’S LAUGHINGSTOCKS + + +THE REVISITATION + + + AS I lay awake at night-time + In an ancient country barrack known to ancient cannoneers, + And recalled the hopes that heralded each seeming brave and bright + time + Of my primal purple years, + + Much it haunted me that, nigh there, + I had borne my bitterest loss—when One who went, came not again; + In a joyless hour of discord, in a joyless-hued July there— + A July just such as then. + + And as thus I brooded longer, + With my faint eyes on the feeble square of wan-lit window frame, + A quick conviction sprung within me, grew, and grew yet stronger, + That the month-night was the same, + + Too, as that which saw her leave me + On the rugged ridge of Waterstone, the peewits plaining round; + And a lapsing twenty years had ruled that—as it were to grieve me— + I should near the once-loved ground. + + Though but now a war-worn stranger + Chance had quartered here, I rose up and descended to the yard. + All was soundless, save the troopers’ horses tossing at the manger, + And the sentry keeping guard. + + Through the gateway I betook me + Down the High Street and beyond the lamps, across the battered bridge, + Till the country darkness clasped me and the friendly shine forsook + me, + And I bore towards the Ridge, + + With a dim unowned emotion + Saying softly: “Small my reason, now at midnight, to be here . . . + Yet a sleepless swain of fifty with a brief romantic notion + May retrace a track so dear.” + + Thus I walked with thoughts half-uttered + Up the lane I knew so well, the grey, gaunt, lonely Lane of Slyre; + And at whiles behind me, far at sea, a sullen thunder muttered + As I mounted high and higher. + + Till, the upper roadway quitting, + I adventured on the open drouthy downland thinly grassed, + While the spry white scuts of conies flashed before me, earthward + flitting, + And an arid wind went past. + + Round about me bulged the barrows + As before, in antique silence—immemorial funeral piles— + Where the sleek herds trampled daily the remains of flint-tipt arrows + Mid the thyme and chamomiles; + + And the Sarsen stone there, dateless, + On whose breast we had sat and told the zephyrs many a tender vow, + Held the heat of yester sun, as sank thereon one fated mateless + From those far fond hours till now. + + Maybe flustered by my presence + Rose the peewits, just as all those years back, wailing soft and loud, + And revealing their pale pinions like a fitful phosphorescence + Up against the cope of cloud, + + Where their dolesome exclamations + Seemed the voicings of the self-same throats I had heard when life was + green, + Though since that day uncounted frail forgotten generations + Of their kind had flecked the scene.— + + And so, living long and longer + In a past that lived no more, my eyes discerned there, suddenly, + That a figure broke the skyline—first in vague contour, then stronger, + And was crossing near to me. + + Some long-missed familiar gesture, + Something wonted, struck me in the figure’s pause to list and heed, + Till I fancied from its handling of its loosely wrapping vesture + That it might be She indeed. + + ’Twas not reasonless: below there + In the vale, had been her home; the nook might hold her even yet, + And the downlands were her father’s fief; she still might come and go + there;— + So I rose, and said, “Agnette!” + + With a little leap, half-frightened, + She withdrew some steps; then letting intuition smother fear + In a place so long-accustomed, and as one whom thought enlightened, + She replied: “What—_that_ voice?—here!” + + “Yes, Agnette!—And did the occasion + Of our marching hither make you think I _might_ walk where we two—” + “O, I often come,” she murmured with a moment’s coy evasion, + “(’Tis not far),—and—think of you.” + + Then I took her hand, and led her + To the ancient people’s stone whereon I had sat. There now sat we; + And together talked, until the first reluctant shyness fled her, + And she spoke confidingly. + + “It is _just_ as ere we parted!” + Said she, brimming high with joy.—“And when, then, came you here, and + why?” + “—Dear, I could not sleep for thinking of our trystings when + twin-hearted.” + She responded, “Nor could I. + + “There are few things I would rather + Than be wandering at this spirit-hour—lone-lived, my kindred dead— + On this wold of well-known feature I inherit from my father: + Night or day, I have no dread . . . + + “O I wonder, wonder whether + Any heartstring bore a signal-thrill between us twain or no?— + Some such influence can, at times, they say, draw severed souls + together.” + I said, “Dear, we’ll dream it so.” + + Each one’s hand the other’s grasping, + And a mutual forgiveness won, we sank to silent thought, + A large content in us that seemed our rended lives reclasping, + And contracting years to nought. + + Till I, maybe overweary + From the lateness, and a wayfaring so full of strain and stress + For one no longer buoyant, to a peak so steep and eery, + Sank to slow unconsciousness . . . + + How long I slept I knew not, + But the brief warm summer night had slid when, to my swift surprise, + A red upedging sun, of glory chambered mortals view not, + Was blazing on my eyes, + + From the Milton Woods to Dole-Hill + All the spacious landscape lighting, and around about my feet + Flinging tall thin tapering shadows from the meanest mound and + mole-hill, + And on trails the ewes had beat. + + She was sitting still beside me, + Dozing likewise; and I turned to her, to take her hanging hand; + When, the more regarding, that which like a spectre shook and tried me + In her image then I scanned; + + That which Time’s transforming chisel + Had been tooling night and day for twenty years, and tooled too well, + In its rendering of crease where curve was, where was raven, grizzle— + Pits, where peonies once did dwell. + + She had wakened, and perceiving + (I surmise) my sigh and shock, my quite involuntary dismay, + Up she started, and—her wasted figure all throughout it heaving— + Said, “Ah, yes: I am _thus_ by day! + + “Can you really wince and wonder + That the sunlight should reveal you such a thing of skin and bone, + As if unaware a Death’s-head must of need lie not far under + Flesh whose years out-count your own? + + “Yes: that movement was a warning + Of the worth of man’s devotion!—Yes, Sir, I am _old_,” said she, + “And the thing which should increase love turns it quickly into + scorning— + And your new-won heart from me!” + + Then she went, ere I could call her, + With the too proud temper ruling that had parted us before, + And I saw her form descend the slopes, and smaller grow and smaller, + Till I caught its course no more . . . + + True; I might have dogged her downward; + —But it _may_ be (though I know not) that this trick on us of Time + Disconcerted and confused me.—Soon I bent my footsteps townward, + Like to one who had watched a crime. + + Well I knew my native weakness, + Well I know it still. I cherished her reproach like physic-wine, + For I saw in that emaciate shape of bitterness and bleakness + A nobler soul than mine. + + Did I not return, then, ever?— + Did we meet again?—mend all?—Alas, what greyhead perseveres!— + Soon I got the Route elsewhither.—Since that hour I have seen her + never: + Love is lame at fifty years. + + + +A TRAMPWOMAN’S TRAGEDY +(182–) + + + I + + FROM Wynyard’s Gap the livelong day, + The livelong day, + We beat afoot the northward way + We had travelled times before. + The sun-blaze burning on our backs, + Our shoulders sticking to our packs, + By fosseway, fields, and turnpike tracks + We skirted sad Sedge-Moor. + + II + + Full twenty miles we jaunted on, + We jaunted on,— + My fancy-man, and jeering John, + And Mother Lee, and I. + And, as the sun drew down to west, + We climbed the toilsome Poldon crest, + And saw, of landskip sights the best, + The inn that beamed thereby. + + III + + For months we had padded side by side, + Ay, side by side + Through the Great Forest, Blackmoor wide, + And where the Parret ran. + We’d faced the gusts on Mendip ridge, + Had crossed the Yeo unhelped by bridge, + Been stung by every Marshwood midge, + I and my fancy-man. + + IV + + Lone inns we loved, my man and I, + My man and I; + “King’s Stag,” “Windwhistle” high and dry, + “The Horse” on Hintock Green, + The cosy house at Wynyard’s Gap, + “The Hut” renowned on Bredy Knap, + And many another wayside tap + Where folk might sit unseen. + + V + + Now as we trudged—O deadly day, + O deadly day!— + I teased my fancy-man in play + And wanton idleness. + I walked alongside jeering John, + I laid his hand my waist upon; + I would not bend my glances on + My lover’s dark distress. + + VI + + Thus Poldon top at last we won, + At last we won, + And gained the inn at sink of sun + Far-famed as “Marshal’s Elm.” + Beneath us figured tor and lea, + From Mendip to the western sea— + I doubt if finer sight there be + Within this royal realm. + + VII + + Inside the settle all a-row— + All four a-row + We sat, I next to John, to show + That he had wooed and won. + And then he took me on his knee, + And swore it was his turn to be + My favoured mate, and Mother Lee + Passed to my former one. + + VIII + + Then in a voice I had never heard, + I had never heard, + My only Love to me: “One word, + My lady, if you please! + Whose is the child you are like to bear?— + _His_? After all my months o’ care?” + God knows ’twas not! But, O despair! + I nodded—still to tease. + + IX + + Then up he sprung, and with his knife— + And with his knife + He let out jeering Johnny’s life, + Yes; there, at set of sun. + The slant ray through the window nigh + Gilded John’s blood and glazing eye, + Ere scarcely Mother Lee and I + Knew that the deed was done. + + X + + The taverns tell the gloomy tale, + The gloomy tale, + How that at Ivel-chester jail + My Love, my sweetheart swung; + Though stained till now by no misdeed + Save one horse ta’en in time o’ need; + (Blue Jimmy stole right many a steed + Ere his last fling he flung.) + + XI + + Thereaft I walked the world alone, + Alone, alone! + On his death-day I gave my groan + And dropt his dead-born child. + ’Twas nigh the jail, beneath a tree, + None tending me; for Mother Lee + Had died at Glaston, leaving me + Unfriended on the wild. + + XII + + And in the night as I lay weak, + As I lay weak, + The leaves a-falling on my cheek, + The red moon low declined— + The ghost of him I’d die to kiss + Rose up and said: “Ah, tell me this! + Was the child mine, or was it his? + Speak, that I rest may find!” + + XIII + + O doubt not but I told him then, + I told him then, + That I had kept me from all men + Since we joined lips and swore. + Whereat he smiled, and thinned away + As the wind stirred to call up day . . . + —’Tis past! And here alone I stray + Haunting the Western Moor. + +NOTES.—“Windwhistle” (Stanza iv.). The highness and dryness of +Windwhistle Inn was impressed upon the writer two or three years ago, +when, after climbing on a hot afternoon to the beautiful spot near which +it stands and entering the inn for tea, he was informed by the landlady +that none could be had, unless he would fetch water from a valley half a +mile off, the house containing not a drop, owing to its situation. +However, a tantalizing row of full barrels behind her back testified to a +wetness of a certain sort, which was not at that time desired. + +“Marshal’s Elm” (Stanza vi.) so picturesquely situated, is no longer an +inn, though the house, or part of it, still remains. It used to exhibit +a fine old swinging sign. + +“Blue Jimmy” (Stanza x.) was a notorious horse-stealer of Wessex in those +days, who appropriated more than a hundred horses before he was caught, +among others one belonging to a neighbour of the writer’s grandfather. +He was hanged at the now demolished Ivel-chester or Ilchester jail above +mentioned—that building formerly of so many sinister associations in the +minds of the local peasantry, and the continual haunt of fever, which at +last led to its condemnation. Its site is now an innocent-looking green +meadow. + +_April_ 1902. + + + +THE TWO ROSALINDS + + + I + + THE dubious daylight ended, + And I walked the Town alone, unminding whither bound and why, + As from each gaunt street and gaping square a mist of light ascended + And dispersed upon the sky. + + II + + Files of evanescent faces + Passed each other without heeding, in their travail, teen, or joy, + Some in void unvisioned listlessness inwrought with pallid traces + Of keen penury’s annoy. + + III + + Nebulous flames in crystal cages + Leered as if with discontent at city movement, murk, and grime, + And as waiting some procession of great ghosts from bygone ages + To exalt the ignoble time. + + IV + + In a colonnade high-lighted, + By a thoroughfare where stern utilitarian traffic dinned, + On a red and white emblazonment of players and parts, I sighted + The name of “Rosalind,” + + V + + And her famous mates of “Arden,” + Who observed no stricter customs than “the seasons’ difference” bade, + Who lived with running brooks for books in Nature’s wildwood garden, + And called idleness their trade . . . + + VI + + Now the poster stirred an ember + Still remaining from my ardours of some forty years before, + When the selfsame portal on an eve it thrilled me to remember + A like announcement bore; + + VII + + And expectantly I had entered, + And had first beheld in human mould a Rosalind woo and plead, + On whose transcendent figuring my speedy soul had centred + As it had been she indeed . . . + + VIII + + So; all other plans discarding, + I resolved on entrance, bent on seeing what I once had seen, + And approached the gangway of my earlier knowledge, disregarding + The tract of time between. + + IX + + “The words, sir?” cried a creature + Hovering mid the shine and shade as ’twixt the live world and the + tomb; + But the well-known numbers needed not for me a text or teacher + To revive and re-illume. + + X + + Then the play . . . But how unfitted + Was _this_ Rosalind!—a mammet quite to me, in memories nurst, + And with chilling disappointment soon I sought the street I had + quitted, + To re-ponder on the first. + + XI + + The hag still hawked,—I met her + Just without the colonnade. “So you don’t like her, sir?” said she. + “Ah—_I_ was once that Rosalind!—I acted her—none better— + Yes—in eighteen sixty-three. + + XII + + “Thus I won Orlando to me + In my then triumphant days when I had charm and maidenhood, + Now some forty years ago.—I used to say, _Come woo me_, _woo me_!” + And she struck the attitude. + + XIII + + It was when I had gone there nightly; + And the voice—though raucous now—was yet the old one.—Clear as noon + My Rosalind was here . . . Thereon the band withinside lightly + Beat up a merry tune. + + + +A SUNDAY MORNING TRAGEDY +(_circa_ 186–) + + + I BORE a daughter flower-fair, + In Pydel Vale, alas for me; + I joyed to mother one so rare, + But dead and gone I now would be. + + Men looked and loved her as she grew, + And she was won, alas for me; + She told me nothing, but I knew, + And saw that sorrow was to be. + + I knew that one had made her thrall, + A thrall to him, alas for me; + And then, at last, she told me all, + And wondered what her end would be. + + She owned that she had loved too well, + Had loved too well, unhappy she, + And bore a secret time would tell, + Though in her shroud she’d sooner be. + + I plodded to her sweetheart’s door + In Pydel Vale, alas for me: + I pleaded with him, pleaded sore, + To save her from her misery. + + He frowned, and swore he could not wed, + Seven times he swore it could not be; + “Poverty’s worse than shame,” he said, + Till all my hope went out of me. + + “I’ve packed my traps to sail the main”— + Roughly he spake, alas did he— + “Wessex beholds me not again, + ’Tis worse than any jail would be!” + + —There was a shepherd whom I knew, + A subtle man, alas for me: + I sought him all the pastures through, + Though better I had ceased to be. + + I traced him by his lantern light, + And gave him hint, alas for me, + Of how she found her in the plight + That is so scorned in Christendie. + + “Is there an herb . . . ?” I asked. “Or none?” + Yes, thus I asked him desperately. + “—There is,” he said; “a certain one . . . ” + Would he had sworn that none knew he! + + “To-morrow I will walk your way,” + He hinted low, alas for me.— + Fieldwards I gazed throughout next day; + Now fields I never more would see! + + The sunset-shine, as curfew strook, + As curfew strook beyond the lea, + Lit his white smock and gleaming crook, + While slowly he drew near to me. + + He pulled from underneath his smock + The herb I sought, my curse to be— + “At times I use it in my flock,” + He said, and hope waxed strong in me. + + “’Tis meant to balk ill-motherings”— + (Ill-motherings! Why should they be?)— + “If not, would God have sent such things?” + So spoke the shepherd unto me. + + That night I watched the poppling brew, + With bended back and hand on knee: + I stirred it till the dawnlight grew, + And the wind whiffled wailfully. + + “This scandal shall be slain,” said I, + “That lours upon her innocency: + I’ll give all whispering tongues the lie;”— + But worse than whispers was to be. + + “Here’s physic for untimely fruit,” + I said to her, alas for me, + Early that morn in fond salute; + And in my grave I now would be. + + —Next Sunday came, with sweet church chimes + In Pydel Vale, alas for me: + I went into her room betimes; + No more may such a Sunday be! + + “Mother, instead of rescue nigh,” + She faintly breathed, alas for me, + “I feel as I were like to die, + And underground soon, soon should be.” + + From church that noon the people walked + In twos and threes, alas for me, + Showed their new raiment—smiled and talked, + Though sackcloth-clad I longed to be. + + Came to my door her lover’s friends, + And cheerly cried, alas for me, + “Right glad are we he makes amends, + For never a sweeter bride can be.” + + My mouth dried, as ’twere scorched within, + Dried at their words, alas for me: + More and more neighbours crowded in, + (O why should mothers ever be!) + + “Ha-ha! Such well-kept news!” laughed they, + Yes—so they laughed, alas for me. + “Whose banns were called in church to-day?”— + Christ, how I wished my soul could flee! + + “Where is she? O the stealthy miss,” + Still bantered they, alas for me, + “To keep a wedding close as this . . .” + Ay, Fortune worked thus wantonly! + + “But you are pale—you did not know?” + They archly asked, alas for me, + I stammered, “Yes—some days-ago,” + While coffined clay I wished to be. + + “’Twas done to please her, we surmise?” + (They spoke quite lightly in their glee) + “Done by him as a fond surprise?” + I thought their words would madden me. + + Her lover entered. “Where’s my bird?— + My bird—my flower—my picotee? + First time of asking, soon the third!” + Ah, in my grave I well may be. + + To me he whispered: “Since your call—” + So spoke he then, alas for me— + “I’ve felt for her, and righted all.” + —I think of it to agony. + + “She’s faint to-day—tired—nothing more—” + Thus did I lie, alas for me . . . + I called her at her chamber door + As one who scarce had strength to be. + + No voice replied. I went within— + O women! scourged the worst are we . . . + I shrieked. The others hastened in + And saw the stroke there dealt on me. + + There she lay—silent, breathless, dead, + Stone dead she lay—wronged, sinless she!— + Ghost-white the cheeks once rosy-red: + Death had took her. Death took not me. + + I kissed her colding face and hair, + I kissed her corpse—the bride to be!— + My punishment I cannot bear, + But pray God _not_ to pity me. + +_January_ 1904. + + + +THE HOUSE OF HOSPITALITIES + + + HERE we broached the Christmas barrel, + Pushed up the charred log-ends; + Here we sang the Christmas carol, + And called in friends. + + Time has tired me since we met here + When the folk now dead were young, + Since the viands were outset here + And quaint songs sung. + + And the worm has bored the viol + That used to lead the tune, + Rust eaten out the dial + That struck night’s noon. + + Now no Christmas brings in neighbours, + And the New Year comes unlit; + Where we sang the mole now labours, + And spiders knit. + + Yet at midnight if here walking, + When the moon sheets wall and tree, + I see forms of old time talking, + Who smile on me. + + + +BEREFT + + + IN the black winter morning + No light will be struck near my eyes + While the clock in the stairway is warning + For five, when he used to rise. + Leave the door unbarred, + The clock unwound, + Make my lone bed hard— + Would ’twere underground! + + When the summer dawns clearly, + And the appletree-tops seem alight, + Who will undraw the curtain and cheerly + Call out that the morning is bright? + + When I tarry at market + No form will cross Durnover Lea + In the gathering darkness, to hark at + Grey’s Bridge for the pit-pat o’ me. + + When the supper crock’s steaming, + And the time is the time of his tread, + I shall sit by the fire and wait dreaming + In a silence as of the dead. + Leave the door unbarred, + The clock unwound, + Make my lone bed hard— + Would ’twere underground! + +1901. + + + +JOHN AND JANE + + + I + + HE sees the world as a boisterous place + Where all things bear a laughing face, + And humorous scenes go hourly on, + Does John. + + II + + They find the world a pleasant place + Where all is ecstasy and grace, + Where a light has risen that cannot wane, + Do John and Jane. + + III + + They see as a palace their cottage-place, + Containing a pearl of the human race, + A hero, maybe, hereafter styled, + Do John and Jane with a baby-child. + + IV + + They rate the world as a gruesome place, + Where fair looks fade to a skull’s grimace,— + As a pilgrimage they would fain get done— + Do John and Jane with their worthless son. + + + +THE CURATE’S KINDNESS +A WORKHOUSE IRONY + + + I + + I THOUGHT they’d be strangers aroun’ me, + But she’s to be there! + Let me jump out o’ waggon and go back and drown me + At Pummery or Ten-Hatches Weir. + + II + + I thought: “Well, I’ve come to the Union— + The workhouse at last— + After honest hard work all the week, and Communion + O’ Zundays, these fifty years past. + + III + + “’Tis hard; but,” I thought, “never mind it: + There’s gain in the end: + And when I get used to the place I shall find it + A home, and may find there a friend. + + IV + + “Life there will be better than t’other. + For peace is assured. + _The men in one wing and their wives in another_ + Is strictly the rule of the Board.” + + V + + Just then one young Pa’son arriving + Steps up out of breath + To the side o’ the waggon wherein we were driving + To Union; and calls out and saith: + + VI + + “Old folks, that harsh order is altered, + Be not sick of heart! + The Guardians they poohed and they pished and they paltered + When urged not to keep you apart. + + VII + + “‘It is wrong,’ I maintained, ‘to divide them, + Near forty years wed.’ + ‘Very well, sir. We promise, then, they shall abide them + In one wing together,’ they said.” + + VIII + + Then I sank—knew ’twas quite a foredone thing + That misery should be + To the end! . . . To get freed of her there was the one thing + Had made the change welcome to me. + + IX + + To go there was ending but badly; + ’Twas shame and ’twas pain; + “But anyhow,” thought I, “thereby I shall gladly + Get free of this forty years’ chain.” + + X + + I thought they’d be strangers aroun’ me, + But she’s to be there! + Let me jump out o’ waggon and go back and drown me + At Pummery or Ten-Hatches Weir. + + + +THE FLIRT’S TRAGEDY +(17–) + + + HERE alone by the logs in my chamber, + Deserted, decrepit— + Spent flames limning ghosts on the wainscot + Of friends I once knew— + + My drama and hers begins weirdly + Its dumb re-enactment, + Each scene, sigh, and circumstance passing + In spectral review. + + —Wealth was mine beyond wish when I met her— + The pride of the lowland— + Embowered in Tintinhull Valley + By laurel and yew; + + And love lit my soul, notwithstanding + My features’ ill favour, + Too obvious beside her perfections + Of line and of hue. + + But it pleased her to play on my passion, + And whet me to pleadings + That won from her mirthful negations + And scornings undue. + + Then I fled her disdains and derisions + To cities of pleasure, + And made me the crony of idlers + In every purlieu. + + Of those who lent ear to my story, + A needy Adonis + Gave hint how to grizzle her garden + From roses to rue, + + Could his price but be paid for so purging + My scorner of scornings: + Thus tempted, the lust to avenge me + Germed inly and grew. + + I clothed him in sumptuous apparel, + Consigned to him coursers, + Meet equipage, liveried attendants + In full retinue. + + So dowered, with letters of credit + He wayfared to England, + And spied out the manor she goddessed, + And handy thereto, + + Set to hire him a tenantless mansion + As coign-stone of vantage + For testing what gross adulation + Of beauty could do. + + He laboured through mornings and evens, + On new moons and sabbaths, + By wiles to enmesh her attention + In park, path, and pew; + + And having afar played upon her, + Advanced his lines nearer, + And boldly outleaping conventions, + Bent briskly to woo. + + His gay godlike face, his rare seeming + Anon worked to win her, + And later, at noontides and night-tides + They held rendezvous. + + His tarriance full spent, he departed + And met me in Venice, + And lines from her told that my jilter + Was stooping to sue. + + Not long could be further concealment, + She pled to him humbly: + “By our love and our sin, O protect me; + I fly unto you!” + + A mighty remorse overgat me, + I heard her low anguish, + And there in the gloom of the _calle_ + My steel ran him through. + + A swift push engulphed his hot carrion + Within the canal there— + That still street of waters dividing + The city in two. + + —I wandered awhile all unable + To smother my torment, + My brain racked by yells as from Tophet + Of Satan’s whole crew. + + A month of unrest brought me hovering + At home in her precincts, + To whose hiding-hole local story + Afforded a clue. + + Exposed, and expelled by her people, + Afar off in London + I found her alone, in a sombre + And soul-stifling mew. + + Still burning to make reparation + I pleaded to wive her, + And father her child, and thus faintly + My mischief undo. + + She yielded, and spells of calm weather + Succeeded the tempest; + And one sprung of him stood as scion + Of my bone and thew . . . + + But Time unveils sorrows and secrets, + And so it befell now: + By inches the curtain was twitched at, + And slowly undrew. + + As we lay, she and I, in the night-time, + We heard the boy moaning: + “O misery mine! My false father + Has murdered my true!” + + She gasped: yea, she heard; understood it. + Next day the child fled us; + And nevermore sighted was even + A print of his shoe. + + Thenceforward she shunned me, and languished; + Till one day the park-pool + Embraced her fair form, and extinguished + Her eyes’ living blue. + + —So; ask not what blast may account for + This aspect of pallor, + These bones that just prison within them + Life’s poor residue; + + But pass by, and leave unregarded + A Cain to his suffering, + For vengeance too dark on the woman + Whose lover he slew. + + + +THE REJECTED MEMBER’S WIFE + + + WE shall see her no more + On the balcony, + Smiling, while hurt, at the roar + As of surging sea + From the stormy sturdy band + Who have doomed her lord’s cause, + Though she waves her little hand + As it were applause. + + Here will be candidates yet, + And candidates’ wives, + Fervid with zeal to set + Their ideals on our lives: + Here will come market-men + On the market-days, + Here will clash now and then + More such party assays. + + And the balcony will fill + When such times are renewed, + And the throng in the street will thrill + With to-day’s mettled mood; + But she will no more stand + In the sunshine there, + With that wave of her white-gloved hand, + And that chestnut hair. + +_January_ 1906. + + + +THE FARM-WOMAN’S WINTER + + + I + + If seasons all were summers, + And leaves would never fall, + And hopping casement-comers + Were foodless not at all, + And fragile folk might be here + That white winds bid depart; + Then one I used to see here + Would warm my wasted heart! + + II + + One frail, who, bravely tilling + Long hours in gripping gusts, + Was mastered by their chilling, + And now his ploughshare rusts. + So savage winter catches + The breath of limber things, + And what I love he snatches, + And what I love not, brings. + + + +AUTUMN IN KING’S +HINTOCK PARK + + + HERE by the baring bough + Raking up leaves, + Often I ponder how + Springtime deceives,— + I, an old woman now, + Raking up leaves. + + Here in the avenue + Raking up leaves, + Lords’ ladies pass in view, + Until one heaves + Sighs at life’s russet hue, + Raking up leaves! + + Just as my shape you see + Raking up leaves, + I saw, when fresh and free, + Those memory weaves + Into grey ghosts by me, + Raking up leaves. + + Yet, Dear, though one may sigh, + Raking up leaves, + New leaves will dance on high— + Earth never grieves!— + Will not, when missed am I + Raking up leaves. + +1901. + + + +SHUT OUT THAT MOON + + + CLOSE up the casement, draw the blind, + Shut out that stealing moon, + She wears too much the guise she wore + Before our lutes were strewn + With years-deep dust, and names we read + On a white stone were hewn. + + Step not out on the dew-dashed lawn + To view the Lady’s Chair, + Immense Orion’s glittering form, + The Less and Greater Bear: + Stay in; to such sights we were drawn + When faded ones were fair. + + Brush not the bough for midnight scents + That come forth lingeringly, + And wake the same sweet sentiments + They breathed to you and me + When living seemed a laugh, and love + All it was said to be. + + Within the common lamp-lit room + Prison my eyes and thought; + Let dingy details crudely loom, + Mechanic speech be wrought: + Too fragrant was Life’s early bloom, + Too tart the fruit it brought! + +1904. + + + +REMINISCENCES OF A DANCING MAN + + + I + + WHO now remembers Almack’s balls— + Willis’s sometime named— + In those two smooth-floored upper halls + For faded ones so famed? + Where as we trod to trilling sound + The fancied phantoms stood around, + Or joined us in the maze, + Of the powdered Dears from Georgian years, + Whose dust lay in sightless sealed-up biers, + The fairest of former days. + + II + + Who now remembers gay Cremorne, + And all its jaunty jills, + And those wild whirling figures born + Of Jullien’s grand quadrilles? + With hats on head and morning coats + There footed to his prancing notes + Our partner-girls and we; + And the gas-jets winked, and the lustres clinked, + And the platform throbbed as with arms enlinked + We moved to the minstrelsy. + + III + + Who now recalls those crowded rooms + Of old yclept “The Argyle,” + Where to the deep Drum-polka’s booms + We hopped in standard style? + Whither have danced those damsels now! + Is Death the partner who doth moue + Their wormy chaps and bare? + Do their spectres spin like sparks within + The smoky halls of the Prince of Sin + To a thunderous Jullien air? + + + +THE DEAD MAN WALKING + + + THEY hail me as one living, + But don’t they know + That I have died of late years, + Untombed although? + + I am but a shape that stands here, + A pulseless mould, + A pale past picture, screening + Ashes gone cold. + + Not at a minute’s warning, + Not in a loud hour, + For me ceased Time’s enchantments + In hall and bower. + + There was no tragic transit, + No catch of breath, + When silent seasons inched me + On to this death . . . + + —A Troubadour-youth I rambled + With Life for lyre, + The beats of being raging + In me like fire. + + But when I practised eyeing + The goal of men, + It iced me, and I perished + A little then. + + When passed my friend, my kinsfolk + Through the Last Door, + And left me standing bleakly, + I died yet more; + + And when my Love’s heart kindled + In hate of me, + Wherefore I knew not, died I + One more degree. + + And if when I died fully + I cannot say, + And changed into the corpse-thing + I am to-day; + + Yet is it that, though whiling + The time somehow + In walking, talking, smiling, + I live not now. + + + + +MORE LOVE LYRICS + + +1967 + + + IN five-score summers! All new eyes, + New minds, new modes, new fools, new wise; + New woes to weep, new joys to prize; + + With nothing left of me and you + In that live century’s vivid view + Beyond a pinch of dust or two; + + A century which, if not sublime, + Will show, I doubt not, at its prime, + A scope above this blinkered time. + + —Yet what to me how far above? + For I would only ask thereof + That thy worm should be my worm, Love! + +16 WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS, 1867. + + + +HER DEFINITION + + + I LINGERED through the night to break of day, + Nor once did sleep extend a wing to me, + Intently busied with a vast array + Of epithets that should outfigure thee. + + Full-featured terms—all fitless—hastened by, + And this sole speech remained: “That maiden mine!”— + Debarred from due description then did I + Perceive the indefinite phrase could yet define. + + As common chests encasing wares of price + Are borne with tenderness through halls of state, + For what they cover, so the poor device + Of homely wording I could tolerate, + Knowing its unadornment held as freight + The sweetest image outside Paradise. + +W. P. V., +Summer: 1866. + + + +THE DIVISION + + + RAIN on the windows, creaking doors, + With blasts that besom the green, + And I am here, and you are there, + And a hundred miles between! + + O were it but the weather, Dear, + O were it but the miles + That summed up all our severance, + There might be room for smiles. + + But that thwart thing betwixt us twain, + Which nothing cleaves or clears, + Is more than distance, Dear, or rain, + And longer than the years! + +1893. + + + +ON THE DEPARTURE PLATFORM + + + WE kissed at the barrier; and passing through + She left me, and moment by moment got + Smaller and smaller, until to my view + She was but a spot; + + A wee white spot of muslin fluff + That down the diminishing platform bore + Through hustling crowds of gentle and rough + To the carriage door. + + Under the lamplight’s fitful glowers, + Behind dark groups from far and near, + Whose interests were apart from ours, + She would disappear, + + Then show again, till I ceased to see + That flexible form, that nebulous white; + And she who was more than my life to me + Had vanished quite . . . + + We have penned new plans since that fair fond day, + And in season she will appear again— + Perhaps in the same soft white array— + But never as then! + + —“And why, young man, must eternally fly + A joy you’ll repeat, if you love her well?” + —O friend, nought happens twice thus; why, + I cannot tell! + + + +IN A CATHEDRAL CITY + + + THESE people have not heard your name; + No loungers in this placid place + Have helped to bruit your beauty’s fame. + + The grey Cathedral, towards whose face + Bend eyes untold, has met not yours; + Your shade has never swept its base, + + Your form has never darked its doors, + Nor have your faultless feet once thrown + A pensive pit-pat on its floors. + + Along the street to maids well known + Blithe lovers hum their tender airs, + But in your praise voice not a tone. + + —Since nought bespeaks you here, or bears, + As I, your imprint through and through, + Here might I rest, till my heart shares + The spot’s unconsciousness of you! + +SALISBURY. + + + +“I SAY I’LL SEEK HER” + + + I SAY, “I’ll seek her side + Ere hindrance interposes;” + But eve in midnight closes, + And here I still abide. + + When darkness wears I see + Her sad eyes in a vision; + They ask, “What indecision + Detains you, Love, from me?— + + “The creaking hinge is oiled, + I have unbarred the backway, + But you tread not the trackway; + And shall the thing be spoiled? + + “Far cockcrows echo shrill, + The shadows are abating, + And I am waiting, waiting; + But O, you tarry still!” + + + +HER FATHER + + + I MET her, as we had privily planned, + Where passing feet beat busily: + She whispered: “Father is at hand! + He wished to walk with me.” + + His presence as he joined us there + Banished our words of warmth away; + We felt, with cloudings of despair, + What Love must lose that day. + + Her crimson lips remained unkissed, + Our fingers kept no tender hold, + His lack of feeling made the tryst + Embarrassed, stiff, and cold. + + A cynic ghost then rose and said, + “But is his love for her so small + That, nigh to yours, it may be read + As of no worth at all? + + “You love her for her pink and white; + But what when their fresh splendours close? + His love will last her in despite + Of Time, and wrack, and foes.” + +WEYMOUTH. + + + +AT WAKING + + + WHEN night was lifting, + And dawn had crept under its shade, + Amid cold clouds drifting + Dead-white as a corpse outlaid, + With a sudden scare + I seemed to behold + My Love in bare + Hard lines unfold. + + Yea, in a moment, + An insight that would not die + Killed her old endowment + Of charm that had capped all nigh, + Which vanished to none + Like the gilt of a cloud, + And showed her but one + Of the common crowd. + + She seemed but a sample + Of earth’s poor average kind, + Lit up by no ample + Enrichments of mien or mind. + I covered my eyes + As to cover the thought, + And unrecognize + What the morn had taught. + + O vision appalling + When the one believed-in thing + Is seen falling, falling, + With all to which hope can cling. + Off: it is not true; + For it cannot be + That the prize I drew + Is a blank to me! + +WEYMOUTH, 1869. + + + +FOUR FOOTPRINTS + + + HERE are the tracks upon the sand + Where stood last evening she and I— + Pressed heart to heart and hand to hand; + The morning sun has baked them dry. + + I kissed her wet face—wet with rain, + For arid grief had burnt up tears, + While reached us as in sleeping pain + The distant gurgling of the weirs. + + “I have married him—yes; feel that ring; + ’Tis a week ago that he put it on . . . + A dutiful daughter does this thing, + And resignation succeeds anon! + + “But that I body and soul was yours + Ere he’d possession, he’ll never know. + He’s a confident man. ‘The husband scores,’ + He says, ‘in the long run’ . . . Now, Dear, go!” + + I went. And to-day I pass the spot; + It is only a smart the more to endure; + And she whom I held is as though she were not, + For they have resumed their honeymoon tour. + + + +IN THE VAULTED WAY + + + IN the vaulted way, where the passage turned + To the shadowy corner that none could see, + You paused for our parting,—plaintively; + Though overnight had come words that burned + My fond frail happiness out of me. + + And then I kissed you,—despite my thought + That our spell must end when reflection came + On what you had deemed me, whose one long aim + Had been to serve you; that what I sought + Lay not in a heart that could breathe such blame. + + But yet I kissed you; whereon you again + As of old kissed me. Why, why was it so? + Do you cleave to me after that light-tongued blow? + If you scorned me at eventide, how love then? + The thing is dark, Dear. I do not know. + + + +IN THE MIND’S EYE + + + THAT was once her casement, + And the taper nigh, + Shining from within there, + Beckoned, “Here am I!” + + Now, as then, I see her + Moving at the pane; + Ah; ’tis but her phantom + Borne within my brain!— + + Foremost in my vision + Everywhere goes she; + Change dissolves the landscapes, + She abides with me. + + Shape so sweet and shy, Dear, + Who can say thee nay? + Never once do I, Dear, + Wish thy ghost away. + + + +THE END OF THE EPISODE + + + INDULGE no more may we + In this sweet-bitter pastime: + The love-light shines the last time + Between you, Dear, and me. + + There shall remain no trace + Of what so closely tied us, + And blank as ere love eyed us + Will be our meeting-place. + + The flowers and thymy air, + Will they now miss our coming? + The dumbles thin their humming + To find we haunt not there? + + Though fervent was our vow, + Though ruddily ran our pleasure, + Bliss has fulfilled its measure, + And sees its sentence now. + + Ache deep; but make no moans: + Smile out; but stilly suffer: + The paths of love are rougher + Than thoroughfares of stones. + + + +THE SIGH + + + LITTLE head against my shoulder, + Shy at first, then somewhat bolder, + And up-eyed; + Till she, with a timid quaver, + Yielded to the kiss I gave her; + But, she sighed. + + That there mingled with her feeling + Some sad thought she was concealing + It implied. + —Not that she had ceased to love me, + None on earth she set above me; + But she sighed. + + She could not disguise a passion, + Dread, or doubt, in weakest fashion + If she tried: + Nothing seemed to hold us sundered, + Hearts were victors; so I wondered + Why she sighed. + + Afterwards I knew her throughly, + And she loved me staunchly, truly, + Till she died; + But she never made confession + Why, at that first sweet concession, + She had sighed. + + It was in our May, remember; + And though now I near November, + And abide + Till my appointed change, unfretting, + Sometimes I sit half regretting + That she sighed. + + + +“IN THE NIGHT SHE CAME” + + + I TOLD her when I left one day + That whatsoever weight of care + Might strain our love, Time’s mere assault + Would work no changes there. + And in the night she came to me, + Toothless, and wan, and old, + With leaden concaves round her eyes, + And wrinkles manifold. + + I tremblingly exclaimed to her, + “O wherefore do you ghost me thus! + I have said that dull defacing Time + Will bring no dreads to us.” + “And is that true of _you_?” she cried + In voice of troubled tune. + I faltered: “Well . . . I did not think + You would test me quite so soon!” + + She vanished with a curious smile, + Which told me, plainlier than by word, + That my staunch pledge could scarce beguile + The fear she had averred. + Her doubts then wrought their shape in me, + And when next day I paid + My due caress, we seemed to be + Divided by some shade. + + + +THE CONFORMERS + + + YES; we’ll wed, my little fay, + And you shall write you mine, + And in a villa chastely gray + We’ll house, and sleep, and dine. + But those night-screened, divine, + Stolen trysts of heretofore, + We of choice ecstasies and fine + Shall know no more. + + The formal faced cohue + Will then no more upbraid + With smiting smiles and whisperings two + Who have thrown less loves in shade. + We shall no more evade + The searching light of the sun, + Our game of passion will be played, + Our dreaming done. + + We shall not go in stealth + To rendezvous unknown, + But friends will ask me of your health, + And you about my own. + When we abide alone, + No leapings each to each, + But syllables in frigid tone + Of household speech. + + When down to dust we glide + Men will not say askance, + As now: “How all the country side + Rings with their mad romance!” + But as they graveward glance + Remark: “In them we lose + A worthy pair, who helped advance + Sound parish views.” + + + +THE DAWN AFTER THE DANCE + + + HERE is your parents’ dwelling with its curtained windows telling + Of no thought of us within it or of our arrival here; + Their slumbers have been normal after one day more of formal + Matrimonial commonplace and household life’s mechanic gear. + + I would be candid willingly, but dawn draws on so chillingly + As to render further cheerlessness intolerable now, + So I will not stand endeavouring to declare a day for severing, + But will clasp you just as always—just the olden love avow. + + Through serene and surly weather we have walked the ways together, + And this long night’s dance this year’s end eve now finishes the + spell; + Yet we dreamt us but beginning a sweet sempiternal spinning + Of a cord we have spun to breaking—too intemperately, too well. + + Yes; last night we danced I know, Dear, as we did that year ago, Dear, + When a new strange bond between our days was formed, and felt, and + heard; + Would that dancing were the worst thing from the latest to the first + thing + That the faded year can charge us with; but what avails a word! + + That which makes man’s love the lighter and the woman’s burn no + brighter + Came to pass with us inevitably while slipped the shortening year . . + . + And there stands your father’s dwelling with its blind bleak windows + telling + That the vows of man and maid are frail as filmy gossamere. + +WEYMOUTH, 1869. + + + +THE SUN ON THE LETTER + + + I DREW the letter out, while gleamed + The sloping sun from under a roof + Of cloud whose verge rose visibly. + + The burning ball flung rays that seemed + Stretched like a warp without a woof + Across the levels of the lea + + To where I stood, and where they beamed + As brightly on the page of proof + That she had shown her false to me + + As if it had shown her true—had teemed + With passionate thought for my behoof + Expressed with their own ardency! + + + +THE NIGHT OF THE DANCE + + + THE cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn, + And centres its gaze on me; + The stars, like eyes in reverie, + Their westering as for a while forborne, + Quiz downward curiously. + + Old Robert draws the backbrand in, + The green logs steam and spit; + The half-awakened sparrows flit + From the riddled thatch; and owls begin + To whoo from the gable-slit. + + Yes; far and nigh things seem to know + Sweet scenes are impending here; + That all is prepared; that the hour is near + For welcomes, fellowships, and flow + Of sally, song, and cheer; + + That spigots are pulled and viols strung; + That soon will arise the sound + Of measures trod to tunes renowned; + That She will return in Love’s low tongue + My vows as we wheel around. + + + +MISCONCEPTION + + + I BUSIED myself to find a sure + Snug hermitage + That should preserve my Love secure + From the world’s rage; + Where no unseemly saturnals, + Or strident traffic-roars, + Or hum of intervolved cabals + Should echo at her doors. + + I laboured that the diurnal spin + Of vanities + Should not contrive to suck her in + By dark degrees, + And cunningly operate to blur + Sweet teachings I had begun; + And then I went full-heart to her + To expound the glad deeds done. + + She looked at me, and said thereto + With a pitying smile, + “And _this_ is what has busied you + So long a while? + O poor exhausted one, I see + You have worn you old and thin + For naught! Those moils you fear for me + I find most pleasure in!” + + + +THE VOICE OF THE THORN + + + I + + WHEN the thorn on the down + Quivers naked and cold, + And the mid-aged and old + Pace the path there to town, + In these words dry and drear + It seems to them sighing: + “O winter is trying + To sojourners here!” + + II + + When it stands fully tressed + On a hot summer day, + And the ewes there astray + Find its shade a sweet rest, + By the breath of the breeze + It inquires of each farer: + “Who would not be sharer + Of shadow with these?” + + III + + But by day or by night, + And in winter or summer, + Should I be the comer + Along that lone height, + In its voicing to me + Only one speech is spoken: + “Here once was nigh broken + A heart, and by thee.” + + + +FROM HER IN THE COUNTRY + + + I THOUGHT and thought of thy crass clanging town + To folly, till convinced such dreams were ill, + I held my heart in bond, and tethered down + Fancy to where I was, by force of will. + + I said: How beautiful are these flowers, this wood, + One little bud is far more sweet to me + Than all man’s urban shows; and then I stood + Urging new zest for bird, and bush, and tree; + + And strove to feel my nature brought it forth + Of instinct, or no rural maid was I; + But it was vain; for I could not see worth + Enough around to charm a midge or fly, + + And mused again on city din and sin, + Longing to madness I might move therein! + +16 W. P. V., 1866. + + + +HER CONFESSION + + + AS some bland soul, to whom a debtor says + “I’ll now repay the amount I owe to you,” + In inward gladness feigns forgetfulness + That such a payment ever was his due + + (His long thought notwithstanding), so did I + At our last meeting waive your proffered kiss + With quick divergent talk of scenery nigh, + By such suspension to enhance my bliss. + + And as his looks in consternation fall + When, gathering that the debt is lightly deemed, + The debtor makes as not to pay at all, + So faltered I, when your intention seemed + + Converted by my false uneagerness + To putting off for ever the caress. + +W. P. V., 1865–67. + + + +TO AN IMPERSONATOR OF ROSALIND + + + DID he who drew her in the years ago— + Till now conceived creator of her grace— + With telescopic sight high natures know, + Discern remote in Time’s untravelled space + + Your soft sweet mien, your gestures, as do we, + And with a copyist’s hand but set them down, + Glowing yet more to dream our ecstasy + When his Original should be forthshown? + + For, kindled by that animated eye, + Whereto all fairnesses about thee brim, + And by thy tender tones, what wight can fly + The wild conviction welling up in him + + That he at length beholds woo, parley, plead, + The “very, very Rosalind” indeed! + +8 ADELPHI TERRACE, 21_st_ _April_ 1867. + + + +TO AN ACTRESS + + + I READ your name when you were strange to me, + Where it stood blazoned bold with many more; + I passed it vacantly, and did not see + Any great glory in the shape it wore. + + O cruelty, the insight barred me then! + Why did I not possess me with its sound, + And in its cadence catch and catch again + Your nature’s essence floating therearound? + + Could _that_ man be this I, unknowing you, + When now the knowing you is all of me, + And the old world of then is now a new, + And purpose no more what it used to be— + A thing of formal journeywork, but due + To springs that then were sealed up utterly? + +1867. + + + +THE MINUTE BEFORE MEETING + + + THE grey gaunt days dividing us in twain + Seemed hopeless hills my strength must faint to climb, + But they are gone; and now I would detain + The few clock-beats that part us; rein back Time, + + And live in close expectance never closed + In change for far expectance closed at last, + So harshly has expectance been imposed + On my long need while these slow blank months passed. + + And knowing that what is now about to be + Will all _have been_ in O, so short a space! + I read beyond it my despondency + When more dividing months shall take its place, + Thereby denying to this hour of grace + A full-up measure of felicity. + +1871. + + + +HE ABJURES LOVE + + + AT last I put off love, + For twice ten years + The daysman of my thought, + And hope, and doing; + Being ashamed thereof, + And faint of fears + And desolations, wrought + In his pursuing, + + Since first in youthtime those + Disquietings + That heart-enslavement brings + To hale and hoary, + Became my housefellows, + And, fool and blind, + I turned from kith and kind + To give him glory. + + I was as children be + Who have no care; + I did not shrink or sigh, + I did not sicken; + But lo, Love beckoned me, + And I was bare, + And poor, and starved, and dry, + And fever-stricken. + + Too many times ablaze + With fatuous fires, + Enkindled by his wiles + To new embraces, + Did I, by wilful ways + And baseless ires, + Return the anxious smiles + Of friendly faces. + + No more will now rate I + The common rare, + The midnight drizzle dew, + The gray hour golden, + The wind a yearning cry, + The faulty fair, + Things dreamt, of comelier hue + Than things beholden! . . . + + —I speak as one who plumbs + Life’s dim profound, + One who at length can sound + Clear views and certain. + But—after love what comes? + A scene that lours, + A few sad vacant hours, + And then, the Curtain. + +1883. + + + + +A SET OF COUNTRY SONGS + + +LET ME ENJOY + + + (MINOR KEY) + + I + + LET me enjoy the earth no less + Because the all-enacting Might + That fashioned forth its loveliness + Had other aims than my delight. + + II + + About my path there flits a Fair, + Who throws me not a word or sign; + I’ll charm me with her ignoring air, + And laud the lips not meant for mine. + + III + + From manuscripts of moving song + Inspired by scenes and dreams unknown + I’ll pour out raptures that belong + To others, as they were my own. + + IV + + And some day hence, towards Paradise, + And all its blest—if such should be— + I will lift glad, afar-off eyes, + Though it contain no place for me. + + + +AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR + + +I +The Ballad-Singer + + + SING, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune; + Make me forget that there was ever a one + I walked with in the meek light of the moon + When the day’s work was done. + + Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song; + Make me forget that she whom I loved well + Swore she would love me dearly, love me long, + Then—what I cannot tell! + + Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book; + Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears; + Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look— + Make me forget her tears. + + +II +Former Beauties + + + THESE market-dames, mid-aged, with lips thin-drawn, + And tissues sere, + Are they the ones we loved in years agone, + And courted here? + + Are these the muslined pink young things to whom + We vowed and swore + In nooks on summer Sundays by the Froom, + Or Budmouth shore? + + Do they remember those gay tunes we trod + Clasped on the green; + Aye; trod till moonlight set on the beaten sod + A satin sheen? + + They must forget, forget! They cannot know + What once they were, + Or memory would transfigure them, and show + Them always fair. + + +III +AFTER THE CLUB-DANCE + + + BLACK’ON frowns east on Maidon, + And westward to the sea, + But on neither is his frown laden + With scorn, as his frown on me! + + At dawn my heart grew heavy, + I could not sip the wine, + I left the jocund bevy + And that young man o’ mine. + + The roadside elms pass by me,— + Why do I sink with shame + When the birds a-perch there eye me? + They, too, have done the same! + + +IV +THE MARKET-GIRL + + + NOBODY took any notice of her as she stood on the causey kerb, + All eager to sell her honey and apples and bunches of garden herb; + And if she had offered to give her wares and herself with them too + that day, + I doubt if a soul would have cared to take a bargain so choice away. + + But chancing to trace her sunburnt grace that morning as I passed + nigh, + I went and I said “Poor maidy dear!—and will none of the people buy?” + And so it began; and soon we knew what the end of it all must be, + And I found that though no others had bid, a prize had been won by me. + + +V +THE INQUIRY + + + AND are ye one of Hermitage— + Of Hermitage, by Ivel Road, + And do ye know, in Hermitage + A thatch-roofed house where sengreens grow? + And does John Waywood live there still— + He of the name that there abode + When father hurdled on the hill + Some fifteen years ago? + + Does he now speak o’ Patty Beech, + The Patty Beech he used to—see, + Or ask at all if Patty Beech + Is known or heard of out this way? + —Ask ever if she’s living yet, + And where her present home may be, + And how she bears life’s fag and fret + After so long a day? + + In years agone at Hermitage + This faded face was counted fair, + None fairer; and at Hermitage + We swore to wed when he should thrive. + But never a chance had he or I, + And waiting made his wish outwear, + And Time, that dooms man’s love to die, + Preserves a maid’s alive. + + +VI +A WIFE WAITS + + + WILL’S at the dance in the Club-room below, + Where the tall liquor-cups foam; + I on the pavement up here by the Bow, + Wait, wait, to steady him home. + + Will and his partner are treading a tune, + Loving companions they be; + Willy, before we were married in June, + Said he loved no one but me; + + Said he would let his old pleasures all go + Ever to live with his Dear. + Will’s at the dance in the Club-room below, + Shivering I wait for him here. + +NOTE.—“The Bow” (line 3). The old name for the curved corner by the +cross-streets in the middle of Casterbridge. + + +VII +AFTER THE FAIR + + + THE singers are gone from the Cornmarket-place + With their broadsheets of rhymes, + The street rings no longer in treble and bass + With their skits on the times, + And the Cross, lately thronged, is a dim naked space + That but echoes the stammering chimes. + + From Clock-corner steps, as each quarter ding-dongs, + Away the folk roam + By the “Hart” and Grey’s Bridge into byways and “drongs,” + Or across the ridged loam; + The younger ones shrilling the lately heard songs, + The old saying, “Would we were home.” + + The shy-seeming maiden so mute in the fair + Now rattles and talks, + And that one who looked the most swaggering there + Grows sad as she walks, + And she who seemed eaten by cankering care + In statuesque sturdiness stalks. + + And midnight clears High Street of all but the ghosts + Of its buried burghees, + From the latest far back to those old Roman hosts + Whose remains one yet sees, + Who loved, laughed, and fought, hailed their friends, drank their + toasts + At their meeting-times here, just as these! + +1902. + +NOTE.—“The Chimes” (line 6) will be listened for in vain here at midnight +now, having been abolished some years ago. + + + +THE DARK-EYED GENTLEMAN + + + I + + I PITCHED my day’s leazings in Crimmercrock Lane, + To tie up my garter and jog on again, + When a dear dark-eyed gentleman passed there and said, + In a way that made all o’ me colour rose-red, + “What do I see— + O pretty knee!” + And he came and he tied up my garter for me. + + II + + ’Twixt sunset and moonrise it was, I can mind: + Ah, ’tis easy to lose what we nevermore find!— + Of the dear stranger’s home, of his name, I knew nought, + But I soon knew his nature and all that it brought. + Then bitterly + Sobbed I that he + Should ever have tied up my garter for me! + + III + + Yet now I’ve beside me a fine lissom lad, + And my slip’s nigh forgot, and my days are not sad; + My own dearest joy is he, comrade, and friend, + He it is who safe-guards me, on him I depend; + No sorrow brings he, + And thankful I be + That his daddy once tied up my garter for me! + +NOTE.—“Leazings” (line 1).—Bundle of gleaned corn. + + + +TO CARREY CLAVEL + + + YOU turn your back, you turn your back, + And never your face to me, + Alone you take your homeward track, + And scorn my company. + + What will you do when Charley’s seen + Dewbeating down this way? + —You’ll turn your back as now, you mean? + Nay, Carrey Clavel, nay! + + You’ll see none’s looking; put your lip + Up like a tulip, so; + And he will coll you, bend, and sip: + Yes, Carrey, yes; I know! + + + +THE ORPHANED OLD MAID + + + I WANTED to marry, but father said, “No— + ’Tis weakness in women to give themselves so; + If you care for your freedom you’ll listen to me, + Make a spouse in your pocket, and let the men be.” + + I spake on’t again and again: father cried, + “Why—if you go husbanding, where shall I bide? + For never a home’s for me elsewhere than here!” + And I yielded; for father had ever been dear. + + But now father’s gone, and I feel growing old, + And I’m lonely and poor in this house on the wold, + And my sweetheart that was found a partner elsewhere, + And nobody flings me a thought or a care. + + + +THE SPRING CALL + + + DOWN Wessex way, when spring’s a-shine, + The blackbird’s “pret-ty de-urr!” + In Wessex accents marked as mine + Is heard afar and near. + + He flutes it strong, as if in song + No R’s of feebler tone + Than his appear in “pretty dear,” + Have blackbirds ever known. + + Yet they pipe “prattie deerh!” I glean, + Beneath a Scottish sky, + And “pehty de-aw!” amid the treen + Of Middlesex or nigh. + + While some folk say—perhaps in play— + Who know the Irish isle, + ’Tis “purrity dare!” in treeland there + When songsters would beguile. + + Well: I’ll say what the listening birds + Say, hearing “pret-ty de-urr!”— + However strangers sound such words, + That’s how we sound them here. + + Yes, in this clime at pairing time, + As soon as eyes can see her + At dawn of day, the proper way + To call is “pret-ty de-urr!” + + + +JULIE-JANE + + + SING; how ’a would sing! + How ’a would raise the tune + When we rode in the waggon from harvesting + By the light o’ the moon! + + Dance; how ’a would dance! + If a fiddlestring did but sound + She would hold out her coats, give a slanting glance, + And go round and round. + + Laugh; how ’a would laugh! + Her peony lips would part + As if none such a place for a lover to quaff + At the deeps of a heart. + + Julie, O girl of joy, + Soon, soon that lover he came. + Ah, yes; and gave thee a baby-boy, + But never his name . . . + + —Tolling for her, as you guess; + And the baby too . . . ’Tis well. + You knew her in maidhood likewise?—Yes, + That’s her burial bell. + + “I suppose,” with a laugh, she said, + “I should blush that I’m not a wife; + But how can it matter, so soon to be dead, + What one does in life!” + + When we sat making the mourning + By her death-bed side, said she, + “Dears, how can you keep from your lovers, adorning + In honour of me!” + + Bubbling and brightsome eyed! + But now—O never again. + She chose her bearers before she died + From her fancy-men. + +NOTE.—It is, or was, a common custom in Wessex, and probably other +country places, to prepare the mourning beside the death-bed, the dying +person sometimes assisting, who also selects his or her bearers on such +occasions. + +“Coats” (line 7).—Old name for petticoats. + + + +NEWS FOR HER MOTHER + + + I + + ONE mile more is + Where your door is + Mother mine!— + Harvest’s coming, + Mills are strumming, + Apples fine, + And the cider made to-year will be as wine. + + II + + Yet, not viewing + What’s a-doing + Here around + Is it thrills me, + And so fills me + That I bound + Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground. + + III + + Tremble not now + At your lot now, + Silly soul! + Hosts have sped them + Quick to wed them, + Great and small, + Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole. + + IV + + Yet I wonder, + Will it sunder + Her from me? + Will she guess that + I said “Yes,”—that + His I’d be, + Ere I thought she might not see him as I see! + + V + + Old brown gable, + Granary, stable, + Here you are! + O my mother, + Can another + Ever bar + Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar? + + + +THE FIDDLER + + + THE fiddler knows what’s brewing + To the lilt of his lyric wiles: + The fiddler knows what rueing + Will come of this night’s smiles! + + He sees couples join them for dancing, + And afterwards joining for life, + He sees them pay high for their prancing + By a welter of wedded strife. + + He twangs: “Music hails from the devil, + Though vaunted to come from heaven, + For it makes people do at a revel + What multiplies sins by seven. + + “There’s many a heart now mangled, + And waiting its time to go, + Whose tendrils were first entangled + By my sweet viol and bow!” + + + +THE HUSBAND’S VIEW + + + “CAN anything avail + Beldame, for my hid grief?— + Listen: I’ll tell the tale, + It may bring faint relief!— + + “I came where I was not known, + In hope to flee my sin; + And walking forth alone + A young man said, ‘Good e’en.’ + + “In gentle voice and true + He asked to marry me; + ‘You only—only you + Fulfil my dream!’ said he. + + “We married o’ Monday morn, + In the month of hay and flowers; + My cares were nigh forsworn, + And perfect love was ours. + + “But ere the days are long + Untimely fruit will show; + My Love keeps up his song, + Undreaming it is so. + + “And I awake in the night, + And think of months gone by, + And of that cause of flight + Hidden from my Love’s eye. + + “Discovery borders near, + And then! . . . But something stirred?— + My husband—he is here! + Heaven—has he overheard?”— + + “Yes; I have heard, sweet Nan; + I have known it all the time. + I am not a particular man; + Misfortunes are no crime: + + “And what with our serious need + Of sons for soldiering, + That accident, indeed, + To maids, is a useful thing!” + + + +ROSE-ANN + + + WHY didn’t you say you was promised, Rose-Ann? + Why didn’t you name it to me, + Ere ever you tempted me hither, Rose-Ann, + So often, so wearifully? + + O why did you let me be near ’ee, Rose-Ann, + Talking things about wedlock so free, + And never by nod or by whisper, Rose-Ann, + Give a hint that it wasn’t to be? + + Down home I was raising a flock of stock ewes, + Cocks and hens, and wee chickens by scores, + And lavendered linen all ready to use, + A-dreaming that they would be yours. + + Mother said: “She’s a sport-making maiden, my son”; + And a pretty sharp quarrel had we; + O why do you prove by this wrong you have done + That I saw not what mother could see? + + Never once did you say you was promised, Rose-Ann, + Never once did I dream it to be; + And it cuts to the heart to be treated, Rose-Ann, + As you in your scorning treat me! + + + +THE HOMECOMING + + + _GRUFFLY growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare_, + _And lonesome was the house_, _and dark_; _and few came there_. + + “Now don’t ye rub your eyes so red; we’re home and have no cares; + Here’s a skimmer-cake for supper, peckled onions, and some pears; + I’ve got a little keg o’ summat strong, too, under stairs: + —What, slight your husband’s victuals? Other brides can tackle + theirs!” + + _The wind of winter mooed and mouthed their chimney like a horn_, + _And round the house and past the house ’twas leafless and lorn_. + + “But my dear and tender poppet, then, how came ye to agree + In Ivel church this morning? Sure, there-right you married me!” + —“Hoo-hoo!—I don’t know—I forgot how strange and far ’twould be, + An’ I wish I was at home again with dear daddee!” + + _Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare_, + _And lonesome was the house and dark_; _and few came there_. + + “I didn’t think such furniture as this was all you’d own, + And great black beams for ceiling, and a floor o’ wretched stone, + And nasty pewter platters, horrid forks of steel and bone, + And a monstrous crock in chimney. ’Twas to me quite unbeknown!” + + _Rattle rattle went the door_; _down flapped a cloud of smoke_, + _As shifting north the wicked wind assayed a smarter stroke_. + + “Now sit ye by the fire, poppet; put yourself at ease: + And keep your little thumb out of your mouth, dear, please! + And I’ll sing to ’ee a pretty song of lovely flowers and bees, + And happy lovers taking walks within a grove o’ trees.” + + _Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down_, _so bleak and bare_, + _And lonesome was the house_, _and dark_; _and few came there_. + + “Now, don’t ye gnaw your handkercher; ’twill hurt your little tongue, + And if you do feel spitish, ’tis because ye are over young; + But you’ll be getting older, like us all, ere very long, + And you’ll see me as I am—a man who never did ’ee wrong.” + + _Straight from Whit’sheet Hill to Benvill Lane the blusters pass_, + _Hitting hedges_, _milestones_, _handposts_, _trees_, _and tufts of + grass_. + + “Well, had I only known, my dear, that this was how you’d be, + I’d have married her of riper years that was so fond of me. + But since I can’t, I’ve half a mind to run away to sea, + And leave ’ee to go barefoot to your d—d daddee!” + + _Up one wall and down the other—past each window-pane—_ + _Prance the gusts_, _and then away down Crimmercrock’s long lane_. + + “I—I—don’t know what to say to’t, since your wife I’ve vowed to be; + And as ’tis done, I s’pose here I must bide—poor me! + Aye—as you are ki-ki-kind, I’ll try to live along with ’ee, + Although I’d fain have stayed at home with dear daddee!” + + _Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down_, _so bleak and bare_, + _And lonesome was the house and dark_; _and few came there_. + + “That’s right, my Heart! And though on haunted Toller Down we be, + And the wind swears things in chimley, we’ll to supper merrily! + So don’t ye tap your shoe so pettish-like; but smile at me, + And ye’ll soon forget to sock and sigh for dear daddee!” + +_December_ 1901. + + + + +PIECES OCCASIONAL AND VARIOUS + + +A CHURCH ROMANCE +(MELLSTOCK _circa_ 1835) + + + SHE turned in the high pew, until her sight + Swept the west gallery, and caught its row + Of music-men with viol, book, and bow + Against the sinking sad tower-window light. + + She turned again; and in her pride’s despite + One strenuous viol’s inspirer seemed to throw + A message from his string to her below, + Which said: “I claim thee as my own forthright!” + + Thus their hearts’ bond began, in due time signed. + And long years thence, when Age had scared Romance, + At some old attitude of his or glance + That gallery-scene would break upon her mind, + With him as minstrel, ardent, young, and trim, + Bowing “New Sabbath” or “Mount Ephraim.” + + + +THE RASH BRIDE +AN EXPERIENCE OF THE MELLSTOCK QUIRE + + + I + + WE Christmas-carolled down the Vale, and up the Vale, and round the + Vale, + We played and sang that night as we were yearly wont to do— + A carol in a minor key, a carol in the major D, + Then at each house: “Good wishes: many Christmas joys to you!” + + II + + Next, to the widow’s John and I and all the rest drew on. And I + Discerned that John could hardly hold the tongue of him for joy. + The widow was a sweet young thing whom John was bent on marrying, + And quiring at her casement seemed romantic to the boy. + + III + + “She’ll make reply, I trust,” said he, “to our salute? She must!” + said he, + “And then I will accost her gently—much to her surprise!— + For knowing not I am with you here, when I speak up and call her dear + A tenderness will fill her voice, a bashfulness her eyes. + + IV + + So, by her window-square we stood; ay, with our lanterns there we + stood, + And he along with us,—not singing, waiting for a sign; + And when we’d quired her carols three a light was lit and out looked + she, + A shawl about her bedgown, and her colour red as wine. + + V + + And sweetly then she bowed her thanks, and smiled, and spoke aloud her + thanks; + When lo, behind her back there, in the room, a man appeared. + I knew him—one from Woolcomb way—Giles Swetman—honest as the day, + But eager, hasty; and I felt that some strange trouble neared. + + VI + + “How comes he there? . . . Suppose,” said we, “she’s wed of late! Who + knows?” said we. + —“She married yester-morning—only mother yet has known + The secret o’t!” shrilled one small boy. “But now I’ve told, let’s + wish ’em joy!” + A heavy fall aroused us: John had gone down like a stone. + + VII + + We rushed to him and caught him round, and lifted him, and brought him + round, + When, hearing something wrong had happened, oped the window she: + “Has one of you fallen ill?” she asked, “by these night labours + overtasked?” + None answered. That she’d done poor John a cruel turn felt we. + + VIII + + Till up spoke Michael: “Fie, young dame! You’ve broke your promise, + sly young dame, + By forming this new tie, young dame, and jilting John so true, + Who trudged to-night to sing to ’ee because he thought he’d bring to + ’ee + Good wishes as your coming spouse. May ye such trifling rue!” + + IX + + Her man had said no word at all; but being behind had heard it all, + And now cried: “Neighbours, on my soul I knew not ’twas like this!” + And then to her: “If I had known you’d had in tow not me alone, + No wife should you have been of mine. It is a dear bought bliss!” + + X + + She changed death-white, and heaved a cry: we’d never heard so grieved + a cry + As came from her at this from him: heart-broken quite seemed she; + And suddenly, as we looked on, she turned, and rushed; and she was + gone, + Whither, her husband, following after, knew not; nor knew we. + + XI + + We searched till dawn about the house; within the house, without the + house, + We searched among the laurel boughs that grew beneath the wall, + And then among the crocks and things, and stores for winter + junketings, + In linhay, loft, and dairy; but we found her not at all. + + XII + + Then John rushed in: “O friends,” he said, “hear this, this, this!” + and bends his head: + “I’ve—searched round by the—_well_, and find the cover open wide! + I am fearful that—I can’t say what . . . Bring lanterns, and some + cords to knot.” + We did so, and we went and stood the deep dark hole beside. + + XIII + + And then they, ropes in hand, and I—ay, John, and all the band, and I + Let down a lantern to the depths—some hundred feet and more; + It glimmered like a fog-dimmed star; and there, beside its light, + afar, + White drapery floated, and we knew the meaning that it bore. + + XIV + + The rest is naught . . . We buried her o’ Sunday. Neighbours carried + her; + And Swetman—he who’d married her—now miserablest of men, + Walked mourning first; and then walked John; just quivering, but + composed anon; + And we the quire formed round the grave, as was the custom then. + + XV + + Our old bass player, as I recall—his white hair blown—but why recall!— + His viol upstrapped, bent figure—doomed to follow her full soon— + Stood bowing, pale and tremulous; and next to him the rest of us . . . + We sang the Ninetieth Psalm to her—set to Saint Stephen’s tune. + + + +THE DEAD QUIRE + + + I + + BESIDE the Mead of Memories, + Where Church-way mounts to Moaning Hill, + The sad man sighed his phantasies: + He seems to sigh them still. + + II + + “’Twas the Birth-tide Eve, and the hamleteers + Made merry with ancient Mellstock zest, + But the Mellstock quire of former years + Had entered into rest. + + III + + “Old Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree, + And Reuben and Michael a pace behind, + And Bowman with his family + By the wall that the ivies bind. + + IV + + “The singers had followed one by one, + Treble, and tenor, and thorough-bass; + And the worm that wasteth had begun + To mine their mouldering place. + + V + + “For two-score years, ere Christ-day light, + Mellstock had throbbed to strains from these; + But now there echoed on the night + No Christmas harmonies. + + VI + + “Three meadows off, at a dormered inn, + The youth had gathered in high carouse, + And, ranged on settles, some therein + Had drunk them to a drowse. + + VII + + “Loud, lively, reckless, some had grown, + Each dandling on his jigging knee + Eliza, Dolly, Nance, or Joan— + Livers in levity. + + VIII + + “The taper flames and hearthfire shine + Grew smoke-hazed to a lurid light, + And songs on subjects not divine + Were warbled forth that night. + + IX + + “Yet many were sons and grandsons here + Of those who, on such eves gone by, + At that still hour had throated clear + Their anthems to the sky. + + X + + “The clock belled midnight; and ere long + One shouted, ‘Now ’tis Christmas morn; + Here’s to our women old and young, + And to John Barleycorn!’ + + XI + + “They drink the toast and shout again: + The pewter-ware rings back the boom, + And for a breath-while follows then + A silence in the room. + + XII + + “When nigh without, as in old days, + The ancient quire of voice and string + Seemed singing words of prayer and praise + As they had used to sing: + + XIII + + “‘While shepherds watch’d their flocks by night,’— + Thus swells the long familiar sound + In many a quaint symphonic flight— + To, ‘Glory shone around.’ + + XIV + + “The sons defined their fathers’ tones, + The widow his whom she had wed, + And others in the minor moans + The viols of the dead. + + XV + + “Something supernal has the sound + As verse by verse the strain proceeds, + And stilly staring on the ground + Each roysterer holds and heeds. + + XVI + + “Towards its chorded closing bar + Plaintively, thinly, waned the hymn, + Yet lingered, like the notes afar + Of banded seraphim. + + XVII + + “With brows abashed, and reverent tread, + The hearkeners sought the tavern door: + But nothing, save wan moonlight, spread + The empty highway o’er. + + XVIII + + “While on their hearing fixed and tense + The aerial music seemed to sink, + As it were gently moving thence + Along the river brink. + + XIX + + “Then did the Quick pursue the Dead + By crystal Froom that crinkles there; + And still the viewless quire ahead + Voiced the old holy air. + + XX + + “By Bank-walk wicket, brightly bleached, + It passed, and ’twixt the hedges twain, + Dogged by the living; till it reached + The bottom of Church Lane. + + XXI + + “There, at the turning, it was heard + Drawing to where the churchyard lay: + But when they followed thitherward + It smalled, and died away. + + XXII + + “Each headstone of the quire, each mound, + Confronted them beneath the moon; + But no more floated therearound + That ancient Birth-night tune. + + XXIII + + “There Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree, + There Reuben and Michael, a pace behind, + And Bowman with his family + By the wall that the ivies bind . . . + + XXIV + + “As from a dream each sobered son + Awoke, and musing reached his door: + ’Twas said that of them all, not one + Sat in a tavern more.” + + XXV + + —The sad man ceased; and ceased to heed + His listener, and crossed the leaze + From Moaning Hill towards the mead— + The Mead of Memories. + +1897. + + + +THE CHRISTENING + + + WHOSE child is this they bring + Into the aisle?— + At so superb a thing + The congregation smile + And turn their heads awhile. + + Its eyes are blue and bright, + Its cheeks like rose; + Its simple robes unite + Whitest of calicoes + With lawn, and satin bows. + + A pride in the human race + At this paragon + Of mortals, lights each face + While the old rite goes on; + But ah, they are shocked anon. + + What girl is she who peeps + From the gallery stair, + Smiles palely, redly weeps, + With feverish furtive air + As though not fitly there? + + “I am the baby’s mother; + This gem of the race + The decent fain would smother, + And for my deep disgrace + I am bidden to leave the place.” + + “Where is the baby’s father?”— + “In the woods afar. + He says there is none he’d rather + Meet under moon or star + Than me, of all that are. + + “To clasp me in lovelike weather, + Wish fixing when, + He says: To be together + At will, just now and then, + Makes him the blest of men; + + “But chained and doomed for life + To slovening + As vulgar man and wife, + He says, is another thing: + Yea: sweet Love’s sepulchring!” + +1904. + + + +A DREAM QUESTION + + + “It shall be dark unto you, that ye shall not divine.” + + MICAH iii. 6. + + I ASKED the Lord: “Sire, is this true + Which hosts of theologians hold, + That when we creatures censure you + For shaping griefs and ails untold + (Deeming them punishments undue) + You rage, as Moses wrote of old? + + When we exclaim: ‘Beneficent + He is not, for he orders pain, + Or, if so, not omnipotent: + To a mere child the thing is plain!’ + Those who profess to represent + You, cry out: ‘Impious and profane!’” + + He: “Save me from my friends, who deem + That I care what my creatures say! + Mouth as you list: sneer, rail, blaspheme, + O manikin, the livelong day, + Not one grief-groan or pleasure-gleam + Will you increase or take away. + + “Why things are thus, whoso derides, + May well remain my secret still . . . + A fourth dimension, say the guides, + To matter is conceivable. + Think some such mystery resides + Within the ethic of my will.” + + + +BY THE BARROWS + + + NOT far from Mellstock—so tradition saith— + Where barrows, bulging as they bosoms were + Of Multimammia stretched supinely there, + Catch night and noon the tempest’s wanton breath, + + A battle, desperate doubtless unto death, + Was one time fought. The outlook, lone and bare, + The towering hawk and passing raven share, + And all the upland round is called “The He’th.” + + Here once a woman, in our modern age, + Fought singlehandedly to shield a child— + One not her own—from a man’s senseless rage. + And to my mind no patriots’ bones there piled + So consecrate the silence as her deed + Of stoic and devoted self-unheed. + + + +A WIFE AND ANOTHER + + + “WAR ends, and he’s returning + Early; yea, + The evening next to-morrow’s!”— + —This I say + To her, whom I suspiciously survey, + + Holding my husband’s letter + To her view.— + She glanced at it but lightly, + And I knew + That one from him that day had reached her too. + + There was no time for scruple; + Secretly + I filched her missive, conned it, + Learnt that he + Would lodge with her ere he came home to me. + + To reach the port before her, + And, unscanned, + There wait to intercept them + Soon I planned: + That, in her stead, _I_ might before him stand. + + So purposed, so effected; + At the inn + Assigned, I found her hidden:— + O that sin + Should bear what she bore when I entered in! + + Her heavy lids grew laden + With despairs, + Her lips made soundless movements + Unawares, + While I peered at the chamber hired as theirs. + + And as beside its doorway, + Deadly hued, + One inside, one withoutside + We two stood, + He came—my husband—as she knew he would. + + No pleasurable triumph + Was that sight! + The ghastly disappointment + Broke them quite. + What love was theirs, to move them with such might! + + “Madam, forgive me!” said she, + Sorrow bent, + “A child—I soon shall bear him . . . + Yes—I meant + To tell you—that he won me ere he went.” + + Then, as it were, within me + Something snapped, + As if my soul had largened: + Conscience-capped, + I saw myself the snarer—them the trapped. + + “My hate dies, and I promise, + Grace-beguiled,” + I said, “to care for you, be + Reconciled; + And cherish, and take interest in the child.” + + Without more words I pressed him + Through the door + Within which she stood, powerless + To say more, + And closed it on them, and downstairward bore. + + “He joins his wife—my sister,” + I, below, + Remarked in going—lightly— + Even as though + All had come right, and we had arranged it so . . . + + As I, my road retracing, + Left them free, + The night alone embracing + Childless me, + I held I had not stirred God wrothfully. + + + +THE ROMAN ROAD + + + THE Roman Road runs straight and bare + As the pale parting-line in hair + Across the heath. And thoughtful men + Contrast its days of Now and Then, + And delve, and measure, and compare; + + Visioning on the vacant air + Helmed legionaries, who proudly rear + The Eagle, as they pace again + The Roman Road. + + But no tall brass-helmed legionnaire + Haunts it for me. Uprises there + A mother’s form upon my ken, + Guiding my infant steps, as when + We walked that ancient thoroughfare, + The Roman Road. + + + +THE VAMPIRINE FAIR + + + GILBERT had sailed to India’s shore, + And I was all alone: + My lord came in at my open door + And said, “O fairest one!” + + He leant upon the slant bureau, + And sighed, “I am sick for thee!” + “My lord,” said I, “pray speak not so, + Since wedded wife I be.” + + Leaning upon the slant bureau, + Bitter his next words came: + “So much I know; and likewise know + My love burns on the same! + + “But since you thrust my love away, + And since it knows no cure, + I must live out as best I may + The ache that I endure.” + + When Michaelmas browned the nether Coomb, + And Wingreen Hill above, + And made the hollyhocks rags of bloom, + My lord grew ill of love. + + My lord grew ill with love for me; + Gilbert was far from port; + And—so it was—that time did see + Me housed at Manor Court. + + About the bowers of Manor Court + The primrose pushed its head + When, on a day at last, report + Arrived of him I had wed. + + “Gilbert, my lord, is homeward bound, + His sloop is drawing near, + What shall I do when I am found + Not in his house but here?” + + “O I will heal the injuries + I’ve done to him and thee. + I’ll give him means to live at ease + Afar from Shastonb’ry.” + + When Gilbert came we both took thought: + “Since comfort and good cheer,” + Said he, “So readily are bought, + He’s welcome to thee, Dear.” + + So when my lord flung liberally + His gold in Gilbert’s hands, + I coaxed and got my brothers three + Made stewards of his lands. + + And then I coaxed him to install + My other kith and kin, + With aim to benefit them all + Before his love ran thin. + + And next I craved to be possessed + Of plate and jewels rare. + He groaned: “You give me, Love, no rest, + Take all the law will spare!” + + And so in course of years my wealth + Became a goodly hoard, + My steward brethren, too, by stealth + Had each a fortune stored. + + Thereafter in the gloom he’d walk, + And by and by began + To say aloud in absent talk, + “I am a ruined man!— + + “I hardly could have thought,” he said, + “When first I looked on thee, + That one so soft, so rosy red, + Could thus have beggared me!” + + Seeing his fair estates in pawn, + And him in such decline, + I knew that his domain had gone + To lift up me and mine. + + Next month upon a Sunday morn + A gunshot sounded nigh: + By his own hand my lordly born + Had doomed himself to die. + + “Live, my dear lord, and much of thine + Shall be restored to thee!” + He smiled, and said ’twixt word and sign, + “Alas—that cannot be!” + + And while I searched his cabinet + For letters, keys, or will, + ’Twas touching that his gaze was set + With love upon me still. + + And when I burnt each document + Before his dying eyes, + ’Twas sweet that he did not resent + My fear of compromise. + + The steeple-cock gleamed golden when + I watched his spirit go: + And I became repentant then + That I had wrecked him so. + + Three weeks at least had come and gone, + With many a saddened word, + Before I wrote to Gilbert on + The stroke that so had stirred. + + And having worn a mournful gown, + I joined, in decent while, + My husband at a dashing town + To live in dashing style. + + Yet though I now enjoy my fling, + And dine and dance and drive, + I’d give my prettiest emerald ring + To see my lord alive. + + And when the meet on hunting-days + Is near his churchyard home, + I leave my bantering beaux to place + A flower upon his tomb; + + And sometimes say: “Perhaps too late + The saints in Heaven deplore + That tender time when, moved by Fate, + He darked my cottage door.” + + + +THE REMINDER + + + WHILE I watch the Christmas blaze + Paint the room with ruddy rays, + Something makes my vision glide + To the frosty scene outside. + + There, to reach a rotting berry, + Toils a thrush,—constrained to very + Dregs of food by sharp distress, + Taking such with thankfulness. + + Why, O starving bird, when I + One day’s joy would justify, + And put misery out of view, + Do you make me notice you! + + + +THE RAMBLER + + + I DO not see the hills around, + Nor mark the tints the copses wear; + I do not note the grassy ground + And constellated daisies there. + + I hear not the contralto note + Of cuckoos hid on either hand, + The whirr that shakes the nighthawk’s throat + When eve’s brown awning hoods the land. + + Some say each songster, tree, and mead— + All eloquent of love divine— + Receives their constant careful heed: + Such keen appraisement is not mine. + + The tones around me that I hear, + The aspects, meanings, shapes I see, + Are those far back ones missed when near, + And now perceived too late by me! + + + +NIGHT IN THE OLD HOME + + + When the wasting embers redden the chimney-breast, + And Life’s bare pathway looms like a desert track to me, + And from hall and parlour the living have gone to their rest, + My perished people who housed them here come back to me. + + They come and seat them around in their mouldy places, + Now and then bending towards me a glance of wistfulness, + A strange upbraiding smile upon all their faces, + And in the bearing of each a passive tristfulness. + + “Do you uphold me, lingering and languishing here, + A pale late plant of your once strong stock?” I say to them; + “A thinker of crooked thoughts upon Life in the sere, + And on That which consigns men to night after showing the day to + them?” + + “—O let be the Wherefore! We fevered our years not thus: + Take of Life what it grants, without question!” they answer me + seemingly. + “Enjoy, suffer, wait: spread the table here freely like us, + And, satisfied, placid, unfretting, watch Time away beamingly!” + + + +AFTER THE LAST BREATH +(J. H. 1813–1904) + + + THERE’S no more to be done, or feared, or hoped; + None now need watch, speak low, and list, and tire; + No irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped + Does she require. + + Blankly we gaze. We are free to go or stay; + Our morrow’s anxious plans have missed their aim; + Whether we leave to-night or wait till day + Counts as the same. + + The lettered vessels of medicaments + Seem asking wherefore we have set them here; + Each palliative its silly face presents + As useless gear. + + And yet we feel that something savours well; + We note a numb relief withheld before; + Our well-beloved is prisoner in the cell + Of Time no more. + + We see by littles now the deft achievement + Whereby she has escaped the Wrongers all, + In view of which our momentary bereavement + Outshapes but small. + +1904. + + + +IN CHILDBED + + + IN the middle of the night + Mother’s spirit came and spoke to me, + Looking weariful and white— + As ’twere untimely news she broke to me. + + “O my daughter, joyed are you + To own the weetless child you mother there; + ‘Men may search the wide world through,’ + You think, ‘nor find so fair another there!’ + + “Dear, this midnight time unwombs + Thousands just as rare and beautiful; + Thousands whom High Heaven foredooms + To be as bright, as good, as dutiful. + + “Source of ecstatic hopes and fears + And innocent maternal vanity, + Your fond exploit but shapes for tears + New thoroughfares in sad humanity. + + “Yet as you dream, so dreamt I + When Life stretched forth its morning ray to me; + Other views for by and by!” . . . + Such strange things did mother say to me. + + + +THE PINE PLANTERS +(MARTY SOUTH’S REVERIE) + + + I + + WE work here together + In blast and breeze; + He fills the earth in, + I hold the trees. + + He does not notice + That what I do + Keeps me from moving + And chills me through. + + He has seen one fairer + I feel by his eye, + Which skims me as though + I were not by. + + And since she passed here + He scarce has known + But that the woodland + Holds him alone. + + I have worked here with him + Since morning shine, + He busy with his thoughts + And I with mine. + + I have helped him so many, + So many days, + But never win any + Small word of praise! + + Shall I not sigh to him + That I work on + Glad to be nigh to him + Though hope is gone? + + Nay, though he never + Knew love like mine, + I’ll bear it ever + And make no sign! + + II + + From the bundle at hand here + I take each tree, + And set it to stand, here + Always to be; + When, in a second, + As if from fear + Of Life unreckoned + Beginning here, + It starts a sighing + Through day and night, + Though while there lying + ’Twas voiceless quite. + + It will sigh in the morning, + Will sigh at noon, + At the winter’s warning, + In wafts of June; + Grieving that never + Kind Fate decreed + It should for ever + Remain a seed, + And shun the welter + Of things without, + Unneeding shelter + From storm and drought. + + Thus, all unknowing + For whom or what + We set it growing + In this bleak spot, + It still will grieve here + Throughout its time, + Unable to leave here, + Or change its clime; + Or tell the story + Of us to-day + When, halt and hoary, + We pass away. + + + +THE DEAR + + + I PLODDED to Fairmile Hill-top, where + A maiden one fain would guard + From every hazard and every care + Advanced on the roadside sward. + + I wondered how succeeding suns + Would shape her wayfarings, + And wished some Power might take such ones + Under Its warding wings. + + The busy breeze came up the hill + And smartened her cheek to red, + And frizzled her hair to a haze. With a will + “Good-morning, my Dear!” I said. + + She glanced from me to the far-off gray, + And, with proud severity, + “Good-morning to you—though I may say + I am not _your_ Dear,” quoth she: + + “For I am the Dear of one not here— + One far from his native land!”— + And she passed me by; and I did not try + To make her understand. + +1901 + + + +ONE WE KNEW +(M. H. 1772–1857) + + + SHE told how they used to form for the country dances— + “The Triumph,” “The New-rigged Ship”— + To the light of the guttering wax in the panelled manses, + And in cots to the blink of a dip. + + She spoke of the wild “poussetting” and “allemanding” + On carpet, on oak, and on sod; + And the two long rows of ladies and gentlemen standing, + And the figures the couples trod. + + She showed us the spot where the maypole was yearly planted, + And where the bandsmen stood + While breeched and kerchiefed partners whirled, and panted + To choose each other for good. + + She told of that far-back day when they learnt astounded + Of the death of the King of France: + Of the Terror; and then of Bonaparte’s unbounded + Ambition and arrogance. + + Of how his threats woke warlike preparations + Along the southern strand, + And how each night brought tremors and trepidations + Lest morning should see him land. + + She said she had often heard the gibbet creaking + As it swayed in the lightning flash, + Had caught from the neighbouring town a small child’s shrieking + At the cart-tail under the lash . . . + + With cap-framed face and long gaze into the embers— + We seated around her knees— + She would dwell on such dead themes, not as one who remembers, + But rather as one who sees. + + She seemed one left behind of a band gone distant + So far that no tongue could hail: + Past things retold were to her as things existent, + Things present but as a tale. + +_May_ 20, 1902. + + + +SHE HEARS THE STORM + + + THERE was a time in former years— + While my roof-tree was his— + When I should have been distressed by fears + At such a night as this! + + I should have murmured anxiously, + “The pricking rain strikes cold; + His road is bare of hedge or tree, + And he is getting old.” + + But now the fitful chimney-roar, + The drone of Thorncombe trees, + The Froom in flood upon the moor, + The mud of Mellstock Leaze, + + The candle slanting sooty wick’d, + The thuds upon the thatch, + The eaves-drops on the window flicked, + The clacking garden-hatch, + + And what they mean to wayfarers, + I scarcely heed or mind; + He has won that storm-tight roof of hers + Which Earth grants all her kind. + + + +A WET NIGHT + + + I PACE along, the rain-shafts riddling me, + Mile after mile out by the moorland way, + And up the hill, and through the ewe-leaze gray + Into the lane, and round the corner tree; + + Where, as my clothing clams me, mire-bestarred, + And the enfeebled light dies out of day, + Leaving the liquid shades to reign, I say, + “This is a hardship to be calendared!” + + Yet sires of mine now perished and forgot, + When worse beset, ere roads were shapen here, + And night and storm were foes indeed to fear, + Times numberless have trudged across this spot + In sturdy muteness on their strenuous lot, + And taking all such toils as trifles mere. + + + +BEFORE LIFE AND AFTER + + + A TIME there was—as one may guess + And as, indeed, earth’s testimonies tell— + Before the birth of consciousness, + When all went well. + + None suffered sickness, love, or loss, + None knew regret, starved hope, or heart-burnings; + None cared whatever crash or cross + Brought wrack to things. + + If something ceased, no tongue bewailed, + If something winced and waned, no heart was wrung; + If brightness dimmed, and dark prevailed, + No sense was stung. + + But the disease of feeling germed, + And primal rightness took the tinct of wrong; + Ere nescience shall be reaffirmed + How long, how long? + + + +NEW YEAR’S EVE + + + “I HAVE finished another year,” said God, + “In grey, green, white, and brown; + I have strewn the leaf upon the sod, + Sealed up the worm within the clod, + And let the last sun down.” + + “And what’s the good of it?” I said. + “What reasons made you call + From formless void this earth we tread, + When nine-and-ninety can be read + Why nought should be at all? + + “Yea, Sire; why shaped you us, ‘who in + This tabernacle groan’— + If ever a joy be found herein, + Such joy no man had wished to win + If he had never known!” + + Then he: “My labours—logicless— + You may explain; not I: + Sense-sealed I have wrought, without a guess + That I evolved a Consciousness + To ask for reasons why. + + “Strange that ephemeral creatures who + By my own ordering are, + Should see the shortness of my view, + Use ethic tests I never knew, + Or made provision for!” + + He sank to raptness as of yore, + And opening New Year’s Day + Wove it by rote as theretofore, + And went on working evermore + In his unweeting way. + +1906. + + + +GOD’S EDUCATION + + + I SAW him steal the light away + That haunted in her eye: + It went so gently none could say + More than that it was there one day + And missing by-and-by. + + I watched her longer, and he stole + Her lily tincts and rose; + All her young sprightliness of soul + Next fell beneath his cold control, + And disappeared like those. + + I asked: “Why do you serve her so? + Do you, for some glad day, + Hoard these her sweets—?” He said, “O no, + They charm not me; I bid Time throw + Them carelessly away.” + + Said I: “We call that cruelty— + We, your poor mortal kind.” + He mused. “The thought is new to me. + Forsooth, though I men’s master be, + Theirs is the teaching mind!” + + + +TO SINCERITY + + + O SWEET sincerity!— + Where modern methods be + What scope for thine and thee? + + Life may be sad past saying, + Its greens for ever graying, + Its faiths to dust decaying; + + And youth may have foreknown it, + And riper seasons shown it, + But custom cries: “Disown it: + + “Say ye rejoice, though grieving, + Believe, while unbelieving, + Behold, without perceiving!” + + —Yet, would men look at true things, + And unilluded view things, + And count to bear undue things, + + The real might mend the seeming, + Facts better their foredeeming, + And Life its disesteeming. + +_February_ 1899. + + + +PANTHERA + + +(For other forms of this legend—first met with in the second century—see +Origen contra Celsum; the Talmud; Sepher Toldoth Jeschu; quoted fragments +of lost Apocryphal gospels; Strauss, Haeckel; etc.) + + YEA, as I sit here, crutched, and cricked, and bent, + I think of Panthera, who underwent + Much from insidious aches in his decline; + But his aches were not radical like mine; + They were the twinges of old wounds—the feel + Of the hand he had lost, shorn by barbarian steel, + Which came back, so he said, at a change in the air, + Fingers and all, as if it still were there. + My pains are otherwise: upclosing cramps + And stiffened tendons from this country’s damps, + Where Panthera was never commandant.— + The Fates sent him by way of the Levant. + He had been blithe in his young manhood’s time, + And as centurion carried well his prime. + In Ethiop, Araby, climes fair and fell, + He had seen service and had borne him well. + Nought shook him then: he was serene as brave; + Yet later knew some shocks, and would grow grave + When pondering them; shocks less of corporal kind + Than phantom-like, that disarranged his mind; + And it was in the way of warning me + (By much his junior) against levity + That he recounted them; and one in chief + Panthera loved to set in bold relief. + + This was a tragedy of his Eastern days, + Personal in touch—though I have sometimes thought + That touch a possible delusion—wrought + Of half-conviction carried to a craze— + His mind at last being stressed by ails and age:— + Yet his good faith thereon I well could wage. + + I had said it long had been a wish with me + That I might leave a scion—some small tree + As channel for my sap, if not my name— + Ay, offspring even of no legitimate claim, + In whose advance I secretly could joy. + Thereat he warned. + “Cancel such wishes, boy! + A son may be a comfort or a curse, + A seer, a doer, a coward, a fool; yea, worse— + A criminal . . . That I could testify!” + “Panthera has no guilty son!” cried I + All unbelieving. “Friend, you do not know,” + He darkly dropt: “True, I’ve none now to show, + For _the law took him_. Ay, in sooth, Jove shaped it so!” + + “This noon is not unlike,” he again began, + “The noon these pricking memories print on me— + Yea, that day, when the sun grew copper-red, + And I served in Judæa . . . ’Twas a date + Of rest for arms. The _Pax Romana_ ruled, + To the chagrin of frontier legionaries! + Palestine was annexed—though sullen yet,— + I, being in age some two-score years and ten + And having the garrison in Jerusalem + Part in my hands as acting officer + Under the Governor. A tedious time + I found it, of routine, amid a folk + Restless, contentless, and irascible.— + Quelling some riot, sentrying court and hall, + Sending men forth on public meeting-days + To maintain order, were my duties there. + + “Then came a morn in spring, and the cheerful sun + Whitened the city and the hills around, + And every mountain-road that clambered them, + Tincturing the greyness of the olives warm, + And the rank cacti round the valley’s sides. + The day was one whereon death-penalties + Were put in force, and here and there were set + The soldiery for order, as I said, + Since one of the condemned had raised some heat, + And crowds surged passionately to see him slain. + I, mounted on a Cappadocian horse, + With some half-company of auxiliaries, + Had captained the procession through the streets + When it came streaming from the judgment-hall + After the verdicts of the Governor. + It drew to the great gate of the northern way + That bears towards Damascus; and to a knoll + Upon the common, just beyond the walls— + Whence could be swept a wide horizon round + Over the housetops to the remotest heights. + Here was the public execution-ground + For city crimes, called then and doubtless now + Golgotha, Kranion, or Calvaria. + + “The usual dooms were duly meted out; + Some three or four were stript, transfixed, and nailed, + And no great stir occurred. A day of wont + It was to me, so far, and would have slid + Clean from my memory at its squalid close + But for an incident that followed these. + + “Among the tag-rag rabble of either sex + That hung around the wretches as they writhed, + Till thrust back by our spears, one held my eye— + A weeping woman, whose strained countenance, + Sharpened against a looming livid cloud, + Was mocked by the crude rays of afternoon— + The mother of one of those who suffered there + I had heard her called when spoken roughly to + By my ranged men for pressing forward so. + It stole upon me hers was a face I knew; + Yet when, or how, I had known it, for a while + Eluded me. And then at once it came. + + “Some thirty years or more before that noon + I was sub-captain of a company + Drawn from the legion of Calabria, + That marched up from Judæa north to Tyre. + We had pierced the old flat country of Jezreel, + The great Esdraelon Plain and fighting-floor + Of Jew with Canaanite, and with the host + Of Pharaoh-Necho, king of Egypt, met + While crossing there to strike the Assyrian pride. + We left behind Gilboa; passed by Nain; + Till bulging Tabor rose, embossed to the top + With arbute, terabinth, and locust growths. + + “Encumbering me were sundry sick, so fallen + Through drinking from a swamp beside the way; + But we pressed on, till, bearing over a ridge, + We dipt into a world of pleasantness— + A vale, the fairest I had gazed upon— + Which lapped a village on its furthest slopes + Called Nazareth, brimmed round by uplands nigh. + In the midst thereof a fountain bubbled, where, + Lime-dry from marching, our glad halt we made + To rest our sick ones, and refresh us all. + + “Here a day onward, towards the eventide, + Our men were piping to a Pyrrhic dance + Trod by their comrades, when the young women came + To fill their pitchers, as their custom was. + I proffered help to one—a slim girl, coy + Even as a fawn, meek, and as innocent. + Her long blue gown, the string of silver coins + That hung down by her banded beautiful hair, + Symboled in full immaculate modesty. + + “Well, I was young, and hot, and readily stirred + To quick desire. ’Twas tedious timing out + The convalescence of the soldiery; + And I beguiled the long and empty days + By blissful yieldance to her sweet allure, + Who had no arts, but what out-arted all, + The tremulous tender charm of trustfulness. + We met, and met, and under the winking stars + That passed which peoples earth—true union, yea, + To the pure eye of her simplicity. + + “Meanwhile the sick found health; and we pricked on. + I made her no rash promise of return, + As some do use; I was sincere in that; + I said we sundered never to meet again— + And yet I spoke untruth unknowingly!— + For meet again we did. Now, guess you aught? + The weeping mother on Calvaria + Was she I had known—albeit that time and tears + Had wasted rudely her once flowerlike form, + And her soft eyes, now swollen with sorrowing. + + “Though I betrayed some qualms, she marked me not; + And I was scarce of mood to comrade her + And close the silence of so wide a time + To claim a malefactor as my son— + (For so I guessed him). And inquiry made + Brought rumour how at Nazareth long before + An old man wedded her for pity’s sake + On finding she had grown pregnant, none knew how, + Cared for her child, and loved her till he died. + + “Well; there it ended; save that then I learnt + That he—the man whose ardent blood was mine— + Had waked sedition long among the Jews, + And hurled insulting parlance at their god, + Whose temple bulked upon the adjoining hill, + Vowing that he would raze it, that himself + Was god as great as he whom they adored, + And by descent, moreover, was their king; + With sundry other incitements to misrule. + + “The impalements done, and done the soldiers’ game + Of raffling for the clothes, a legionary, + Longinus, pierced the young man with his lance + At signs from me, moved by his agonies + Through naysaying the drug they had offered him. + It brought the end. And when he had breathed his last + The woman went. I saw her never again . . . + Now glares my moody meaning on you, friend?— + That when you talk of offspring as sheer joy + So trustingly, you blink contingencies. + Fors Fortuna! He who goes fathering + Gives frightful hostages to hazardry!” + + Thus Panthera’s tale. ’Twas one he seldom told, + But yet it got abroad. He would unfold, + At other times, a story of less gloom, + Though his was not a heart where jests had room. + He would regret discovery of the truth + Was made too late to influence to ruth + The Procurator who had condemned his son— + Or rather him so deemed. For there was none + To prove that Panthera erred not: and indeed, + When vagueness of identity I would plead, + Panther himself would sometimes own as much— + Yet lothly. But, assuming fact was such, + That the said woman did not recognize + Her lover’s face, is matter for surprise. + However, there’s his tale, fantasy or otherwise. + + Thereafter shone not men of Panthera’s kind: + The indolent heads at home were ill-inclined + To press campaigning that would hoist the star + Of their lieutenants valorous afar. + Jealousies kept him irked abroad, controlled + And stinted by an Empire no more bold. + Yet in some actions southward he had share— + In Mauretania and Numidia; there + With eagle eye, and sword and steed and spur, + Quelling uprisings promptly. Some small stir + In Parthia next engaged him, until maimed, + As I have said; and cynic Time proclaimed + His noble spirit broken. What a waste + Of such a Roman!—one in youth-time graced + With indescribable charm, so I have heard, + Yea, magnetism impossible to word + When faltering as I saw him. What a fame, + O Son of Saturn, had adorned his name, + Might the Three so have urged Thee!—Hour by hour + His own disorders hampered Panthera’s power + To brood upon the fate of those he had known, + Even of that one he always called his own— + Either in morbid dream or memory . . . + He died at no great age, untroublously, + An exit rare for ardent soldiers such as he. + + + +THE UNBORN + + + I ROSE at night, and visited + The Cave of the Unborn: + And crowding shapes surrounded me + For tidings of the life to be, + Who long had prayed the silent Head + To haste its advent morn. + + Their eyes were lit with artless trust, + Hope thrilled their every tone; + “A scene the loveliest, is it not? + A pure delight, a beauty-spot + Where all is gentle, true and just, + And darkness is unknown?” + + My heart was anguished for their sake, + I could not frame a word; + And they descried my sunken face, + And seemed to read therein, and trace + The news that pity would not break, + Nor truth leave unaverred. + + And as I silently retired + I turned and watched them still, + And they came helter-skelter out, + Driven forward like a rabble rout + Into the world they had so desired + By the all-immanent Will. + +1905. + + + +THE MAN HE KILLED + + + “HAD he and I but met + By some old ancient inn, + We should have sat us down to wet + Right many a nipperkin! + + “But ranged as infantry, + And staring face to face, + I shot at him as he at me, + And killed him in his place. + + “I shot him dead because— + Because he was my foe, + Just so: my foe of course he was; + That’s clear enough; although + + “He thought he’d ’list, perhaps, + Off-hand like—just as I— + Was out of work—had sold his traps— + No other reason why. + + “Yes; quaint and curious war is! + You shoot a fellow down + You’d treat if met where any bar is, + Or help to half-a-crown.” + +1902. + + + +GEOGRAPHICAL KNOWLEDGE +(A MEMORY OF CHRISTIANA C—) + + + WHERE Blackmoor was, the road that led + To Bath, she could not show, + Nor point the sky that overspread + Towns ten miles off or so. + + But that Calcutta stood this way, + Cape Horn there figured fell, + That here was Boston, here Bombay, + She could declare full well. + + Less known to her the track athwart + Froom Mead or Yell’ham Wood + Than how to make some Austral port + In seas of surly mood. + + She saw the glint of Guinea’s shore + Behind the plum-tree nigh, + Heard old unruly Biscay’s roar + In the weir’s purl hard by . . . + + “My son’s a sailor, and he knows + All seas and many lands, + And when he’s home he points and shows + Each country where it stands. + + “He’s now just there—by Gib’s high rock— + And when he gets, you see, + To Portsmouth here, behind the clock, + Then he’ll come back to me!” + + + +ONE RALPH BLOSSOM SOLILOQUIZES + + +(“It being deposed that vij women who were mayds before he knew them have +been brought upon the towne [rates?] by the fornicacions of one Ralph +Blossom, Mr Major inquired why he should not contribute xiv pence weekly +toward their mayntenance. But it being shewn that the sayd R. B. was +dying of a purple feaver, no order was made.”—_Budmouth Borough Minutes_: +16–.) + + WHEN I am in hell or some such place, + A-groaning over my sorry case, + What will those seven women say to me + Who, when I coaxed them, answered “Aye” to me? + + “I did not understand your sign!” + Will be the words of Caroline; + While Jane will cry, “If I’d had proof of you, + I should have learnt to hold aloof of you!” + + “I won’t reproach: it was to be!” + Will dryly murmur Cicely; + And Rosa: “I feel no hostility, + For I must own I lent facility.” + + Lizzy says: “Sharp was my regret, + And sometimes it is now! But yet + I joy that, though it brought notoriousness, + I knew Love once and all its gloriousness!” + + Says Patience: “Why are we apart? + Small harm did you, my poor Sweet Heart! + A manchild born, now tall and beautiful, + Was worth the ache of days undutiful.” + + And Anne cries: “O the time was fair, + So wherefore should you burn down there? + There is a deed under the sun, my Love, + And that was ours. What’s done is done, my Love. + These trumpets here in Heaven are dumb to me + With you away. Dear, come, O come to me!” + + + +THE NOBLE LADY’S TALE +(_circa_ 1790) + + + I + + “WE moved with pensive paces, + I and he, + And bent our faded faces + Wistfully, + For something troubled him, and troubled me. + + “The lanthorn feebly lightened + Our grey hall, + Where ancient brands had brightened + Hearth and wall, + And shapes long vanished whither vanish all. + + “‘O why, Love, nightly, daily,’ + I had said, + ‘Dost sigh, and smile so palely, + As if shed + Were all Life’s blossoms, all its dear things dead?’ + + “‘Since silence sets thee grieving,’ + He replied, + ‘And I abhor deceiving + One so tried, + Why, Love, I’ll speak, ere time us twain divide.’ + + “He held me, I remember, + Just as when + Our life was June—(September + It was then); + And we walked on, until he spoke again. + + “‘Susie, an Irish mummer, + Loud-acclaimed + Through the gay London summer, + Was I; named + A master in my art, who would be famed. + + “‘But lo, there beamed before me + Lady Su; + God’s altar-vow she swore me + When none knew, + And for her sake I bade the sock adieu. + + “‘My Lord your father’s pardon + Thus I won: + He let his heart unharden + Towards his son, + And honourably condoned what we had done; + + “‘But said—recall you, dearest?— + _As for Su_, + _I’d see her—ay_, _though nearest_ + _Me unto_— + _Sooner entombed than in a stage purlieu_! + + “‘Just so.—And here he housed us, + In this nook, + Where Love like balm has drowsed us: + Robin, rook, + Our chief familiars, next to string and book. + + “‘Our days here, peace-enshrouded, + Followed strange + The old stage-joyance, crowded, + Rich in range; + But never did my soul desire a change, + + “‘Till now, when far uncertain + Lips of yore + Call, call me to the curtain, + There once more, + But _once_, to tread the boards I trod before. + + “‘A night—the last and single + Ere I die— + To face the lights, to mingle + As did I + Once in the game, and rivet every eye!’ + + “Such was his wish. He feared it, + Feared it though + Rare memories endeared it. + I, also, + Feared it still more; its outcome who could know? + + “‘Alas, my Love,’ said I then, + ‘Since it be + A wish so mastering, why, then, + E’en go ye!— + Despite your pledge to father and to me . . . ’ + + “’Twas fixed; no more was spoken + Thereupon; + Our silences were broken + Only on + The petty items of his needs were gone. + + “Farewell he bade me, pleading + That it meant + So little, thus conceding + To his bent; + And then, as one constrained to go, he went. + + “Thwart thoughts I let deride me, + As, ’twere vain + To hope him back beside me + Ever again: + Could one plunge make a waxing passion wane? + + “I thought, ‘Some wild stage-woman, + Honour-wrecked . . . ’ + But no: it was inhuman + To suspect; + Though little cheer could my lone heart affect! + + II + + “Yet came it, to my gladness, + That, as vowed, + He did return.—But sadness + Swiftly cowed + The job with which my greeting was endowed. + + “Some woe was there. Estrangement + Marked his mind. + Each welcome-warm arrangement + I had designed + Touched him no more than deeds of careless kind. + + “‘I—_failed_!’ escaped him glumly. + ‘—I went on + In my old part. But dumbly— + Memory gone— + Advancing, I sank sick; my vision drawn + + “‘To something drear, distressing + As the knell + Of all hopes worth possessing!’ . . . + —What befell + Seemed linked with me, but how I could not tell. + + “Hours passed; till I implored him, + As he knew + How faith and frankness toward him + Ruled me through, + To say what ill I had done, and could undo. + + “‘_Faith—frankness_. Ah! Heaven save such!’ + Murmured he, + ‘They are wedded wealth! _I_ gave such + Liberally, + But you, Dear, not. For you suspected me.’ + + “I was about beseeching + In hurt haste + More meaning, when he, reaching + To my waist, + Led me to pace the hall as once we paced. + + “‘I never meant to draw you + To own all,’ + Declared he. ‘But—I _saw_ you— + By the wall, + Half-hid. And that was why I failed withal!’ + + “‘Where? when?’ said I—‘Why, nigh me, + At the play + That night. That you should spy me, + Doubt my fay, + And follow, furtive, took my heart away!’ + + “That I had never been there, + But had gone + To my locked room—unseen there, + Curtains drawn, + Long days abiding—told I, wonder-wan. + + “‘Nay, ’twas your form and vesture, + Cloak and gown, + Your hooded features—gesture + Half in frown, + That faced me, pale,’ he urged, ‘that night in town. + + “‘And when, outside, I handed + To her chair + (As courtesy demanded + Of me there) + The leading lady, you peeped from the stair. + + “Straight pleaded I: ‘Forsooth, Love, + Had I gone, + I must have been in truth, Love, + Mad to don + Such well-known raiment.’ But he still went on + + “That he was not mistaken + Nor misled.— + I felt like one forsaken, + Wished me dead, + That he could think thus of the wife he had wed! + + “His going seemed to waste him + Like a curse, + To wreck what once had graced him; + And, averse + To my approach, he mused, and moped, and worse. + + “Till, what no words effected + Thought achieved: + _It was my wraith_—projected, + He conceived, + Thither, by my tense brain at home aggrieved. + + “Thereon his credence centred + Till he died; + And, no more tempted, entered + Sanctified, + The little vault with room for one beside.” + + III + + Thus far the lady’s story.— + Now she, too, + Reclines within that hoary + Last dark mew + In Mellstock Quire with him she loved so true. + + A yellowing marble, placed there + Tablet-wise, + And two joined hearts enchased there + Meet the eyes; + And reading their twin names we moralize: + + Did she, we wonder, follow + Jealously? + And were those protests hollow?— + Or saw he + Some semblant dame? Or can wraiths really be? + + Were it she went, her honour, + All may hold, + Pressed truth at last upon her + Till she told— + (Him only—others as these lines unfold.) + + Riddle death-sealed for ever, + Let it rest! . . . + One’s heart could blame her never + If one guessed + That go she did. She knew her actor best. + + + +UNREALIZED + + + DOWN comes the winter rain— + Spoils my hat and bow— + Runs into the poll of me; + But mother won’t know. + + We’ve been out and caught a cold, + Knee-deep in snow; + Such a lucky thing it is + That mother won’t know! + + Rosy lost herself last night— + Couldn’t tell where to go. + Yes—it rather frightened her, + But mother didn’t know. + + Somebody made Willy drunk + At the Christmas show: + O ’twas fun! It’s well for him + That mother won’t know! + + Howsoever wild we are, + Late at school or slow, + Mother won’t be cross with us, + Mother won’t know. + + How we cried the day she died! + Neighbours whispering low . . . + But we now do what we will— + Mother won’t know. + + + +WAGTAIL AND BABY + + + A BABY watched a ford, whereto + A wagtail came for drinking; + A blaring bull went wading through, + The wagtail showed no shrinking. + + A stallion splashed his way across, + The birdie nearly sinking; + He gave his plumes a twitch and toss, + And held his own unblinking. + + Next saw the baby round the spot + A mongrel slowly slinking; + The wagtail gazed, but faltered not + In dip and sip and prinking. + + A perfect gentleman then neared; + The wagtail, in a winking, + With terror rose and disappeared; + The baby fell a-thinking. + + + +ABERDEEN +(April: 1905) + + + “And wisdom and knowledge shall be the stability of thy + times.”—Isaiah xxxiii. 6. + + I LOOKED and thought, “All is too gray and cold + To wake my place-enthusiasms of old!” + Till a voice passed: “Behind that granite mien + Lurks the imposing beauty of a Queen.” + I looked anew; and saw the radiant form + Of Her who soothes in stress, who steers in storm, + On the grave influence of whose eyes sublime + Men count for the stability of the time. + + + +GEORGE MEREDITH +1828–1909 + + + FORTY years back, when much had place + That since has perished out of mind, + I heard that voice and saw that face. + + He spoke as one afoot will wind + A morning horn ere men awake; + His note was trenchant, turning kind. + + He was of those whose wit can shake + And riddle to the very core + The counterfeits that Time will break . . . + + Of late, when we two met once more, + The luminous countenance and rare + Shone just as forty years before. + + So that, when now all tongues declare + His shape unseen by his green hill, + I scarce believe he sits not there. + + No matter. Further and further still + Through the world’s vaporous vitiate air + His words wing on—as live words will. + +_May_ 1909. + + + +YELL’HAM-WOOD’S STORY + + + COOMB-FIRTREES say that Life is a moan, + And Clyffe-hill Clump says “Yea!” + But Yell’ham says a thing of its own: + It’s not “Gray, gray + Is Life alway!” + That Yell’ham says, + Nor that Life is for ends unknown. + + It says that Life would signify + A thwarted purposing: + That we come to live, and are called to die, + Yes, that’s the thing + In fall, in spring, + That Yell’ham says:— + “Life offers—to deny!” + +1902. + + + +A YOUNG MAN’S EPIGRAM ON EXISTENCE + + + A senseless school, where we must give + Our lives that we may learn to live! + A dolt is he who memorizes + Lessons that leave no time for prizes. + +16 W. P. V., 1866. + + * * * * * + + _Printed in Great Britain by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_ + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIME'S LAUGHINGSTOCKS*** + + +******* This file should be named 2997-0.txt or 2997-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/9/9/2997 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Time's Laughingstocks + and Other Verses + + +Author: Thomas Hardy + + + +Release Date: December 21, 2014 [eBook #2997] +[This file was first posted on October 12, 2000] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIME'S LAUGHINGSTOCKS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1919 Macmillan and Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>TIME’S<br /> +LAUGHINGSTOCKS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND OTHER VERSES</span></h1> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">BY<br /> +THOMAS HARDY</p> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED<br /> +ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON<br /> +1928</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pageiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. iv</span>COPYRIGHT</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>First Edition</i> 1909<br /> +<i>Reprinted</i> 1910<br /> +<i>Second Edition</i> 1915<br /> +<i>Reprinted</i> 1919<br /> +<i>Pocket Edition</i> 1919<br /> +<i>Reprinted</i> 1923, 1924, 1928</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">PRINTED IN +GREAT BRITAIN</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">BY R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, +EDINBURGH</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>PREFACE</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> collecting the following poems I +have to thank the editors and proprietors of the periodicals in +which certain of them have appeared for permission to reclaim +them.</p> +<p>Now that the miscellany is brought together, some lack of +concord in pieces written at widely severed dates, and in +contrasting moods and circumstances, will be obvious +enough. This I cannot help, but the sense of disconnection, +particularly in respect of those lyrics penned in the first +person, will be immaterial when it is borne in mind that they are +to be regarded, in the main, as dramatic monologues by different +characters.</p> +<p>As a whole they will, I hope, take the reader forward, even if +not far, rather than backward. I should add that some lines +in the early-dated poems have been rewritten, though they have +been left substantially unchanged.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">T. H.</p> +<p><i>September</i> 1909.</p> +<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">Time’s +Laughingstocks</span>—</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Revisitation</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>A Trampwoman’s Tragedy</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page11">11</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Two Rosalinds</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page17">17</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>A Sunday Morning Tragedy</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The House of Hospitalities</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Bereft</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page28">28</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>John and Jane</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page30">30</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Curate’s Kindness</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Flirt’s Tragedy</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page34">34</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Rejected Member’s Wife</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Farm-Woman’s Winter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Autumn in King’s Hintock Park</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Shut out that Moon</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Reminiscences of a Dancing Man</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page47">47</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Dead Man Walking</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">More Love +Lyrics</span>—</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>1967</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Her Definition</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page54">54</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Division</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><a name="pageviii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. viii</span>On the Departure Platform</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page56">56</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>In a Cathedral City</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page58">58</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>“I say I’ll seek Her”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Her Father</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page60">60</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>At Waking</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Four Footprints</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page63">63</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>In the Vaulted Way</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page65">65</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>In the Mind’s Eye</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The End of the Episode</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page67">67</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Sigh</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>“In the Night She Came”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page70">70</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Conformers</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page72">72</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Dawn after the Dance</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Sun on the Letter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page76">76</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Night of the Dance</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Misconception</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page78">78</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Voice of the Thorn</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page80">80</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>From Her in the Country</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page82">82</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Her Confession</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>To an Impersonator of Rosalind</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>To an Actress</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Minute before Meeting</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page86">86</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>He abjures Love</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">A Set of Country +Songs</span>—</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Let me Enjoy</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>At Casterbridge Fair:</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Ballad-Singer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Former Beauties</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page94">94</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><a name="pageix"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. ix</span>III.</p> +</td> +<td><p>After the Club Dance</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV.</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Market-Girl</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">V.</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Inquiry</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page96">96</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VI.</p> +</td> +<td><p>A Wife Waits</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VII.</p> +</td> +<td><p>After the Fair</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Dark-eyed Gentleman</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page100">100</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>To Carrey Clavel</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page102">102</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Orphaned Old Maid</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page103">103</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Spring Call</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Julie-Jane</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page106">106</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>News for Her Mother</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page108">108</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Fiddler</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page110">110</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Husband’s View</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page111">111</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Rose-Ann</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page113">113</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Homecoming</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p><span class="smcap">Pieces Occasional and +Various</span>—</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>A Church Romance</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page121">121</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Rash Bride</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page122">122</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Dead Quire</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page128">128</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Christening</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page135">135</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>A Dream Question</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page137">137</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>By the Barrows</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page139">139</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>A Wife and Another</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page140">140</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Roman Road</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page144">144</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Vampirine Fair</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page145">145</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Reminder</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page150">150</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Rambler</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page151">151</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p><a name="pagex"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +x</span>Night in the Old Home</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page152">152</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>After the Last Breath</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page154">154</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>In Childbed</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page156">156</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Pine Planters</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Dear</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page161">161</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>One We Knew</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page163">163</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>She Hears the Storm</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page166">166</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>A Wet Night</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page167">167</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Before Life and After</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page168">168</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>New Year’s Eve</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page169">169</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>God’s Education</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page171">171</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>To Sincerity</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page172">172</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Panthera</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Unborn</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page184">184</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Man He Killed</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page186">186</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Geographical Knowledge</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page187">187</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>One Ralph Blossom Soliloquizes</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page189">189</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>The Noble Lady’s Tale</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page191">191</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Unrealized</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page201">201</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Wagtail and Baby</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page203">203</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Aberdeen: 1905</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page204">204</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>George Meredith, 1828–1909</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page205">205</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>Yell’ham-wood’s Story</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page207">207</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td colspan="2"><p>A Young Man’s Epigram on Existence</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page208">208</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>TIME’S LAUGHINGSTOCKS</h2> +<h3><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>THE +REVISITATION</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">As</span> +I lay awake at night-time<br /> +In an ancient country barrack known to ancient cannoneers,<br /> +And recalled the hopes that heralded each seeming brave and +bright time<br /> + Of my primal purple years,</p> +<p class="poetry"> Much it haunted me that, nigh +there,<br /> +I had borne my bitterest loss—when One who went, came not +again;<br /> +In a joyless hour of discord, in a joyless-hued July +there—<br /> + A July just such as then.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And as thus I brooded +longer,<br /> +With my faint eyes on the feeble square of wan-lit window +frame,<br /> +A quick conviction sprung within me, grew, and grew yet +stronger,<br /> + That the month-night was the same,</p> +<p class="poetry"> Too, as that which saw her +leave me<br /> +On the rugged ridge of Waterstone, the peewits plaining round;<br +/> +<a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>And a +lapsing twenty years had ruled that—as it were to grieve +me—<br /> + I should near the once-loved ground.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Though but now a war-worn +stranger<br /> +Chance had quartered here, I rose up and descended to the +yard.<br /> +All was soundless, save the troopers’ horses tossing at the +manger,<br /> + And the sentry keeping guard.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Through the gateway I betook +me<br /> +Down the High Street and beyond the lamps, across the battered +bridge,<br /> +Till the country darkness clasped me and the friendly shine +forsook me,<br /> + And I bore towards the Ridge,</p> +<p class="poetry"> With a dim unowned emotion<br +/> +Saying softly: “Small my reason, now at midnight, to be +here . . .<br /> +Yet a sleepless swain of fifty with a brief romantic notion<br /> + May retrace a track so dear.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thus I walked with thoughts +half-uttered<br /> +Up the lane I knew so well, the grey, gaunt, lonely Lane of +Slyre;<br /> +And at whiles behind me, far at sea, a sullen thunder muttered<br +/> + As I mounted high and higher.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page5"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 5</span>Till, the upper roadway quitting,<br +/> +I adventured on the open drouthy downland thinly grassed,<br /> +While the spry white scuts of conies flashed before me, earthward +flitting,<br /> + And an arid wind went past.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Round about me bulged the +barrows<br /> +As before, in antique silence—immemorial funeral +piles—<br /> +Where the sleek herds trampled daily the remains of flint-tipt +arrows<br /> + Mid the thyme and chamomiles;</p> +<p class="poetry"> And the Sarsen stone there, +dateless,<br /> +On whose breast we had sat and told the zephyrs many a tender +vow,<br /> +Held the heat of yester sun, as sank thereon one fated +mateless<br /> + From those far fond hours till now.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Maybe flustered by my +presence<br /> +Rose the peewits, just as all those years back, wailing soft and +loud,<br /> +And revealing their pale pinions like a fitful phosphorescence<br +/> + Up against the cope of cloud,</p> +<p class="poetry"> Where their dolesome +exclamations<br /> +Seemed the voicings of the self-same throats I had heard when +life was green,<br /> +<a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>Though since +that day uncounted frail forgotten generations<br /> + Of their kind had flecked the scene.—</p> +<p class="poetry"> And so, living long and +longer<br /> +In a past that lived no more, my eyes discerned there, +suddenly,<br /> +That a figure broke the skyline—first in vague contour, +then stronger,<br /> + And was crossing near to me.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Some long-missed familiar +gesture,<br /> +Something wonted, struck me in the figure’s pause to list +and heed,<br /> +Till I fancied from its handling of its loosely wrapping +vesture<br /> + That it might be She indeed.</p> +<p class="poetry"> ’Twas not reasonless: +below there<br /> +In the vale, had been her home; the nook might hold her even +yet,<br /> +And the downlands were her father’s fief; she still might +come and go there;—<br /> + So I rose, and said, “Agnette!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> With a little leap, +half-frightened,<br /> +She withdrew some steps; then letting intuition smother fear<br +/> +In a place so long-accustomed, and as one whom thought +enlightened,<br /> + She replied: “What—<i>that</i> +voice?—here!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page7"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 7</span>“Yes, Agnette!—And did the +occasion<br /> +Of our marching hither make you think I <i>might</i> walk where +we two—”<br /> +“O, I often come,” she murmured with a moment’s +coy evasion,<br /> + “(’Tis not far),—and—think +of you.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then I took her hand, and led +her<br /> +To the ancient people’s stone whereon I had sat. +There now sat we;<br /> +And together talked, until the first reluctant shyness fled +her,<br /> + And she spoke confidingly.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “It is <i>just</i> as +ere we parted!”<br /> +Said she, brimming high with joy.—“And when, then, +came you here, and why?”<br /> +“—Dear, I could not sleep for thinking of our +trystings when twin-hearted.”<br /> + She responded, “Nor could I.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “There are few things I +would rather<br /> +Than be wandering at this spirit-hour—lone-lived, my +kindred dead—<br /> +On this wold of well-known feature I inherit from my father:<br +/> + Night or day, I have no dread . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"> “O I wonder, wonder +whether<br /> +Any heartstring bore a signal-thrill between us twain or +no?—<br /> +<a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>Some such +influence can, at times, they say, draw severed souls +together.”<br /> + I said, “Dear, we’ll dream it +so.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> Each one’s hand the +other’s grasping,<br /> +And a mutual forgiveness won, we sank to silent thought,<br /> +A large content in us that seemed our rended lives reclasping,<br +/> + And contracting years to nought.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Till I, maybe overweary<br /> +From the lateness, and a wayfaring so full of strain and +stress<br /> +For one no longer buoyant, to a peak so steep and eery,<br /> + Sank to slow unconsciousness . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"> How long I slept I knew +not,<br /> +But the brief warm summer night had slid when, to my swift +surprise,<br /> +A red upedging sun, of glory chambered mortals view not,<br /> + Was blazing on my eyes,</p> +<p class="poetry"> From the Milton Woods to +Dole-Hill<br /> +All the spacious landscape lighting, and around about my feet<br +/> +Flinging tall thin tapering shadows from the meanest mound and +mole-hill,<br /> + And on trails the ewes had beat.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page9"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 9</span>She was sitting still beside me,<br /> +Dozing likewise; and I turned to her, to take her hanging +hand;<br /> +When, the more regarding, that which like a spectre shook and +tried me<br /> + In her image then I scanned;</p> +<p class="poetry"> That which Time’s +transforming chisel<br /> +Had been tooling night and day for twenty years, and tooled too +well,<br /> +In its rendering of crease where curve was, where was raven, +grizzle—<br /> + Pits, where peonies once did dwell.</p> +<p class="poetry"> She had wakened, and +perceiving<br /> +(I surmise) my sigh and shock, my quite involuntary dismay,<br /> +Up she started, and—her wasted figure all throughout it +heaving—<br /> + Said, “Ah, yes: I am <i>thus</i> by day!</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Can you really wince +and wonder<br /> +That the sunlight should reveal you such a thing of skin and +bone,<br /> +As if unaware a Death’s-head must of need lie not far +under<br /> + Flesh whose years out-count your own?</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Yes: that movement was +a warning<br /> +Of the worth of man’s devotion!—Yes, Sir, I am +<i>old</i>,” said she,<br /> +<a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>“And +the thing which should increase love turns it quickly into +scorning—<br /> + And your new-won heart from me!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then she went, ere I could +call her,<br /> +With the too proud temper ruling that had parted us before,<br /> +And I saw her form descend the slopes, and smaller grow and +smaller,<br /> + Till I caught its course no more . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"> True; I might have dogged her +downward;<br /> +—But it <i>may</i> be (though I know not) that this trick +on us of Time<br /> +Disconcerted and confused me.—Soon I bent my footsteps +townward,<br /> + Like to one who had watched a crime.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Well I knew my native +weakness,<br /> +Well I know it still. I cherished her reproach like +physic-wine,<br /> +For I saw in that emaciate shape of bitterness and bleakness<br +/> + A nobler soul than mine.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Did I not return, then, +ever?—<br /> +Did we meet again?—mend all?—Alas, what greyhead +perseveres!—<br /> +Soon I got the Route elsewhither.—Since that hour I have +seen her never:<br /> + Love is lame at fifty years.</p> +<h3><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>A +TRAMPWOMAN’S TRAGEDY<br /> +(182–)</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">From</span> Wynyard’s +Gap the livelong day,<br /> + The livelong day,<br /> +We beat afoot the northward way<br /> + We had travelled times before.<br /> +The sun-blaze burning on our backs,<br /> +Our shoulders sticking to our packs,<br /> +By fosseway, fields, and turnpike tracks<br /> + We skirted sad Sedge-Moor.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">Full twenty miles we jaunted on,<br /> + We jaunted on,—<br /> +My fancy-man, and jeering John,<br /> + And Mother Lee, and I.<br /> +And, as the sun drew down to west,<br /> +We climbed the toilsome Poldon crest,<br /> +And saw, of landskip sights the best,<br /> + The inn that beamed thereby.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page12"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 12</span>III</p> +<p class="poetry">For months we had padded side by side,<br /> + Ay, side by side<br /> +Through the Great Forest, Blackmoor wide,<br /> + And where the Parret ran.<br /> +We’d faced the gusts on Mendip ridge,<br /> +Had crossed the Yeo unhelped by bridge,<br /> +Been stung by every Marshwood midge,<br /> + I and my fancy-man.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV</p> +<p class="poetry">Lone inns we loved, my man and I,<br /> + My man and I;<br /> +“King’s Stag,” “Windwhistle” high +and dry,<br /> + “The Horse” on Hintock Green,<br /> +The cosy house at Wynyard’s Gap,<br /> +“The Hut” renowned on Bredy Knap,<br /> +And many another wayside tap<br /> + Where folk might sit unseen.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">V</p> +<p class="poetry">Now as we trudged—O deadly day,<br /> + O deadly day!—<br /> +I teased my fancy-man in play<br /> + And wanton idleness.<br /> +I walked alongside jeering John,<br /> +I laid his hand my waist upon;<br /> +I would not bend my glances on<br /> + My lover’s dark distress.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page13"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 13</span>VI</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus Poldon top at last we won,<br /> + At last we won,<br /> +And gained the inn at sink of sun<br /> + Far-famed as “Marshal’s Elm.”<br +/> +Beneath us figured tor and lea,<br /> +From Mendip to the western sea—<br /> +I doubt if finer sight there be<br /> + Within this royal realm.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VII</p> +<p class="poetry">Inside the settle all a-row—<br /> + All four a-row<br /> +We sat, I next to John, to show<br /> + That he had wooed and won.<br /> +And then he took me on his knee,<br /> +And swore it was his turn to be<br /> +My favoured mate, and Mother Lee<br /> + Passed to my former one.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VIII</p> +<p class="poetry">Then in a voice I had never heard,<br /> + I had never heard,<br /> +My only Love to me: “One word,<br /> + My lady, if you please!<br /> +Whose is the child you are like to bear?—<br /> +<i>His</i>? After all my months o’ care?”<br /> +God knows ’twas not! But, O despair!<br /> + I nodded—still to tease.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page14"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 14</span>IX</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up he sprung, and with his knife—<br +/> + And with his knife<br /> +He let out jeering Johnny’s life,<br /> + Yes; there, at set of sun.<br /> +The slant ray through the window nigh<br /> +Gilded John’s blood and glazing eye,<br /> +Ere scarcely Mother Lee and I<br /> + Knew that the deed was done.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">X</p> +<p class="poetry">The taverns tell the gloomy tale,<br /> + The gloomy tale,<br /> +How that at Ivel-chester jail<br /> + My Love, my sweetheart swung;<br /> +Though stained till now by no misdeed<br /> +Save one horse ta’en in time o’ need;<br /> +(Blue Jimmy stole right many a steed<br /> + Ere his last fling he flung.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XI</p> +<p class="poetry">Thereaft I walked the world alone,<br /> + Alone, alone!<br /> +On his death-day I gave my groan<br /> + And dropt his dead-born child.<br /> +’Twas nigh the jail, beneath a tree,<br /> +None tending me; for Mother Lee<br /> +Had died at Glaston, leaving me<br /> + Unfriended on the wild.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page15"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 15</span>XII</p> +<p class="poetry">And in the night as I lay weak,<br /> + As I lay weak,<br /> +The leaves a-falling on my cheek,<br /> + The red moon low declined—<br /> +The ghost of him I’d die to kiss<br /> +Rose up and said: “Ah, tell me this!<br /> +Was the child mine, or was it his?<br /> + Speak, that I rest may find!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIII</p> +<p class="poetry">O doubt not but I told him then,<br /> + I told him then,<br /> +That I had kept me from all men<br /> + Since we joined lips and swore.<br /> +Whereat he smiled, and thinned away<br /> +As the wind stirred to call up day . . .<br /> +—’Tis past! And here alone I stray<br /> + Haunting the Western Moor.</p> +<p><span +class="smcap">Notes</span>.—“Windwhistle” +(Stanza iv.). The highness and dryness of Windwhistle Inn +was impressed upon the writer two or three years ago, when, after +climbing on a hot afternoon to the beautiful spot near which it +stands and entering the inn for tea, he was informed by the +landlady that none could be had, unless he would fetch water from +a valley half a mile off, the house containing not a drop, owing +to its situation. However, a tantalizing row of full +barrels behind her back testified to a wetness of a certain sort, +which was not at that time desired.</p> +<p>“Marshal’s Elm” (Stanza vi.) so +picturesquely <a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>situated, is no longer an inn, though the house, or part +of it, still remains. It used to exhibit a fine old +swinging sign.</p> +<p>“Blue Jimmy” (Stanza x.) was a notorious +horse-stealer of Wessex in those days, who appropriated more than +a hundred horses before he was caught, among others one belonging +to a neighbour of the writer’s grandfather. He was +hanged at the now demolished Ivel-chester or Ilchester jail above +mentioned—that building formerly of so many sinister +associations in the minds of the local peasantry, and the +continual haunt of fever, which at last led to its +condemnation. Its site is now an innocent-looking green +meadow.</p> +<p><i>April</i> 1902.</p> +<h3><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>THE +TWO ROSALINDS</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> dubious daylight ended,<br /> +And I walked the Town alone, unminding whither bound and why,<br +/> +As from each gaunt street and gaping square a mist of light +ascended<br /> + And dispersed upon the sky.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry"> Files of evanescent faces<br +/> +Passed each other without heeding, in their travail, teen, or +joy,<br /> +Some in void unvisioned listlessness inwrought with pallid +traces<br /> + Of keen penury’s annoy.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III</p> +<p class="poetry"> Nebulous flames in crystal +cages<br /> +Leered as if with discontent at city movement, murk, and +grime,<br /> +<a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>And as +waiting some procession of great ghosts from bygone ages<br /> + To exalt the ignoble time.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV</p> +<p class="poetry"> In a colonnade +high-lighted,<br /> +By a thoroughfare where stern utilitarian traffic dinned,<br /> +On a red and white emblazonment of players and parts, I +sighted<br /> + The name of “Rosalind,”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">V</p> +<p class="poetry"> And her famous mates of +“Arden,”<br /> +Who observed no stricter customs than “the seasons’ +difference” bade,<br /> +Who lived with running brooks for books in Nature’s +wildwood garden,<br /> + And called idleness their trade . . .</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VI</p> +<p class="poetry"> Now the poster stirred an +ember<br /> +Still remaining from my ardours of some forty years before,<br /> +When the selfsame portal on an eve it thrilled me to remember<br +/> + A like announcement bore;</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page19"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 19</span>VII</p> +<p class="poetry"> And expectantly I had +entered,<br /> +And had first beheld in human mould a Rosalind woo and plead,<br +/> +On whose transcendent figuring my speedy soul had centred<br /> + As it had been she indeed . . .</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VIII</p> +<p class="poetry"> So; all other plans +discarding,<br /> +I resolved on entrance, bent on seeing what I once had seen,<br +/> +And approached the gangway of my earlier knowledge, +disregarding<br /> + The tract of time between.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IX</p> +<p class="poetry"> “The words, sir?” +cried a creature<br /> +Hovering mid the shine and shade as ’twixt the live world +and the tomb;<br /> +But the well-known numbers needed not for me a text or teacher<br +/> + To revive and re-illume.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">X</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then the play . . . But how +unfitted<br /> +Was <i>this</i> Rosalind!—a mammet quite to me, in memories +nurst,<br /> +<a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>And with +chilling disappointment soon I sought the street I had +quitted,<br /> + To re-ponder on the first.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XI</p> +<p class="poetry"> The hag still hawked,—I +met her<br /> +Just without the colonnade. “So you don’t like +her, sir?” said she.<br /> +“Ah—<i>I</i> was once that Rosalind!—I acted +her—none better—<br /> + Yes—in eighteen sixty-three.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XII</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Thus I won Orlando to +me<br /> +In my then triumphant days when I had charm and maidenhood,<br /> +Now some forty years ago.—I used to say, <i>Come woo +me</i>, <i>woo me</i>!”<br /> + And she struck the attitude.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIII</p> +<p class="poetry"> It was when I had gone there +nightly;<br /> +And the voice—though raucous now—was yet the old +one.—Clear as noon<br /> +My Rosalind was here . . . Thereon the band withinside lightly<br +/> + Beat up a merry tune.</p> +<h3><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>A +SUNDAY MORNING TRAGEDY<br /> +(<i>circa</i> 186–)</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">bore</span> a daughter +flower-fair,<br /> +In Pydel Vale, alas for me;<br /> +I joyed to mother one so rare,<br /> +But dead and gone I now would be.</p> +<p class="poetry">Men looked and loved her as she grew,<br /> +And she was won, alas for me;<br /> +She told me nothing, but I knew,<br /> +And saw that sorrow was to be.</p> +<p class="poetry">I knew that one had made her thrall,<br /> +A thrall to him, alas for me;<br /> +And then, at last, she told me all,<br /> +And wondered what her end would be.</p> +<p class="poetry">She owned that she had loved too well,<br /> +Had loved too well, unhappy she,<br /> +And bore a secret time would tell,<br /> +Though in her shroud she’d sooner be.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>I plodded to her sweetheart’s door<br /> +In Pydel Vale, alas for me:<br /> +I pleaded with him, pleaded sore,<br /> +To save her from her misery.</p> +<p class="poetry">He frowned, and swore he could not wed,<br /> +Seven times he swore it could not be;<br /> +“Poverty’s worse than shame,” he said,<br /> +Till all my hope went out of me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’ve packed my traps to sail the +main”—<br /> +Roughly he spake, alas did he—<br /> +“Wessex beholds me not again,<br /> +’Tis worse than any jail would be!”</p> +<p class="poetry">—There was a shepherd whom I knew,<br /> +A subtle man, alas for me:<br /> +I sought him all the pastures through,<br /> +Though better I had ceased to be.</p> +<p class="poetry">I traced him by his lantern light,<br /> +And gave him hint, alas for me,<br /> +Of how she found her in the plight<br /> +That is so scorned in Christendie.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Is there an herb . . . ?” I +asked. “Or none?”<br /> +Yes, thus I asked him desperately.<br /> +“—There is,” he said; “a certain one . . +. ”<br /> +Would he had sworn that none knew he!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>“To-morrow I will walk your way,”<br /> +He hinted low, alas for me.—<br /> +Fieldwards I gazed throughout next day;<br /> +Now fields I never more would see!</p> +<p class="poetry">The sunset-shine, as curfew strook,<br /> +As curfew strook beyond the lea,<br /> +Lit his white smock and gleaming crook,<br /> +While slowly he drew near to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">He pulled from underneath his smock<br /> +The herb I sought, my curse to be—<br /> +“At times I use it in my flock,”<br /> +He said, and hope waxed strong in me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“’Tis meant to balk +ill-motherings”—<br /> +(Ill-motherings! Why should they be?)—<br /> +“If not, would God have sent such things?”<br /> +So spoke the shepherd unto me.</p> +<p class="poetry">That night I watched the poppling brew,<br /> +With bended back and hand on knee:<br /> +I stirred it till the dawnlight grew,<br /> +And the wind whiffled wailfully.</p> +<p class="poetry">“This scandal shall be slain,” said +I,<br /> +“That lours upon her innocency:<br /> +I’ll give all whispering tongues the lie;”—<br +/> +But worse than whispers was to be.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>“Here’s physic for untimely fruit,”<br +/> +I said to her, alas for me,<br /> +Early that morn in fond salute;<br /> +And in my grave I now would be.</p> +<p class="poetry">—Next Sunday came, with sweet church +chimes<br /> +In Pydel Vale, alas for me:<br /> +I went into her room betimes;<br /> +No more may such a Sunday be!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Mother, instead of rescue +nigh,”<br /> +She faintly breathed, alas for me,<br /> +“I feel as I were like to die,<br /> +And underground soon, soon should be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">From church that noon the people walked<br /> +In twos and threes, alas for me,<br /> +Showed their new raiment—smiled and talked,<br /> +Though sackcloth-clad I longed to be.</p> +<p class="poetry">Came to my door her lover’s friends,<br +/> +And cheerly cried, alas for me,<br /> +“Right glad are we he makes amends,<br /> +For never a sweeter bride can be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">My mouth dried, as ’twere scorched +within,<br /> +Dried at their words, alas for me:<br /> +More and more neighbours crowded in,<br /> +(O why should mothers ever be!)</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span>“Ha-ha! Such well-kept news!” laughed +they,<br /> +Yes—so they laughed, alas for me.<br /> +“Whose banns were called in church to-day?”—<br +/> +Christ, how I wished my soul could flee!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Where is she? O the stealthy +miss,”<br /> +Still bantered they, alas for me,<br /> +“To keep a wedding close as this . . .”<br /> +Ay, Fortune worked thus wantonly!</p> +<p class="poetry">“But you are pale—you did not +know?”<br /> +They archly asked, alas for me,<br /> +I stammered, “Yes—some days-ago,”<br /> +While coffined clay I wished to be.</p> +<p class="poetry">“’Twas done to please her, we +surmise?”<br /> +(They spoke quite lightly in their glee)<br /> +“Done by him as a fond surprise?”<br /> +I thought their words would madden me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her lover entered. “Where’s +my bird?—<br /> +My bird—my flower—my picotee?<br /> +First time of asking, soon the third!”<br /> +Ah, in my grave I well may be.</p> +<p class="poetry">To me he whispered: “Since your +call—”<br /> +So spoke he then, alas for me—<br /> +“I’ve felt for her, and righted all.”<br /> +—I think of it to agony.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>“She’s faint +to-day—tired—nothing more—”<br /> +Thus did I lie, alas for me . . .<br /> +I called her at her chamber door<br /> +As one who scarce had strength to be.</p> +<p class="poetry">No voice replied. I went within—<br +/> +O women! scourged the worst are we . . .<br /> +I shrieked. The others hastened in<br /> +And saw the stroke there dealt on me.</p> +<p class="poetry">There she lay—silent, breathless, +dead,<br /> +Stone dead she lay—wronged, sinless she!—<br /> +Ghost-white the cheeks once rosy-red:<br /> +Death had took her. Death took not me.</p> +<p class="poetry">I kissed her colding face and hair,<br /> +I kissed her corpse—the bride to be!—<br /> +My punishment I cannot bear,<br /> +But pray God <i>not</i> to pity me.</p> +<p><i>January</i> 1904.</p> +<h3><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>THE +HOUSE OF HOSPITALITIES</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span> we broached the +Christmas barrel,<br /> + Pushed up the charred log-ends;<br /> +Here we sang the Christmas carol,<br /> + And called in friends.</p> +<p class="poetry">Time has tired me since we met here<br /> + When the folk now dead were young,<br /> +Since the viands were outset here<br /> + And quaint songs sung.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the worm has bored the viol<br /> + That used to lead the tune,<br /> +Rust eaten out the dial<br /> + That struck night’s +noon.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now no Christmas brings in neighbours,<br /> + And the New Year comes unlit;<br /> +Where we sang the mole now labours,<br /> + And spiders knit.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet at midnight if here walking,<br /> + When the moon sheets wall and tree,<br /> +I see forms of old time talking,<br /> + Who smile on me.</p> +<h3><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>BEREFT</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">In</span> +the black winter morning<br /> +No light will be struck near my eyes<br /> +While the clock in the stairway is warning<br /> +For five, when he used to rise.<br /> + Leave the door unbarred,<br /> + The clock unwound,<br /> + Make my lone bed hard—<br /> + Would ’twere +underground!</p> +<p class="poetry"> When the summer dawns +clearly,<br /> +And the appletree-tops seem alight,<br /> +Who will undraw the curtain and cheerly<br /> +Call out that the morning is bright?</p> +<p class="poetry"> When I tarry at market<br /> +No form will cross Durnover Lea<br /> +In the gathering darkness, to hark at<br /> +Grey’s Bridge for the pit-pat o’ me.</p> +<p class="poetry"> When the supper crock’s +steaming,<br /> +And the time is the time of his tread,<br /> +<a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>I shall +sit by the fire and wait dreaming<br /> +In a silence as of the dead.<br /> + Leave the door unbarred,<br /> + The clock unwound,<br /> + Make my lone bed hard—<br /> + Would ’twere +underground!</p> +<p>1901.</p> +<h3><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>JOHN +AND JANE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">He</span> sees the world as +a boisterous place<br /> +Where all things bear a laughing face,<br /> +And humorous scenes go hourly on,<br /> + Does John.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">They find the world a pleasant place<br /> +Where all is ecstasy and grace,<br /> +Where a light has risen that cannot wane,<br /> + Do John and Jane.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III</p> +<p class="poetry">They see as a palace their cottage-place,<br /> +Containing a pearl of the human race,<br /> +A hero, maybe, hereafter styled,<br /> + Do John and Jane with a baby-child.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV</p> +<p class="poetry">They rate the world as a gruesome place,<br /> +Where fair looks fade to a skull’s grimace,—<br /> +As a pilgrimage they would fain get done—<br /> + Do John and Jane with their worthless son.</p> +<h3><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>THE +CURATE’S KINDNESS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">A WORKHOUSE IRONY</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">thought</span> +they’d be strangers aroun’ me,<br /> + But she’s to be there!<br /> +Let me jump out o’ waggon and go back and drown me<br /> +At Pummery or Ten-Hatches Weir.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">I thought: “Well, I’ve come to the +Union—<br /> + The workhouse at last—<br /> +After honest hard work all the week, and Communion<br /> +O’ Zundays, these fifty years past.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III</p> +<p class="poetry">“’Tis hard; but,” I thought, +“never mind it:<br /> + There’s gain in the end:<br /> +And when I get used to the place I shall find it<br /> + A home, and may find there a friend.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page32"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 32</span>IV</p> +<p class="poetry">“Life there will be better than +t’other.<br /> + For peace is assured.<br /> +<i>The men in one wing and their wives in another</i><br /> + Is strictly the rule of the Board.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">V</p> +<p class="poetry">Just then one young Pa’son arriving<br /> + Steps up out of breath<br /> +To the side o’ the waggon wherein we were driving<br /> + To Union; and calls out and saith:</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VI</p> +<p class="poetry">“Old folks, that harsh order is +altered,<br /> + Be not sick of heart!<br /> +The Guardians they poohed and they pished and they paltered<br /> + When urged not to keep you apart.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VII</p> +<p class="poetry">“‘It is wrong,’ I maintained, +‘to divide them,<br /> + Near forty years wed.’<br /> +‘Very well, sir. We promise, then, they shall abide +them<br /> + In one wing together,’ they said.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page33"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 33</span>VIII</p> +<p class="poetry">Then I sank—knew ’twas quite a +foredone thing<br /> + That misery should be<br /> +To the end! . . . To get freed of her there was the one thing<br +/> + Had made the change welcome to me.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IX</p> +<p class="poetry">To go there was ending but badly;<br /> + ’Twas shame and ’twas pain;<br /> +“But anyhow,” thought I, “thereby I shall +gladly<br /> + Get free of this forty years’ +chain.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">X</p> +<p class="poetry">I thought they’d be strangers +aroun’ me,<br /> + But she’s to be there!<br /> +Let me jump out o’ waggon and go back and drown me<br /> + At Pummery or Ten-Hatches Weir.</p> +<h3><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>THE +FLIRT’S TRAGEDY<br /> +(17–)</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span> alone by the +logs in my chamber,<br /> + Deserted, decrepit—<br /> +Spent flames limning ghosts on the wainscot<br /> + Of friends I once knew—</p> +<p class="poetry">My drama and hers begins weirdly<br /> + Its dumb re-enactment,<br /> +Each scene, sigh, and circumstance passing<br /> + In spectral review.</p> +<p class="poetry">—Wealth was mine beyond wish when I met +her—<br /> + The pride of the lowland—<br /> +Embowered in Tintinhull Valley<br /> + By laurel and yew;</p> +<p class="poetry">And love lit my soul, notwithstanding<br /> + My features’ ill favour,<br /> +Too obvious beside her perfections<br /> + Of line and of hue.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>But it pleased her to play on my passion,<br /> + And whet me to pleadings<br /> +That won from her mirthful negations<br /> + And scornings undue.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then I fled her disdains and derisions<br /> + To cities of pleasure,<br /> +And made me the crony of idlers<br /> + In every purlieu.</p> +<p class="poetry">Of those who lent ear to my story,<br /> + A needy Adonis<br /> +Gave hint how to grizzle her garden<br /> + From roses to rue,</p> +<p class="poetry">Could his price but be paid for so purging<br +/> + My scorner of scornings:<br /> +Thus tempted, the lust to avenge me<br /> + Germed inly and grew.</p> +<p class="poetry">I clothed him in sumptuous apparel,<br /> + Consigned to him coursers,<br /> +Meet equipage, liveried attendants<br /> + In full retinue.</p> +<p class="poetry">So dowered, with letters of credit<br /> + He wayfared to England,<br /> +And spied out the manor she goddessed,<br /> + And handy thereto,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>Set to hire him a tenantless mansion<br /> + As coign-stone of vantage<br /> +For testing what gross adulation<br /> + Of beauty could do.</p> +<p class="poetry">He laboured through mornings and evens,<br /> + On new moons and sabbaths,<br /> +By wiles to enmesh her attention<br /> + In park, path, and pew;</p> +<p class="poetry">And having afar played upon her,<br /> + Advanced his lines nearer,<br /> +And boldly outleaping conventions,<br /> + Bent briskly to woo.</p> +<p class="poetry">His gay godlike face, his rare seeming<br /> + Anon worked to win her,<br /> +And later, at noontides and night-tides<br /> + They held rendezvous.</p> +<p class="poetry">His tarriance full spent, he departed<br /> + And met me in Venice,<br /> +And lines from her told that my jilter<br /> + Was stooping to sue.</p> +<p class="poetry">Not long could be further concealment,<br /> + She pled to him humbly:<br /> +“By our love and our sin, O protect me;<br /> + I fly unto you!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>A mighty remorse overgat me,<br /> + I heard her low anguish,<br /> +And there in the gloom of the <i>calle</i><br /> + My steel ran him through.</p> +<p class="poetry">A swift push engulphed his hot carrion<br /> + Within the canal there—<br /> +That still street of waters dividing<br /> + The city in two.</p> +<p class="poetry">—I wandered awhile all unable<br /> + To smother my torment,<br /> +My brain racked by yells as from Tophet<br /> + Of Satan’s whole crew.</p> +<p class="poetry">A month of unrest brought me hovering<br /> + At home in her precincts,<br /> +To whose hiding-hole local story<br /> + Afforded a clue.</p> +<p class="poetry">Exposed, and expelled by her people,<br /> + Afar off in London<br /> +I found her alone, in a sombre<br /> + And soul-stifling mew.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still burning to make reparation<br /> + I pleaded to wive her,<br /> +And father her child, and thus faintly<br /> + My mischief undo.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>She yielded, and spells of calm weather<br /> + Succeeded the tempest;<br /> +And one sprung of him stood as scion<br /> + Of my bone and thew . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">But Time unveils sorrows and secrets,<br /> + And so it befell now:<br /> +By inches the curtain was twitched at,<br /> + And slowly undrew.</p> +<p class="poetry">As we lay, she and I, in the night-time,<br /> + We heard the boy moaning:<br /> +“O misery mine! My false father<br /> + Has murdered my true!”</p> +<p class="poetry">She gasped: yea, she heard; understood it.<br +/> + Next day the child fled us;<br /> +And nevermore sighted was even<br /> + A print of his shoe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thenceforward she shunned me, and +languished;<br /> + Till one day the park-pool<br /> +Embraced her fair form, and extinguished<br /> + Her eyes’ living blue.</p> +<p class="poetry">—So; ask not what blast may account +for<br /> + This aspect of pallor,<br /> +These bones that just prison within them<br /> + Life’s poor residue;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>But pass by, and leave unregarded<br /> + A Cain to his suffering,<br /> +For vengeance too dark on the woman<br /> + Whose lover he slew.</p> +<h3><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>THE +REJECTED MEMBER’S WIFE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> shall see her no +more<br /> + On the balcony,<br /> +Smiling, while hurt, at the roar<br /> + As of surging sea<br /> +From the stormy sturdy band<br /> + Who have doomed her lord’s cause,<br /> +Though she waves her little hand<br /> + As it were applause.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here will be candidates yet,<br /> + And candidates’ wives,<br /> +Fervid with zeal to set<br /> + Their ideals on our lives:<br /> +Here will come market-men<br /> + On the market-days,<br /> +Here will clash now and then<br /> + More such party assays.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the balcony will fill<br /> + When such times are renewed,<br /> +And the throng in the street will thrill<br /> + With to-day’s mettled mood;<br /> +<a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>But she +will no more stand<br /> + In the sunshine there,<br /> +With that wave of her white-gloved hand,<br /> + And that chestnut hair.</p> +<p><i>January</i> 1906.</p> +<h3><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>THE +FARM-WOMAN’S WINTER</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry">If seasons all were summers,<br /> + And leaves would never fall,<br /> +And hopping casement-comers<br /> + Were foodless not at all,<br /> +And fragile folk might be here<br /> + That white winds bid depart;<br /> +Then one I used to see here<br /> + Would warm my wasted heart!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">One frail, who, bravely tilling<br /> + Long hours in gripping gusts,<br /> +Was mastered by their chilling,<br /> + And now his ploughshare rusts.<br /> +So savage winter catches<br /> + The breath of limber things,<br /> +And what I love he snatches,<br /> + And what I love not, brings.</p> +<h3><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>AUTUMN +IN KING’S<br /> +HINTOCK PARK</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span> by the baring +bough<br /> + Raking up leaves,<br /> +Often I ponder how<br /> + Springtime deceives,—<br /> +I, an old woman now,<br /> + Raking up leaves.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here in the avenue<br /> + Raking up leaves,<br /> +Lords’ ladies pass in view,<br /> + Until one heaves<br /> +Sighs at life’s russet hue,<br /> + Raking up leaves!</p> +<p class="poetry">Just as my shape you see<br /> + Raking up leaves,<br /> +I saw, when fresh and free,<br /> + Those memory weaves<br /> +Into grey ghosts by me,<br /> + Raking up leaves.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>Yet, Dear, though one may sigh,<br /> + Raking up leaves,<br /> +New leaves will dance on high—<br /> + Earth never grieves!—<br /> +Will not, when missed am I<br /> + Raking up leaves.</p> +<p>1901.</p> +<h3><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>SHUT +OUT THAT MOON</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Close</span> up the +casement, draw the blind,<br /> + Shut out that stealing moon,<br /> +She wears too much the guise she wore<br /> + Before our lutes were strewn<br /> +With years-deep dust, and names we read<br /> + On a white stone were hewn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Step not out on the dew-dashed lawn<br /> + To view the Lady’s Chair,<br /> +Immense Orion’s glittering form,<br /> + The Less and Greater Bear:<br /> +Stay in; to such sights we were drawn<br /> + When faded ones were fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Brush not the bough for midnight scents<br /> + That come forth lingeringly,<br /> +And wake the same sweet sentiments<br /> + They breathed to you and me<br /> +When living seemed a laugh, and love<br /> + All it was said to be.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span>Within the common lamp-lit room<br /> + Prison my eyes and thought;<br /> +Let dingy details crudely loom,<br /> + Mechanic speech be wrought:<br /> +Too fragrant was Life’s early bloom,<br /> + Too tart the fruit it brought!</p> +<p>1904.</p> +<h3><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +47</span>REMINISCENCES OF A DANCING MAN</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Who</span> now remembers +Almack’s balls—<br /> + Willis’s sometime named—<br /> +In those two smooth-floored upper halls<br /> + For faded ones so famed?<br /> +Where as we trod to trilling sound<br /> +The fancied phantoms stood around,<br /> + Or joined us in the maze,<br /> +Of the powdered Dears from Georgian years,<br /> +Whose dust lay in sightless sealed-up biers,<br /> + The fairest of former days.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">Who now remembers gay Cremorne,<br /> + And all its jaunty jills,<br /> +And those wild whirling figures born<br /> + Of Jullien’s grand quadrilles?<br /> +With hats on head and morning coats<br /> +There footed to his prancing notes<br /> + <a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +48</span>Our partner-girls and we;<br /> +And the gas-jets winked, and the lustres clinked,<br /> +And the platform throbbed as with arms enlinked<br /> + We moved to the minstrelsy.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III</p> +<p class="poetry">Who now recalls those crowded rooms<br /> + Of old yclept “The Argyle,”<br /> +Where to the deep Drum-polka’s booms<br /> + We hopped in standard style?<br /> +Whither have danced those damsels now!<br /> +Is Death the partner who doth moue<br /> + Their wormy chaps and bare?<br /> +Do their spectres spin like sparks within<br /> +The smoky halls of the Prince of Sin<br /> + To a thunderous Jullien air?</p> +<h3><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>THE +DEAD MAN WALKING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">They</span> hail me as one +living,<br /> + But don’t they know<br /> +That I have died of late years,<br /> + Untombed although?</p> +<p class="poetry">I am but a shape that stands here,<br /> + A pulseless mould,<br /> +A pale past picture, screening<br /> + Ashes gone cold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Not at a minute’s warning,<br /> + Not in a loud hour,<br /> +For me ceased Time’s enchantments<br /> + In hall and bower.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was no tragic transit,<br /> + No catch of breath,<br /> +When silent seasons inched me<br /> + On to this death . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">—A Troubadour-youth I rambled<br /> + With Life for lyre,<br /> +The beats of being raging<br /> + In me like fire.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>But when I practised eyeing<br /> + The goal of men,<br /> +It iced me, and I perished<br /> + A little then.</p> +<p class="poetry">When passed my friend, my kinsfolk<br /> + Through the Last Door,<br /> +And left me standing bleakly,<br /> + I died yet more;</p> +<p class="poetry">And when my Love’s heart kindled<br /> + In hate of me,<br /> +Wherefore I knew not, died I<br /> + One more degree.</p> +<p class="poetry">And if when I died fully<br /> + I cannot say,<br /> +And changed into the corpse-thing<br /> + I am to-day;</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet is it that, though whiling<br /> + The time somehow<br /> +In walking, talking, smiling,<br /> + I live not now.</p> +<h2><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>MORE +LOVE LYRICS</h2> +<h3><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span>1967</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> five-score +summers! All new eyes,<br /> +New minds, new modes, new fools, new wise;<br /> +New woes to weep, new joys to prize;</p> +<p class="poetry">With nothing left of me and you<br /> +In that live century’s vivid view<br /> +Beyond a pinch of dust or two;</p> +<p class="poetry">A century which, if not sublime,<br /> +Will show, I doubt not, at its prime,<br /> +A scope above this blinkered time.</p> +<p class="poetry">—Yet what to me how far above?<br /> +For I would only ask thereof<br /> +That thy worm should be my worm, Love!</p> +<p>16 <span class="smcap">Westbourne Park Villas</span>, +1867.</p> +<h3><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>HER +DEFINITION</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">lingered</span> through +the night to break of day,<br /> +Nor once did sleep extend a wing to me,<br /> +Intently busied with a vast array<br /> +Of epithets that should outfigure thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Full-featured terms—all +fitless—hastened by,<br /> +And this sole speech remained: “That maiden +mine!”—<br /> +Debarred from due description then did I<br /> +Perceive the indefinite phrase could yet define.</p> +<p class="poetry">As common chests encasing wares of price<br /> +Are borne with tenderness through halls of state,<br /> +For what they cover, so the poor device<br /> +Of homely wording I could tolerate,<br /> +Knowing its unadornment held as freight<br /> +The sweetest image outside Paradise.</p> +<p>W. P. V.,<br /> +Summer: 1866.</p> +<h3><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>THE +DIVISION</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Rain</span> on the windows, +creaking doors,<br /> + With blasts that besom the green,<br /> +And I am here, and you are there,<br /> + And a hundred miles between!</p> +<p class="poetry">O were it but the weather, Dear,<br /> + O were it but the miles<br /> +That summed up all our severance,<br /> + There might be room for smiles.</p> +<p class="poetry">But that thwart thing betwixt us twain,<br /> + Which nothing cleaves or clears,<br /> +Is more than distance, Dear, or rain,<br /> + And longer than the years!</p> +<p>1893.</p> +<h3><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>ON THE +DEPARTURE PLATFORM</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> kissed at the +barrier; and passing through<br /> +She left me, and moment by moment got<br /> +Smaller and smaller, until to my view<br /> + She was but a spot;</p> +<p class="poetry">A wee white spot of muslin fluff<br /> +That down the diminishing platform bore<br /> +Through hustling crowds of gentle and rough<br /> + To the carriage door.</p> +<p class="poetry">Under the lamplight’s fitful glowers,<br +/> +Behind dark groups from far and near,<br /> +Whose interests were apart from ours,<br /> + She would disappear,</p> +<p class="poetry">Then show again, till I ceased to see<br /> +That flexible form, that nebulous white;<br /> +And she who was more than my life to me<br /> + Had vanished quite . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>We have penned new plans since that fair fond day,<br /> +And in season she will appear again—<br /> +Perhaps in the same soft white array—<br /> + But never as then!</p> +<p class="poetry">—“And why, young man, must +eternally fly<br /> +A joy you’ll repeat, if you love her well?”<br /> +—O friend, nought happens twice thus; why,<br /> + I cannot tell!</p> +<h3><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>IN A +CATHEDRAL CITY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">These</span> people have +not heard your name;<br /> +No loungers in this placid place<br /> +Have helped to bruit your beauty’s fame.</p> +<p class="poetry">The grey Cathedral, towards whose face<br /> +Bend eyes untold, has met not yours;<br /> +Your shade has never swept its base,</p> +<p class="poetry">Your form has never darked its doors,<br /> +Nor have your faultless feet once thrown<br /> +A pensive pit-pat on its floors.</p> +<p class="poetry">Along the street to maids well known<br /> +Blithe lovers hum their tender airs,<br /> +But in your praise voice not a tone.</p> +<p class="poetry">—Since nought bespeaks you here, or +bears,<br /> +As I, your imprint through and through,<br /> +Here might I rest, till my heart shares<br /> +The spot’s unconsciousness of you!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Salisbury</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>“I SAY I’LL SEEK HER”</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">say</span>, +“I’ll seek her side<br /> + Ere hindrance interposes;”<br /> + But eve in midnight closes,<br /> +And here I still abide.</p> +<p class="poetry">When darkness wears I see<br /> + Her sad eyes in a vision;<br /> + They ask, “What indecision<br /> +Detains you, Love, from me?—</p> +<p class="poetry">“The creaking hinge is oiled,<br /> + I have unbarred the backway,<br /> + But you tread not the trackway;<br /> +And shall the thing be spoiled?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Far cockcrows echo shrill,<br /> + The shadows are abating,<br /> + And I am waiting, waiting;<br /> +But O, you tarry still!”</p> +<h3><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>HER +FATHER</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">met</span> her, as we had +privily planned,<br /> +Where passing feet beat busily:<br /> +She whispered: “Father is at hand!<br /> + He wished to walk with me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">His presence as he joined us there<br /> +Banished our words of warmth away;<br /> +We felt, with cloudings of despair,<br /> + What Love must lose that day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her crimson lips remained unkissed,<br /> +Our fingers kept no tender hold,<br /> +His lack of feeling made the tryst<br /> + Embarrassed, stiff, and cold.</p> +<p class="poetry">A cynic ghost then rose and said,<br /> +“But is his love for her so small<br /> +That, nigh to yours, it may be read<br /> + As of no worth at all?</p> +<p class="poetry">“You love her for her pink and white;<br +/> +But what when their fresh splendours close?<br /> +His love will last her in despite<br /> + Of Time, and wrack, and foes.”</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Weymouth</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>AT +WAKING</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">When</span> night was lifting,<br /> +And dawn had crept under its shade,<br /> + Amid cold clouds drifting<br /> +Dead-white as a corpse outlaid,<br /> + With a sudden scare<br /> + I seemed to behold<br /> + My Love in bare<br /> + Hard lines unfold.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yea, in a moment,<br /> +An insight that would not die<br /> + Killed her old endowment<br /> +Of charm that had capped all nigh,<br /> + Which vanished to none<br /> + Like the gilt of a cloud,<br /> + And showed her but one<br /> + Of the common crowd.</p> +<p class="poetry"> She seemed but a sample<br /> +Of earth’s poor average kind,<br /> + Lit up by no ample<br /> +Enrichments of mien or mind.<br /> + <a name="page62"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 62</span>I covered my eyes<br /> + As to cover the thought,<br /> + And unrecognize<br /> + What the morn had taught.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O vision appalling<br /> +When the one believed-in thing<br /> + Is seen falling, falling,<br /> +With all to which hope can cling.<br /> + Off: it is not true;<br /> + For it cannot be<br /> + That the prize I drew<br /> + Is a blank to me!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Weymouth</span>, 1869.</p> +<h3><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>FOUR +FOOTPRINTS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span> are the tracks +upon the sand<br /> +Where stood last evening she and I—<br /> +Pressed heart to heart and hand to hand;<br /> +The morning sun has baked them dry.</p> +<p class="poetry">I kissed her wet face—wet with rain,<br +/> +For arid grief had burnt up tears,<br /> +While reached us as in sleeping pain<br /> +The distant gurgling of the weirs.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I have married him—yes; feel that +ring;<br /> +’Tis a week ago that he put it on . . .<br /> +A dutiful daughter does this thing,<br /> +And resignation succeeds anon!</p> +<p class="poetry">“But that I body and soul was yours<br /> +Ere he’d possession, he’ll never know.<br /> +He’s a confident man. ‘The husband +scores,’<br /> +He says, ‘in the long run’ . . . Now, Dear, +go!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>I went. And to-day I pass the spot;<br /> +It is only a smart the more to endure;<br /> +And she whom I held is as though she were not,<br /> +For they have resumed their honeymoon tour.</p> +<h3><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>IN THE +VAULTED WAY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> the vaulted way, +where the passage turned<br /> +To the shadowy corner that none could see,<br /> +You paused for our parting,—plaintively;<br /> +Though overnight had come words that burned<br /> +My fond frail happiness out of me.</p> +<p class="poetry">And then I kissed you,—despite my +thought<br /> +That our spell must end when reflection came<br /> +On what you had deemed me, whose one long aim<br /> +Had been to serve you; that what I sought<br /> +Lay not in a heart that could breathe such blame.</p> +<p class="poetry">But yet I kissed you; whereon you again<br /> +As of old kissed me. Why, why was it so?<br /> +Do you cleave to me after that light-tongued blow?<br /> +If you scorned me at eventide, how love then?<br /> +The thing is dark, Dear. I do not know.</p> +<h3><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>IN THE +MIND’S EYE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">That</span> was once her +casement,<br /> + And the taper nigh,<br /> +Shining from within there,<br /> + Beckoned, “Here am I!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, as then, I see her<br /> + Moving at the pane;<br /> +Ah; ’tis but her phantom<br /> + Borne within my brain!—</p> +<p class="poetry">Foremost in my vision<br /> + Everywhere goes she;<br /> +Change dissolves the landscapes,<br /> + She abides with me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Shape so sweet and shy, Dear,<br /> + Who can say thee nay?<br /> +Never once do I, Dear,<br /> + Wish thy ghost away.</p> +<h3><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>THE +END OF THE EPISODE</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Indulge</span> no more may we<br /> +In this sweet-bitter pastime:<br /> +The love-light shines the last time<br /> + Between you, Dear, and me.</p> +<p class="poetry"> There shall remain no +trace<br /> +Of what so closely tied us,<br /> +And blank as ere love eyed us<br /> + Will be our meeting-place.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The flowers and thymy air,<br +/> +Will they now miss our coming?<br /> +The dumbles thin their humming<br /> + To find we haunt not there?</p> +<p class="poetry"> Though fervent was our +vow,<br /> +Though ruddily ran our pleasure,<br /> +Bliss has fulfilled its measure,<br /> + And sees its sentence now.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Ache deep; but make no +moans:<br /> +Smile out; but stilly suffer:<br /> +The paths of love are rougher<br /> + Than thoroughfares of stones.</p> +<h3><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>THE +SIGH</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Little</span> head against +my shoulder,<br /> +Shy at first, then somewhat bolder,<br /> + And up-eyed;<br /> +Till she, with a timid quaver,<br /> +Yielded to the kiss I gave her;<br /> + But, she sighed.</p> +<p class="poetry">That there mingled with her feeling<br /> +Some sad thought she was concealing<br /> + It implied.<br /> +—Not that she had ceased to love me,<br /> +None on earth she set above me;<br /> + But she sighed.</p> +<p class="poetry">She could not disguise a passion,<br /> +Dread, or doubt, in weakest fashion<br /> + If she tried:<br /> +Nothing seemed to hold us sundered,<br /> +Hearts were victors; so I wondered<br /> + Why she sighed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>Afterwards I knew her throughly,<br /> +And she loved me staunchly, truly,<br /> + Till she died;<br /> +But she never made confession<br /> +Why, at that first sweet concession,<br /> + She had sighed.</p> +<p class="poetry">It was in our May, remember;<br /> +And though now I near November,<br /> + And abide<br /> +Till my appointed change, unfretting,<br /> +Sometimes I sit half regretting<br /> + That she sighed.</p> +<h3><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>“IN THE NIGHT SHE CAME”</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">told</span> her when I +left one day<br /> +That whatsoever weight of care<br /> +Might strain our love, Time’s mere assault<br /> + Would work no changes there.<br /> +And in the night she came to me,<br /> + Toothless, and wan, and old,<br /> +With leaden concaves round her eyes,<br /> + And wrinkles manifold.</p> +<p class="poetry">I tremblingly exclaimed to her,<br /> +“O wherefore do you ghost me thus!<br /> +I have said that dull defacing Time<br /> + Will bring no dreads to us.”<br /> +“And is that true of <i>you</i>?” she cried<br /> + In voice of troubled tune.<br /> +I faltered: “Well . . . I did not think<br /> + You would test me quite so soon!”</p> +<p class="poetry">She vanished with a curious smile,<br /> +Which told me, plainlier than by word,<br /> +That my staunch pledge could scarce beguile<br /> + The fear she had averred.<br /> +<a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>Her doubts +then wrought their shape in me,<br /> + And when next day I paid<br /> +My due caress, we seemed to be<br /> + Divided by some shade.</p> +<h3><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>THE +CONFORMERS</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Yes</span>; we’ll wed, my little fay,<br /> + And you shall write you mine,<br /> +And in a villa chastely gray<br /> + We’ll house, and sleep, and dine.<br /> + But those night-screened, divine,<br /> + Stolen trysts of heretofore,<br /> +We of choice ecstasies and fine<br /> + Shall know no more.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The formal faced cohue<br /> + Will then no more upbraid<br /> +With smiting smiles and whisperings two<br /> + Who have thrown less loves in shade.<br /> + We shall no more evade<br /> + The searching light of the sun,<br /> +Our game of passion will be played,<br /> + Our dreaming done.</p> +<p class="poetry"> We shall not go in stealth<br +/> + To rendezvous unknown,<br /> +But friends will ask me of your health,<br /> + And you about my own.<br /> + <a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>When we abide alone,<br /> + No leapings each to each,<br /> +But syllables in frigid tone<br /> + Of household speech.</p> +<p class="poetry"> When down to dust we glide<br +/> + Men will not say askance,<br /> +As now: “How all the country side<br /> + Rings with their mad romance!”<br /> + But as they graveward glance<br /> + Remark: “In them we lose<br /> +A worthy pair, who helped advance<br /> + Sound parish views.”</p> +<h3><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>THE +DAWN AFTER THE DANCE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span> is your +parents’ dwelling with its curtained windows telling<br /> +Of no thought of us within it or of our arrival here;<br /> +Their slumbers have been normal after one day more of formal<br +/> +Matrimonial commonplace and household life’s mechanic +gear.</p> +<p class="poetry">I would be candid willingly, but dawn draws on +so chillingly<br /> +As to render further cheerlessness intolerable now,<br /> +So I will not stand endeavouring to declare a day for +severing,<br /> +But will clasp you just as always—just the olden love +avow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Through serene and surly weather we have walked +the ways together,<br /> +And this long night’s dance this year’s end eve now +finishes the spell;<br /> +<a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>Yet we +dreamt us but beginning a sweet sempiternal spinning<br /> +Of a cord we have spun to breaking—too intemperately, too +well.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes; last night we danced I know, Dear, as we +did that year ago, Dear,<br /> +When a new strange bond between our days was formed, and felt, +and heard;<br /> +Would that dancing were the worst thing from the latest to the +first thing<br /> +That the faded year can charge us with; but what avails a +word!</p> +<p class="poetry">That which makes man’s love the lighter +and the woman’s burn no brighter<br /> +Came to pass with us inevitably while slipped the shortening year +. . .<br /> +And there stands your father’s dwelling with its blind +bleak windows telling<br /> +That the vows of man and maid are frail as filmy gossamere.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Weymouth</span>, 1869.</p> +<h3><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>THE +SUN ON THE LETTER</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">drew</span> the letter +out, while gleamed<br /> +The sloping sun from under a roof<br /> +Of cloud whose verge rose visibly.</p> +<p class="poetry">The burning ball flung rays that seemed<br /> +Stretched like a warp without a woof<br /> +Across the levels of the lea</p> +<p class="poetry">To where I stood, and where they beamed<br /> +As brightly on the page of proof<br /> +That she had shown her false to me</p> +<p class="poetry">As if it had shown her true—had teemed<br +/> +With passionate thought for my behoof<br /> +Expressed with their own ardency!</p> +<h3><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>THE +NIGHT OF THE DANCE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> cold moon hangs +to the sky by its horn,<br /> + And centres its gaze on me;<br /> +The stars, like eyes in reverie,<br /> +Their westering as for a while forborne,<br /> + Quiz downward curiously.</p> +<p class="poetry">Old Robert draws the backbrand in,<br /> + The green logs steam and spit;<br /> +The half-awakened sparrows flit<br /> +From the riddled thatch; and owls begin<br /> + To whoo from the gable-slit.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes; far and nigh things seem to know<br /> + Sweet scenes are impending here;<br /> +That all is prepared; that the hour is near<br /> +For welcomes, fellowships, and flow<br /> + Of sally, song, and cheer;</p> +<p class="poetry">That spigots are pulled and viols strung;<br /> + That soon will arise the sound<br /> +Of measures trod to tunes renowned;<br /> +That She will return in Love’s low tongue<br /> + My vows as we wheel around.</p> +<h3><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>MISCONCEPTION</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">busied</span> myself to +find a sure<br /> + Snug hermitage<br /> +That should preserve my Love secure<br /> + From the world’s rage;<br /> +Where no unseemly saturnals,<br /> + Or strident traffic-roars,<br /> +Or hum of intervolved cabals<br /> + Should echo at her doors.</p> +<p class="poetry">I laboured that the diurnal spin<br /> + Of vanities<br /> +Should not contrive to suck her in<br /> + By dark degrees,<br /> +And cunningly operate to blur<br /> + Sweet teachings I had begun;<br /> +And then I went full-heart to her<br /> + To expound the glad deeds done.</p> +<p class="poetry">She looked at me, and said thereto<br /> + With a pitying smile,<br /> +“And <i>this</i> is what has busied you<br /> + So long a while?<br /> +<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>O poor +exhausted one, I see<br /> + You have worn you old and thin<br /> +For naught! Those moils you fear for me<br /> + I find most pleasure in!”</p> +<h3><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>THE +VOICE OF THE THORN</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> the thorn on +the down<br /> +Quivers naked and cold,<br /> +And the mid-aged and old<br /> +Pace the path there to town,<br /> +In these words dry and drear<br /> +It seems to them sighing:<br /> +“O winter is trying<br /> +To sojourners here!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">When it stands fully tressed<br /> +On a hot summer day,<br /> +And the ewes there astray<br /> +Find its shade a sweet rest,<br /> +By the breath of the breeze<br /> +It inquires of each farer:<br /> +“Who would not be sharer<br /> +Of shadow with these?”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page81"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 81</span>III</p> +<p class="poetry">But by day or by night,<br /> +And in winter or summer,<br /> +Should I be the comer<br /> +Along that lone height,<br /> +In its voicing to me<br /> +Only one speech is spoken:<br /> +“Here once was nigh broken<br /> +A heart, and by thee.”</p> +<h3><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>FROM +HER IN THE COUNTRY</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">thought</span> and +thought of thy crass clanging town<br /> +To folly, till convinced such dreams were ill,<br /> +I held my heart in bond, and tethered down<br /> +Fancy to where I was, by force of will.</p> +<p class="poetry">I said: How beautiful are these flowers, this +wood,<br /> +One little bud is far more sweet to me<br /> +Than all man’s urban shows; and then I stood<br /> +Urging new zest for bird, and bush, and tree;</p> +<p class="poetry">And strove to feel my nature brought it +forth<br /> +Of instinct, or no rural maid was I;<br /> +But it was vain; for I could not see worth<br /> +Enough around to charm a midge or fly,</p> +<p class="poetry">And mused again on city din and sin,<br /> +Longing to madness I might move therein!</p> +<p>16 W. P. V., 1866.</p> +<h3><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>HER +CONFESSION</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> some bland soul, +to whom a debtor says<br /> +“I’ll now repay the amount I owe to you,”<br /> +In inward gladness feigns forgetfulness<br /> +That such a payment ever was his due</p> +<p class="poetry">(His long thought notwithstanding), so did I<br +/> +At our last meeting waive your proffered kiss<br /> +With quick divergent talk of scenery nigh,<br /> +By such suspension to enhance my bliss.</p> +<p class="poetry">And as his looks in consternation fall<br /> +When, gathering that the debt is lightly deemed,<br /> +The debtor makes as not to pay at all,<br /> +So faltered I, when your intention seemed</p> +<p class="poetry">Converted by my false uneagerness<br /> +To putting off for ever the caress.</p> +<p>W. P. V., 1865–67.</p> +<h3><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>TO AN +IMPERSONATOR OF ROSALIND</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Did</span> he who drew her +in the years ago—<br /> +Till now conceived creator of her grace—<br /> +With telescopic sight high natures know,<br /> +Discern remote in Time’s untravelled space</p> +<p class="poetry">Your soft sweet mien, your gestures, as do +we,<br /> +And with a copyist’s hand but set them down,<br /> +Glowing yet more to dream our ecstasy<br /> +When his Original should be forthshown?</p> +<p class="poetry">For, kindled by that animated eye,<br /> +Whereto all fairnesses about thee brim,<br /> +And by thy tender tones, what wight can fly<br /> +The wild conviction welling up in him</p> +<p class="poetry">That he at length beholds woo, parley, +plead,<br /> +The “very, very Rosalind” indeed!</p> +<p>8 <span class="smcap">Adelphi Terrace</span>, 21<i>st</i> +<i>April</i> 1867.</p> +<h3><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>TO AN +ACTRESS</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">read</span> your name +when you were strange to me,<br /> +Where it stood blazoned bold with many more;<br /> +I passed it vacantly, and did not see<br /> +Any great glory in the shape it wore.</p> +<p class="poetry">O cruelty, the insight barred me then!<br /> +Why did I not possess me with its sound,<br /> +And in its cadence catch and catch again<br /> +Your nature’s essence floating therearound?</p> +<p class="poetry">Could <i>that</i> man be this I, unknowing +you,<br /> +When now the knowing you is all of me,<br /> +And the old world of then is now a new,<br /> +And purpose no more what it used to be—<br /> +A thing of formal journeywork, but due<br /> +To springs that then were sealed up utterly?</p> +<p>1867.</p> +<h3><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>THE +MINUTE BEFORE MEETING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> grey gaunt days +dividing us in twain<br /> +Seemed hopeless hills my strength must faint to climb,<br /> +But they are gone; and now I would detain<br /> +The few clock-beats that part us; rein back Time,</p> +<p class="poetry">And live in close expectance never closed<br /> +In change for far expectance closed at last,<br /> +So harshly has expectance been imposed<br /> +On my long need while these slow blank months passed.</p> +<p class="poetry">And knowing that what is now about to be<br /> +Will all <i>have been</i> in O, so short a space!<br /> +I read beyond it my despondency<br /> +When more dividing months shall take its place,<br /> +Thereby denying to this hour of grace<br /> +A full-up measure of felicity.</p> +<p>1871.</p> +<h3><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>HE +ABJURES LOVE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">At</span> last I put off +love,<br /> + For twice ten years<br /> +The daysman of my thought,<br /> + And hope, and doing;<br /> +Being ashamed thereof,<br /> + And faint of fears<br /> +And desolations, wrought<br /> +In his pursuing,</p> +<p class="poetry">Since first in youthtime those<br /> + Disquietings<br /> +That heart-enslavement brings<br /> + To hale and hoary,<br /> +Became my housefellows,<br /> + And, fool and blind,<br /> +I turned from kith and kind<br /> + To give him glory.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was as children be<br /> + Who have no care;<br /> +I did not shrink or sigh,<br /> + I did not sicken;<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>But lo, +Love beckoned me,<br /> + And I was bare,<br /> +And poor, and starved, and dry,<br /> + And fever-stricken.</p> +<p class="poetry">Too many times ablaze<br /> + With fatuous fires,<br /> +Enkindled by his wiles<br /> + To new embraces,<br /> +Did I, by wilful ways<br /> + And baseless ires,<br /> +Return the anxious smiles<br /> + Of friendly faces.</p> +<p class="poetry">No more will now rate I<br /> + The common rare,<br /> +The midnight drizzle dew,<br /> + The gray hour golden,<br /> +The wind a yearning cry,<br /> + The faulty fair,<br /> +Things dreamt, of comelier hue<br /> + Than things beholden! . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">—I speak as one who plumbs<br /> + Life’s dim profound,<br /> +One who at length can sound<br /> + Clear views and certain.<br /> +But—after love what comes?<br /> + A scene that lours,<br /> +A few sad vacant hours,<br /> + And then, the Curtain.</p> +<p>1883.</p> +<h2><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>A SET +OF COUNTRY SONGS</h2> +<h3><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>LET ME +ENJOY</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(MINOR KEY)</p> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Let</span> me enjoy the +earth no less<br /> +Because the all-enacting Might<br /> +That fashioned forth its loveliness<br /> +Had other aims than my delight.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">About my path there flits a Fair,<br /> +Who throws me not a word or sign;<br /> +I’ll charm me with her ignoring air,<br /> +And laud the lips not meant for mine.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III</p> +<p class="poetry">From manuscripts of moving song<br /> +Inspired by scenes and dreams unknown<br /> +I’ll pour out raptures that belong<br /> +To others, as they were my own.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page92"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 92</span>IV</p> +<p class="poetry">And some day hence, towards Paradise,<br /> +And all its blest—if such should be—<br /> +I will lift glad, afar-off eyes,<br /> +Though it contain no place for me.</p> +<h3><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>AT +CASTERBRIDGE FAIR</h3> +<h4>I<br /> +The Ballad-Singer</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sing</span>, Ballad-singer, +raise a hearty tune;<br /> +Make me forget that there was ever a one<br /> +I walked with in the meek light of the moon<br /> + When the day’s work was done.</p> +<p class="poetry">Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song;<br +/> +Make me forget that she whom I loved well<br /> +Swore she would love me dearly, love me long,<br /> + Then—what I cannot tell!</p> +<p class="poetry">Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book;<br +/> +Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears;<br /> +Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look—<br /> + Make me forget her tears.</p> +<h4><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>II<br +/> +Former Beauties</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">These</span> market-dames, +mid-aged, with lips thin-drawn,<br /> + And tissues sere,<br /> +Are they the ones we loved in years agone,<br /> + And courted here?</p> +<p class="poetry">Are these the muslined pink young things to +whom<br /> + We vowed and swore<br /> +In nooks on summer Sundays by the Froom,<br /> + Or Budmouth shore?</p> +<p class="poetry">Do they remember those gay tunes we trod<br /> + Clasped on the green;<br /> +Aye; trod till moonlight set on the beaten sod<br /> + A satin sheen?</p> +<p class="poetry">They must forget, forget! They cannot +know<br /> + What once they were,<br /> +Or memory would transfigure them, and show<br /> + Them always fair.</p> +<h4><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>III<br +/> +<span class="smcap">After the Club-Dance</span></h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Black’on</span> +frowns east on Maidon,<br /> + And westward to the sea,<br /> +But on neither is his frown laden<br /> + With scorn, as his frown on me!</p> +<p class="poetry">At dawn my heart grew heavy,<br /> + I could not sip the wine,<br /> +I left the jocund bevy<br /> + And that young man o’ mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">The roadside elms pass by me,—<br /> + Why do I sink with shame<br /> +When the birds a-perch there eye me?<br /> + They, too, have done the same!</p> +<h4>IV<br /> +<span class="smcap">The Market-Girl</span></h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Nobody</span> took any +notice of her as she stood on the causey kerb,<br /> +All eager to sell her honey and apples and bunches of garden +herb;<br /> +<a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>And if she +had offered to give her wares and herself with them too that +day,<br /> +I doubt if a soul would have cared to take a bargain so choice +away.</p> +<p class="poetry">But chancing to trace her sunburnt grace that +morning as I passed nigh,<br /> +I went and I said “Poor maidy dear!—and will none of +the people buy?”<br /> +And so it began; and soon we knew what the end of it all must +be,<br /> +And I found that though no others had bid, a prize had been won +by me.</p> +<h4>V<br /> +<span class="smcap">The Inquiry</span></h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">And</span> are ye one of +Hermitage—<br /> +Of Hermitage, by Ivel Road,<br /> +And do ye know, in Hermitage<br /> +A thatch-roofed house where sengreens grow?<br /> +And does John Waywood live there still—<br /> +He of the name that there abode<br /> +When father hurdled on the hill<br /> + Some fifteen years ago?</p> +<p class="poetry">Does he now speak o’ Patty Beech,<br /> +The Patty Beech he used to—see,<br /> +Or ask at all if Patty Beech<br /> +Is known or heard of out this way?<br /> +<a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>—Ask +ever if she’s living yet,<br /> +And where her present home may be,<br /> +And how she bears life’s fag and fret<br /> + After so long a day?</p> +<p class="poetry">In years agone at Hermitage<br /> +This faded face was counted fair,<br /> +None fairer; and at Hermitage<br /> +We swore to wed when he should thrive.<br /> +But never a chance had he or I,<br /> +And waiting made his wish outwear,<br /> +And Time, that dooms man’s love to die,<br /> + Preserves a maid’s alive.</p> +<h4>VI<br /> +A <span class="smcap">Wife Waits</span></h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Will’s</span> at the +dance in the Club-room below,<br /> + Where the tall liquor-cups foam;<br /> +I on the pavement up here by the Bow,<br /> + Wait, wait, to steady him home.</p> +<p class="poetry">Will and his partner are treading a tune,<br /> + Loving companions they be;<br /> +Willy, before we were married in June,<br /> + Said he loved no one but me;</p> +<p class="poetry">Said he would let his old pleasures all go<br +/> + Ever to live with his Dear.<br /> +<a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +98</span>Will’s at the dance in the Club-room below,<br /> + Shivering I wait for him here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Note</span>.—“The Bow” +(line 3). The old name for the curved corner by the +cross-streets in the middle of Casterbridge.</p> +<h4>VII<br /> +<span class="smcap">After the Fair</span></h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> singers are gone +from the Cornmarket-place<br /> + With their broadsheets of +rhymes,<br /> +The street rings no longer in treble and bass<br /> + With their skits on the times,<br +/> +And the Cross, lately thronged, is a dim naked space<br /> + That but echoes the stammering chimes.</p> +<p class="poetry">From Clock-corner steps, as each quarter +ding-dongs,<br /> + Away the folk roam<br /> +By the “Hart” and Grey’s Bridge into byways and +“drongs,”<br /> + Or across the ridged loam;<br /> +The younger ones shrilling the lately heard songs,<br /> + The old saying, “Would we were +home.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>The shy-seeming maiden so mute in the fair<br /> + Now rattles and talks,<br /> +And that one who looked the most swaggering there<br /> + Grows sad as she walks,<br /> +And she who seemed eaten by cankering care<br /> + In statuesque sturdiness stalks.</p> +<p class="poetry">And midnight clears High Street of all but the +ghosts<br /> + Of its buried burghees,<br /> +From the latest far back to those old Roman hosts<br /> + Whose remains one yet sees,<br /> +Who loved, laughed, and fought, hailed their friends, drank their +toasts<br /> + At their meeting-times here, just as these!</p> +<p>1902.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Note</span>.—“The +Chimes” (line 6) will be listened for in vain here at +midnight now, having been abolished some years ago.</p> +<h3><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>THE +DARK-EYED GENTLEMAN</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">pitched</span> my +day’s leazings in Crimmercrock Lane,<br /> +To tie up my garter and jog on again,<br /> +When a dear dark-eyed gentleman passed there and said,<br /> +In a way that made all o’ me colour rose-red,<br /> + “What do I see—<br /> + O pretty knee!”<br /> +And he came and he tied up my garter for me.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twixt sunset and moonrise it was, I can +mind:<br /> +Ah, ’tis easy to lose what we nevermore find!—<br /> +Of the dear stranger’s home, of his name, I knew nought,<br +/> +<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>But I +soon knew his nature and all that it brought.<br /> + Then bitterly<br /> + Sobbed I that he<br /> +Should ever have tied up my garter for me!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet now I’ve beside me a fine lissom +lad,<br /> +And my slip’s nigh forgot, and my days are not sad;<br /> +My own dearest joy is he, comrade, and friend,<br /> +He it is who safe-guards me, on him I depend;<br /> + No sorrow brings he,<br /> + And thankful I be<br /> +That his daddy once tied up my garter for me!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Note</span>.—“Leazings” +(line 1).—Bundle of gleaned corn.</p> +<h3><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>TO +CARREY CLAVEL</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">You</span> turn your back, +you turn your back,<br /> + And never your face to me,<br /> +Alone you take your homeward track,<br /> + And scorn my company.</p> +<p class="poetry">What will you do when Charley’s seen<br +/> + Dewbeating down this way?<br /> +—You’ll turn your back as now, you mean?<br /> + Nay, Carrey Clavel, nay!</p> +<p class="poetry">You’ll see none’s looking; put your +lip<br /> + Up like a tulip, so;<br /> +And he will coll you, bend, and sip:<br /> + Yes, Carrey, yes; I know!</p> +<h3><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>THE +ORPHANED OLD MAID</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">wanted</span> to marry, +but father said, “No—<br /> +’Tis weakness in women to give themselves so;<br /> +If you care for your freedom you’ll listen to me,<br /> +Make a spouse in your pocket, and let the men be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I spake on’t again and again: father +cried,<br /> +“Why—if you go husbanding, where shall I bide?<br /> +For never a home’s for me elsewhere than here!”<br /> +And I yielded; for father had ever been dear.</p> +<p class="poetry">But now father’s gone, and I feel growing +old,<br /> +And I’m lonely and poor in this house on the wold,<br /> +And my sweetheart that was found a partner elsewhere,<br /> +And nobody flings me a thought or a care.</p> +<h3><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>THE +SPRING CALL</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Down</span> Wessex way, +when spring’s a-shine,<br /> + The blackbird’s “pret-ty +de-urr!”<br /> +In Wessex accents marked as mine<br /> + Is heard afar and near.</p> +<p class="poetry">He flutes it strong, as if in song<br /> + No R’s of feebler tone<br /> +Than his appear in “pretty dear,”<br /> + Have blackbirds ever known.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet they pipe “prattie deerh!” I +glean,<br /> + Beneath a Scottish sky,<br /> +And “pehty de-aw!” amid the treen<br /> + Of Middlesex or nigh.</p> +<p class="poetry">While some folk say—perhaps in +play—<br /> + Who know the Irish isle,<br /> +’Tis “purrity dare!” in treeland there<br /> + When songsters would beguile.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +105</span>Well: I’ll say what the listening birds<br /> + Say, hearing “pret-ty de-urr!”—<br +/> +However strangers sound such words,<br /> + That’s how we sound them here.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, in this clime at pairing time,<br /> + As soon as eyes can see her<br /> +At dawn of day, the proper way<br /> + To call is “pret-ty de-urr!”</p> +<h3><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>JULIE-JANE</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Sing</span>; how ’a would sing!<br /> + How ’a would raise the tune<br /> +When we rode in the waggon from harvesting<br /> + By the light o’ the +moon!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Dance; how ’a would +dance!<br /> + If a fiddlestring did but sound<br /> +She would hold out her coats, give a slanting glance,<br /> + And go round and round.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Laugh; how ’a would +laugh!<br /> + Her peony lips would part<br /> +As if none such a place for a lover to quaff<br /> + At the deeps of a heart.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Julie, O girl of joy,<br /> + Soon, soon that lover he came.<br /> +Ah, yes; and gave thee a baby-boy,<br /> + But never his name . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page107"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 107</span>—Tolling for her, as you +guess;<br /> + And the baby too . . . ’Tis well.<br /> +You knew her in maidhood likewise?—Yes,<br /> + That’s her burial bell.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “I suppose,” with +a laugh, she said,<br /> + “I should blush that I’m not a wife;<br +/> +But how can it matter, so soon to be dead,<br /> + What one does in life!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> When we sat making the +mourning<br /> + By her death-bed side, said she,<br /> +“Dears, how can you keep from your lovers, adorning<br /> + In honour of me!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> Bubbling and brightsome +eyed!<br /> + But now—O never again.<br /> +She chose her bearers before she died<br /> + From her fancy-men.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Note</span>.—It is, or was, a common +custom in Wessex, and probably other country places, to prepare +the mourning beside the death-bed, the dying person sometimes +assisting, who also selects his or her bearers on such +occasions.</p> +<p>“Coats” (line 7).—Old name for +petticoats.</p> +<h3><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>NEWS +FOR HER MOTHER</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">One</span> mile more is<br /> + Where your door is<br /> + Mother mine!—<br /> + Harvest’s coming,<br /> + Mills are strumming,<br /> + Apples fine,<br /> +And the cider made to-year will be as wine.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet, not viewing<br /> + What’s a-doing<br /> + Here around<br /> + Is it thrills me,<br /> + And so fills me<br /> + That I bound<br /> +Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page109"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 109</span>III</p> +<p class="poetry"> Tremble not now<br /> + At your lot now,<br /> + Silly soul!<br /> + Hosts have sped them<br /> + Quick to wed them,<br /> + Great and small,<br /> +Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV</p> +<p class="poetry"> Yet I wonder,<br /> + Will it sunder<br /> + Her from me?<br /> + Will she guess that<br /> + I said “Yes,”—that<br /> + His I’d be,<br /> +Ere I thought she might not see him as I see!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">V</p> +<p class="poetry"> Old brown gable,<br /> + Granary, stable,<br /> + Here you are!<br /> + O my mother,<br /> + Can another<br /> + Ever bar<br /> +Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar?</p> +<h3><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>THE +FIDDLER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> fiddler knows +what’s brewing<br /> + To the lilt of his lyric wiles:<br /> +The fiddler knows what rueing<br /> + Will come of this night’s smiles!</p> +<p class="poetry">He sees couples join them for dancing,<br /> + And afterwards joining for life,<br /> +He sees them pay high for their prancing<br /> + By a welter of wedded strife.</p> +<p class="poetry">He twangs: “Music hails from the +devil,<br /> + Though vaunted to come from heaven,<br /> +For it makes people do at a revel<br /> + What multiplies sins by seven.</p> +<p class="poetry">“There’s many a heart now +mangled,<br /> + And waiting its time to go,<br /> +Whose tendrils were first entangled<br /> + By my sweet viol and bow!”</p> +<h3><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>THE +HUSBAND’S VIEW</h3> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Can</span> anything +avail<br /> +Beldame, for my hid grief?—<br /> +Listen: I’ll tell the tale,<br /> +It may bring faint relief!—</p> +<p class="poetry">“I came where I was not known,<br /> +In hope to flee my sin;<br /> +And walking forth alone<br /> +A young man said, ‘Good e’en.’</p> +<p class="poetry">“In gentle voice and true<br /> +He asked to marry me;<br /> +‘You only—only you<br /> +Fulfil my dream!’ said he.</p> +<p class="poetry">“We married o’ Monday morn,<br /> +In the month of hay and flowers;<br /> +My cares were nigh forsworn,<br /> +And perfect love was ours.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>“But ere the days are long<br /> +Untimely fruit will show;<br /> +My Love keeps up his song,<br /> +Undreaming it is so.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And I awake in the night,<br /> +And think of months gone by,<br /> +And of that cause of flight<br /> +Hidden from my Love’s eye.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Discovery borders near,<br /> +And then! . . . But something stirred?—<br /> +My husband—he is here!<br /> +Heaven—has he overheard?”—</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yes; I have heard, sweet Nan;<br /> +I have known it all the time.<br /> +I am not a particular man;<br /> +Misfortunes are no crime:</p> +<p class="poetry">“And what with our serious need<br /> +Of sons for soldiering,<br /> +That accident, indeed,<br /> +To maids, is a useful thing!”</p> +<h3><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>ROSE-ANN</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Why</span> didn’t you +say you was promised, Rose-Ann?<br /> + Why didn’t you name it to me,<br /> +Ere ever you tempted me hither, Rose-Ann,<br /> + So often, so wearifully?</p> +<p class="poetry">O why did you let me be near ’ee, +Rose-Ann,<br /> + Talking things about wedlock so free,<br /> +And never by nod or by whisper, Rose-Ann,<br /> + Give a hint that it wasn’t to be?</p> +<p class="poetry">Down home I was raising a flock of stock +ewes,<br /> + Cocks and hens, and wee chickens by scores,<br /> +And lavendered linen all ready to use,<br /> + A-dreaming that they would be yours.</p> +<p class="poetry">Mother said: “She’s a sport-making +maiden, my son”;<br /> + And a pretty sharp quarrel had we;<br /> +<a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>O why do +you prove by this wrong you have done<br /> + That I saw not what mother could see?</p> +<p class="poetry">Never once did you say you was promised, +Rose-Ann,<br /> + Never once did I dream it to be;<br /> +And it cuts to the heart to be treated, Rose-Ann,<br /> + As you in your scorning treat me!</p> +<h3><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>THE +HOMECOMING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>Gruffly</i></span><i> +growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare</i>,<br /> +<i>And lonesome was the house</i>, <i>and dark</i>; <i>and few +came there</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now don’t ye rub your eyes so red; +we’re home and have no cares;<br /> +Here’s a skimmer-cake for supper, peckled onions, and some +pears;<br /> +I’ve got a little keg o’ summat strong, too, under +stairs:<br /> +—What, slight your husband’s victuals? Other +brides can tackle theirs!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>The wind of winter mooed and mouthed their +chimney like a horn</i>,<br /> +<i>And round the house and past the house ’twas leafless +and lorn</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But my dear and tender poppet, then, how +came ye to agree<br /> +In Ivel church this morning? Sure, there-right you married +me!”<br /> +<a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +116</span>—“Hoo-hoo!—I don’t know—I +forgot how strange and far ’twould be,<br /> +An’ I wish I was at home again with dear daddee!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland +broad and bare</i>,<br /> +<i>And lonesome was the house and dark</i>; <i>and few came +there</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I didn’t think such furniture as +this was all you’d own,<br /> +And great black beams for ceiling, and a floor o’ wretched +stone,<br /> +And nasty pewter platters, horrid forks of steel and bone,<br /> +And a monstrous crock in chimney. ’Twas to me quite +unbeknown!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Rattle rattle went the door</i>; <i>down +flapped a cloud of smoke</i>,<br /> +<i>As shifting north the wicked wind assayed a smarter +stroke</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now sit ye by the fire, poppet; put +yourself at ease:<br /> +And keep your little thumb out of your mouth, dear, please!<br /> +And I’ll sing to ’ee a pretty song of lovely flowers +and bees,<br /> +And happy lovers taking walks within a grove o’ +trees.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span><i>Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down</i>, <i>so +bleak and bare</i>,<br /> +<i>And lonesome was the house</i>, <i>and dark</i>; <i>and few +came there</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Now, don’t ye gnaw your +handkercher; ’twill hurt your little tongue,<br /> +And if you do feel spitish, ’tis because ye are over +young;<br /> +But you’ll be getting older, like us all, ere very long,<br +/> +And you’ll see me as I am—a man who never did +’ee wrong.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Straight from Whit’sheet Hill to +Benvill Lane the blusters pass</i>,<br /> +<i>Hitting hedges</i>, <i>milestones</i>, <i>handposts</i>, +<i>trees</i>, <i>and tufts of grass</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Well, had I only known, my dear, that +this was how you’d be,<br /> +I’d have married her of riper years that was so fond of +me.<br /> +But since I can’t, I’ve half a mind to run away to +sea,<br /> +And leave ’ee to go barefoot to your d—d +daddee!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Up one wall and down the other—past +each window-pane—</i><br /> +<i>Prance the gusts</i>, <i>and then away down +Crimmercrock’s long lane</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>“I—I—don’t know what to say +to’t, since your wife I’ve vowed to be;<br /> +And as ’tis done, I s’pose here I must +bide—poor me!<br /> +Aye—as you are ki-ki-kind, I’ll try to live along +with ’ee,<br /> +Although I’d fain have stayed at home with dear +daddee!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down</i>, +<i>so bleak and bare</i>,<br /> +<i>And lonesome was the house and dark</i>; <i>and few came +there</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“That’s right, my Heart! And +though on haunted Toller Down we be,<br /> +And the wind swears things in chimley, we’ll to supper +merrily!<br /> +So don’t ye tap your shoe so pettish-like; but smile at +me,<br /> +And ye’ll soon forget to sock and sigh for dear +daddee!”</p> +<p><i>December</i> 1901.</p> +<h2><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span>PIECES OCCASIONAL AND VARIOUS</h2> +<h3><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>A +CHURCH ROMANCE<br /> +(<span class="smcap">Mellstock</span> <i>circa</i> 1835)</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">She</span> turned in the +high pew, until her sight<br /> +Swept the west gallery, and caught its row<br /> +Of music-men with viol, book, and bow<br /> +Against the sinking sad tower-window light.</p> +<p class="poetry">She turned again; and in her pride’s +despite<br /> +One strenuous viol’s inspirer seemed to throw<br /> +A message from his string to her below,<br /> +Which said: “I claim thee as my own forthright!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus their hearts’ bond began, in due +time signed.<br /> +And long years thence, when Age had scared Romance,<br /> +At some old attitude of his or glance<br /> +That gallery-scene would break upon her mind,<br /> +With him as minstrel, ardent, young, and trim,<br /> +Bowing “New Sabbath” or “Mount +Ephraim.”</p> +<h3><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>THE +RASH BRIDE<br /> +<span class="smcap">An Experience of the Mellstock +Quire</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> +Christmas-carolled down the Vale, and up the Vale, and round the +Vale,<br /> +We played and sang that night as we were yearly wont to +do—<br /> +A carol in a minor key, a carol in the major D,<br /> +Then at each house: “Good wishes: many Christmas joys to +you!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">Next, to the widow’s John and I and all +the rest drew on. And I<br /> +Discerned that John could hardly hold the tongue of him for +joy.<br /> +The widow was a sweet young thing whom John was bent on +marrying,<br /> +And quiring at her casement seemed romantic to the boy.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page123"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 123</span>III</p> +<p class="poetry">“She’ll make reply, I trust,” +said he, “to our salute? She must!” said he,<br +/> +“And then I will accost her gently—much to her +surprise!—<br /> +For knowing not I am with you here, when I speak up and call her +dear<br /> +A tenderness will fill her voice, a bashfulness her eyes.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IV</p> +<p class="poetry">So, by her window-square we stood; ay, with our +lanterns there we stood,<br /> +And he along with us,—not singing, waiting for a sign;<br +/> +And when we’d quired her carols three a light was lit and +out looked she,<br /> +A shawl about her bedgown, and her colour red as wine.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">V</p> +<p class="poetry">And sweetly then she bowed her thanks, and +smiled, and spoke aloud her thanks;<br /> +When lo, behind her back there, in the room, a man appeared.<br +/> +I knew him—one from Woolcomb way—Giles +Swetman—honest as the day,<br /> +But eager, hasty; and I felt that some strange trouble +neared.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page124"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 124</span>VI</p> +<p class="poetry">“How comes he there? . . . +Suppose,” said we, “she’s wed of late! +Who knows?” said we.<br /> +—“She married yester-morning—only mother yet +has known<br /> +The secret o’t!” shrilled one small boy. +“But now I’ve told, let’s wish ’em +joy!”<br /> +A heavy fall aroused us: John had gone down like a stone.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VII</p> +<p class="poetry">We rushed to him and caught him round, and +lifted him, and brought him round,<br /> +When, hearing something wrong had happened, oped the window +she:<br /> +“Has one of you fallen ill?” she asked, “by +these night labours overtasked?”<br /> +None answered. That she’d done poor John a cruel turn +felt we.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VIII</p> +<p class="poetry">Till up spoke Michael: “Fie, young +dame! You’ve broke your promise, sly young dame,<br +/> +By forming this new tie, young dame, and jilting John so true,<br +/> +<a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>Who +trudged to-night to sing to ’ee because he thought +he’d bring to ’ee<br /> +Good wishes as your coming spouse. May ye such trifling +rue!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IX</p> +<p class="poetry">Her man had said no word at all; but being +behind had heard it all,<br /> +And now cried: “Neighbours, on my soul I knew not +’twas like this!”<br /> +And then to her: “If I had known you’d had in tow not +me alone,<br /> +No wife should you have been of mine. It is a dear bought +bliss!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">X</p> +<p class="poetry">She changed death-white, and heaved a cry: +we’d never heard so grieved a cry<br /> +As came from her at this from him: heart-broken quite seemed +she;<br /> +And suddenly, as we looked on, she turned, and rushed; and she +was gone,<br /> +Whither, her husband, following after, knew not; nor knew we.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page126"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 126</span>XI</p> +<p class="poetry">We searched till dawn about the house; within +the house, without the house,<br /> +We searched among the laurel boughs that grew beneath the +wall,<br /> +And then among the crocks and things, and stores for winter +junketings,<br /> +In linhay, loft, and dairy; but we found her not at all.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XII</p> +<p class="poetry">Then John rushed in: “O friends,” +he said, “hear this, this, this!” and bends his +head:<br /> +“I’ve—searched round by the—<i>well</i>, +and find the cover open wide!<br /> +I am fearful that—I can’t say what . . . Bring +lanterns, and some cords to knot.”<br /> +We did so, and we went and stood the deep dark hole beside.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIII</p> +<p class="poetry">And then they, ropes in hand, and I—ay, +John, and all the band, and I<br /> +Let down a lantern to the depths—some hundred feet and +more;<br /> +It glimmered like a fog-dimmed star; and there, beside its light, +afar,<br /> +White drapery floated, and we knew the meaning that it bore.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page127"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 127</span>XIV</p> +<p class="poetry">The rest is naught . . . We buried her o’ +Sunday. Neighbours carried her;<br /> +And Swetman—he who’d married her—now +miserablest of men,<br /> +Walked mourning first; and then walked John; just quivering, but +composed anon;<br /> +And we the quire formed round the grave, as was the custom +then.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XV</p> +<p class="poetry">Our old bass player, as I recall—his +white hair blown—but why recall!—<br /> +His viol upstrapped, bent figure—doomed to follow her full +soon—<br /> +Stood bowing, pale and tremulous; and next to him the rest of us +. . .<br /> +We sang the Ninetieth Psalm to her—set to Saint +Stephen’s tune.</p> +<h3><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>THE +DEAD QUIRE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Beside</span> the Mead of +Memories,<br /> +Where Church-way mounts to Moaning Hill,<br /> +The sad man sighed his phantasies:<br /> + He seems to sigh them still.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">“’Twas the Birth-tide Eve, and the +hamleteers<br /> +Made merry with ancient Mellstock zest,<br /> +But the Mellstock quire of former years<br /> + Had entered into rest.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">III</p> +<p class="poetry">“Old Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree,<br +/> +And Reuben and Michael a pace behind,<br /> +And Bowman with his family<br /> + By the wall that the ivies bind.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page129"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 129</span>IV</p> +<p class="poetry">“The singers had followed one by one,<br +/> +Treble, and tenor, and thorough-bass;<br /> +And the worm that wasteth had begun<br /> + To mine their mouldering place.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">V</p> +<p class="poetry">“For two-score years, ere Christ-day +light,<br /> +Mellstock had throbbed to strains from these;<br /> +But now there echoed on the night<br /> + No Christmas harmonies.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VI</p> +<p class="poetry">“Three meadows off, at a dormered inn,<br +/> +The youth had gathered in high carouse,<br /> +And, ranged on settles, some therein<br /> + Had drunk them to a drowse.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">VII</p> +<p class="poetry">“Loud, lively, reckless, some had +grown,<br /> +Each dandling on his jigging knee<br /> +Eliza, Dolly, Nance, or Joan—<br /> + Livers in levity.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page130"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 130</span>VIII</p> +<p class="poetry">“The taper flames and hearthfire shine<br +/> +Grew smoke-hazed to a lurid light,<br /> +And songs on subjects not divine<br /> + Were warbled forth that night.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">IX</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yet many were sons and grandsons here<br +/> +Of those who, on such eves gone by,<br /> +At that still hour had throated clear<br /> + Their anthems to the sky.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">X</p> +<p class="poetry">“The clock belled midnight; and ere +long<br /> +One shouted, ‘Now ’tis Christmas morn;<br /> +Here’s to our women old and young,<br /> + And to John Barleycorn!’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XI</p> +<p class="poetry">“They drink the toast and shout again:<br +/> +The pewter-ware rings back the boom,<br /> +And for a breath-while follows then<br /> + A silence in the room.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page131"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 131</span>XII</p> +<p class="poetry">“When nigh without, as in old days,<br /> +The ancient quire of voice and string<br /> +Seemed singing words of prayer and praise<br /> + As they had used to sing:</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIII</p> +<p class="poetry">“‘While shepherds watch’d +their flocks by night,’—<br /> +Thus swells the long familiar sound<br /> +In many a quaint symphonic flight—<br /> + To, ‘Glory shone around.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIV</p> +<p class="poetry">“The sons defined their fathers’ +tones,<br /> +The widow his whom she had wed,<br /> +And others in the minor moans<br /> + The viols of the dead.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XV</p> +<p class="poetry">“Something supernal has the sound<br /> +As verse by verse the strain proceeds,<br /> +And stilly staring on the ground<br /> + Each roysterer holds and heeds.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page132"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 132</span>XVI</p> +<p class="poetry">“Towards its chorded closing bar<br /> +Plaintively, thinly, waned the hymn,<br /> +Yet lingered, like the notes afar<br /> + Of banded seraphim.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XVII</p> +<p class="poetry">“With brows abashed, and reverent +tread,<br /> +The hearkeners sought the tavern door:<br /> +But nothing, save wan moonlight, spread<br /> + The empty highway o’er.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XVIII</p> +<p class="poetry">“While on their hearing fixed and +tense<br /> +The aerial music seemed to sink,<br /> +As it were gently moving thence<br /> + Along the river brink.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XIX</p> +<p class="poetry">“Then did the Quick pursue the Dead<br /> +By crystal Froom that crinkles there;<br /> +And still the viewless quire ahead<br /> + Voiced the old holy air.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page133"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 133</span>XX</p> +<p class="poetry">“By Bank-walk wicket, brightly +bleached,<br /> +It passed, and ’twixt the hedges twain,<br /> +Dogged by the living; till it reached<br /> + The bottom of Church Lane.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXI</p> +<p class="poetry">“There, at the turning, it was heard<br +/> +Drawing to where the churchyard lay:<br /> +But when they followed thitherward<br /> + It smalled, and died away.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXII</p> +<p class="poetry">“Each headstone of the quire, each +mound,<br /> +Confronted them beneath the moon;<br /> +But no more floated therearound<br /> + That ancient Birth-night tune.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXIII</p> +<p class="poetry">“There Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree,<br +/> +There Reuben and Michael, a pace behind,<br /> +And Bowman with his family<br /> + By the wall that the ivies bind . . .</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page134"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 134</span>XXIV</p> +<p class="poetry">“As from a dream each sobered son<br /> +Awoke, and musing reached his door:<br /> +’Twas said that of them all, not one<br /> + Sat in a tavern more.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">XXV</p> +<p class="poetry">—The sad man ceased; and ceased to +heed<br /> +His listener, and crossed the leaze<br /> +From Moaning Hill towards the mead—<br /> + The Mead of Memories.</p> +<p>1897.</p> +<h3><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>THE +CHRISTENING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Whose</span> child is this +they bring<br /> + Into the aisle?—<br /> +At so superb a thing<br /> +The congregation smile<br /> +And turn their heads awhile.</p> +<p class="poetry">Its eyes are blue and bright,<br /> + Its cheeks like rose;<br /> +Its simple robes unite<br /> +Whitest of calicoes<br /> +With lawn, and satin bows.</p> +<p class="poetry">A pride in the human race<br /> + At this paragon<br /> +Of mortals, lights each face<br /> +While the old rite goes on;<br /> +But ah, they are shocked anon.</p> +<p class="poetry">What girl is she who peeps<br /> + From the gallery stair,<br /> +Smiles palely, redly weeps,<br /> +With feverish furtive air<br /> +As though not fitly there?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>“I am the baby’s mother;<br /> + This gem of the race<br /> +The decent fain would smother,<br /> +And for my deep disgrace<br /> +I am bidden to leave the place.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Where is the baby’s +father?”—<br /> + “In the woods afar.<br /> +He says there is none he’d rather<br /> +Meet under moon or star<br /> +Than me, of all that are.</p> +<p class="poetry">“To clasp me in lovelike weather,<br /> + Wish fixing when,<br /> +He says: To be together<br /> +At will, just now and then,<br /> +Makes him the blest of men;</p> +<p class="poetry">“But chained and doomed for life<br /> + To slovening<br /> +As vulgar man and wife,<br /> +He says, is another thing:<br /> +Yea: sweet Love’s sepulchring!”</p> +<p>1904.</p> +<h3><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>A +DREAM QUESTION</h3> +<blockquote><p>“It shall be dark unto you, that ye shall +not divine.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Micah</span> +iii. 6.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">asked</span> the Lord: +“Sire, is this true<br /> +Which hosts of theologians hold,<br /> +That when we creatures censure you<br /> +For shaping griefs and ails untold<br /> +(Deeming them punishments undue)<br /> +You rage, as Moses wrote of old?</p> +<p class="poetry">When we exclaim: ‘Beneficent<br /> +He is not, for he orders pain,<br /> +Or, if so, not omnipotent:<br /> +To a mere child the thing is plain!’<br /> +Those who profess to represent<br /> +You, cry out: ‘Impious and profane!’”</p> +<p class="poetry">He: “Save me from my friends, who deem<br +/> +That I care what my creatures say!<br /> +Mouth as you list: sneer, rail, blaspheme,<br /> +O manikin, the livelong day,<br /> +Not one grief-groan or pleasure-gleam<br /> +Will you increase or take away.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>“Why things are thus, whoso derides,<br /> +May well remain my secret still . . .<br /> +A fourth dimension, say the guides,<br /> +To matter is conceivable.<br /> +Think some such mystery resides<br /> +Within the ethic of my will.”</p> +<h3><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>BY +THE BARROWS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Not</span> far from +Mellstock—so tradition saith—<br /> +Where barrows, bulging as they bosoms were<br /> +Of Multimammia stretched supinely there,<br /> +Catch night and noon the tempest’s wanton breath,</p> +<p class="poetry">A battle, desperate doubtless unto death,<br /> +Was one time fought. The outlook, lone and bare,<br /> +The towering hawk and passing raven share,<br /> +And all the upland round is called “The +He’th.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Here once a woman, in our modern age,<br /> +Fought singlehandedly to shield a child—<br /> +One not her own—from a man’s senseless rage.<br /> +And to my mind no patriots’ bones there piled<br /> +So consecrate the silence as her deed<br /> +Of stoic and devoted self-unheed.</p> +<h3><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>A +WIFE AND ANOTHER</h3> +<p class="poetry"> “<span +class="smcap">War</span> ends, and he’s returning<br /> + Early; yea,<br /> + The evening next to-morrow’s!”—<br +/> + —This I say<br /> +To her, whom I suspiciously survey,</p> +<p class="poetry"> Holding my husband’s +letter<br /> + To her view.—<br /> + She glanced at it but lightly,<br /> + And I knew<br /> +That one from him that day had reached her too.</p> +<p class="poetry"> There was no time for +scruple;<br /> + Secretly<br /> + I filched her missive, conned it,<br /> + Learnt that he<br /> +Would lodge with her ere he came home to me.</p> +<p class="poetry"> To reach the port before +her,<br /> + And, unscanned,<br /> + <a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>There wait to intercept them<br /> + Soon I planned:<br /> +That, in her stead, <i>I</i> might before him stand.</p> +<p class="poetry"> So purposed, so effected;<br +/> + At the inn<br /> + Assigned, I found her hidden:—<br /> + O that sin<br /> +Should bear what she bore when I entered in!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Her heavy lids grew laden<br +/> + With despairs,<br /> + Her lips made soundless movements<br /> + Unawares,<br /> +While I peered at the chamber hired as theirs.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And as beside its doorway,<br +/> + Deadly hued,<br /> + One inside, one withoutside<br /> + We two stood,<br /> +He came—my husband—as she knew he would.</p> +<p class="poetry"> No pleasurable triumph<br /> + Was that sight!<br /> + The ghastly disappointment<br /> + Broke them quite.<br /> +What love was theirs, to move them with such might!</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page142"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 142</span>“Madam, forgive me!” +said she,<br /> + Sorrow bent,<br /> + “A child—I soon shall bear him . . .<br +/> + Yes—I meant<br /> +To tell you—that he won me ere he went.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then, as it were, within +me<br /> + Something snapped,<br /> + As if my soul had largened:<br /> + Conscience-capped, <br /> +I saw myself the snarer—them the trapped.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “My hate dies, and I +promise,<br /> + Grace-beguiled,”<br /> + I said, “to care for you, be<br /> + Reconciled;<br /> +And cherish, and take interest in the child.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> Without more words I pressed +him<br /> + Through the door<br /> + Within which she stood, powerless<br /> + To say more,<br /> +And closed it on them, and downstairward bore.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “He joins his +wife—my sister,”<br /> + I, below,<br /> + Remarked in going—lightly—<br /> + Even as though<br /> +All had come right, and we had arranged it so . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page143"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 143</span>As I, my road retracing,<br /> + Left them free,<br /> + The night alone embracing<br /> + Childless me,<br /> +I held I had not stirred God wrothfully.</p> +<h3><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 144</span>THE +ROMAN ROAD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Roman Road runs +straight and bare<br /> +As the pale parting-line in hair<br /> +Across the heath. And thoughtful men<br /> +Contrast its days of Now and Then,<br /> +And delve, and measure, and compare;</p> +<p class="poetry">Visioning on the vacant air<br /> +Helmed legionaries, who proudly rear<br /> +The Eagle, as they pace again<br /> + The Roman Road.</p> +<p class="poetry">But no tall brass-helmed legionnaire<br /> +Haunts it for me. Uprises there<br /> +A mother’s form upon my ken,<br /> +Guiding my infant steps, as when<br /> +We walked that ancient thoroughfare,<br /> + The Roman Road.</p> +<h3><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>THE +VAMPIRINE FAIR</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Gilbert</span> had sailed +to India’s shore,<br /> + And I was all alone:<br /> +My lord came in at my open door<br /> + And said, “O fairest one!”</p> +<p class="poetry">He leant upon the slant bureau,<br /> + And sighed, “I am sick for thee!”<br /> +“My lord,” said I, “pray speak not so,<br /> + Since wedded wife I be.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Leaning upon the slant bureau,<br /> + Bitter his next words came:<br /> +“So much I know; and likewise know<br /> + My love burns on the same!</p> +<p class="poetry">“But since you thrust my love away,<br /> + And since it knows no cure,<br /> +I must live out as best I may<br /> + The ache that I endure.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>When Michaelmas browned the nether Coomb,<br /> + And Wingreen Hill above,<br /> +And made the hollyhocks rags of bloom,<br /> + My lord grew ill of love.</p> +<p class="poetry">My lord grew ill with love for me; <br /> + Gilbert was far from port;<br /> +And—so it was—that time did see<br /> + Me housed at Manor Court.</p> +<p class="poetry">About the bowers of Manor Court<br /> + The primrose pushed its head<br /> +When, on a day at last, report<br /> + Arrived of him I had wed.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Gilbert, my lord, is homeward bound,<br +/> + His sloop is drawing near,<br /> +What shall I do when I am found<br /> + Not in his house but here?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“O I will heal the injuries<br /> + I’ve done to him and thee.<br /> +I’ll give him means to live at ease<br /> + Afar from Shastonb’ry.”</p> +<p class="poetry">When Gilbert came we both took thought:<br /> + “Since comfort and good cheer,”<br /> +Said he, “So readily are bought,<br /> + He’s welcome to thee, Dear.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +147</span>So when my lord flung liberally<br /> + His gold in Gilbert’s hands,<br /> +I coaxed and got my brothers three<br /> + Made stewards of his lands.</p> +<p class="poetry">And then I coaxed him to install<br /> + My other kith and kin,<br /> +With aim to benefit them all<br /> + Before his love ran thin.</p> +<p class="poetry">And next I craved to be possessed<br /> + Of plate and jewels rare.<br /> +He groaned: “You give me, Love, no rest,<br /> + Take all the law will spare!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And so in course of years my wealth<br /> + Became a goodly hoard,<br /> +My steward brethren, too, by stealth<br /> + Had each a fortune stored.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thereafter in the gloom he’d walk,<br /> + And by and by began<br /> +To say aloud in absent talk,<br /> + “I am a ruined man!—</p> +<p class="poetry">“I hardly could have thought,” he +said,<br /> + “When first I looked on thee,<br /> +That one so soft, so rosy red,<br /> + Could thus have beggared me!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>Seeing his fair estates in pawn,<br /> + And him in such decline,<br /> +I knew that his domain had gone<br /> + To lift up me and mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Next month upon a Sunday morn<br /> + A gunshot sounded nigh:<br /> +By his own hand my lordly born<br /> + Had doomed himself to die.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Live, my dear lord, and much of thine<br +/> + Shall be restored to thee!”<br /> +He smiled, and said ’twixt word and sign,<br /> + “Alas—that cannot be!”</p> +<p class="poetry">And while I searched his cabinet<br /> + For letters, keys, or will,<br /> +’Twas touching that his gaze was set<br /> + With love upon me still.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when I burnt each document<br /> + Before his dying eyes,<br /> +’Twas sweet that he did not resent<br /> + My fear of compromise.</p> +<p class="poetry">The steeple-cock gleamed golden when<br /> + I watched his spirit go:<br /> +And I became repentant then<br /> + That I had wrecked him so.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span>Three weeks at least had come and gone,<br /> + With many a saddened word,<br /> +Before I wrote to Gilbert on<br /> + The stroke that so had stirred.</p> +<p class="poetry">And having worn a mournful gown,<br /> + I joined, in decent while,<br /> +My husband at a dashing town<br /> + To live in dashing style.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet though I now enjoy my fling,<br /> + And dine and dance and drive,<br /> +I’d give my prettiest emerald ring<br /> + To see my lord alive.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when the meet on hunting-days<br /> + Is near his churchyard home,<br /> +I leave my bantering beaux to place<br /> + A flower upon his tomb;</p> +<p class="poetry">And sometimes say: “Perhaps too late<br +/> + The saints in Heaven deplore<br /> +That tender time when, moved by Fate,<br /> + He darked my cottage door.”</p> +<h3><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>THE +REMINDER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">While</span> I watch the +Christmas blaze<br /> +Paint the room with ruddy rays,<br /> +Something makes my vision glide<br /> +To the frosty scene outside.</p> +<p class="poetry">There, to reach a rotting berry,<br /> +Toils a thrush,—constrained to very<br /> +Dregs of food by sharp distress,<br /> +Taking such with thankfulness.</p> +<p class="poetry">Why, O starving bird, when I<br /> +One day’s joy would justify, <br /> +And put misery out of view,<br /> +Do you make me notice you!</p> +<h3><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 151</span>THE +RAMBLER</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">do</span> not see the +hills around,<br /> +Nor mark the tints the copses wear;<br /> +I do not note the grassy ground<br /> +And constellated daisies there.</p> +<p class="poetry">I hear not the contralto note<br /> +Of cuckoos hid on either hand,<br /> +The whirr that shakes the nighthawk’s throat<br /> +When eve’s brown awning hoods the land.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some say each songster, tree, and +mead—<br /> +All eloquent of love divine—<br /> +Receives their constant careful heed:<br /> +Such keen appraisement is not mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">The tones around me that I hear,<br /> +The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,<br /> +Are those far back ones missed when near,<br /> +And now perceived too late by me!</p> +<h3><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +152</span>NIGHT IN THE OLD HOME</h3> +<p class="poetry">When the wasting embers redden the +chimney-breast,<br /> +And Life’s bare pathway looms like a desert track to me,<br +/> +And from hall and parlour the living have gone to their rest,<br +/> +My perished people who housed them here come back to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">They come and seat them around in their mouldy +places,<br /> +Now and then bending towards me a glance of wistfulness,<br /> +A strange upbraiding smile upon all their faces,<br /> +And in the bearing of each a passive tristfulness.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Do you uphold me, lingering and +languishing here,<br /> +A pale late plant of your once strong stock?” I say to +them;<br /> +<a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>“A +thinker of crooked thoughts upon Life in the sere,<br /> +And on That which consigns men to night after showing the day to +them?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“—O let be the Wherefore! We +fevered our years not thus:<br /> +Take of Life what it grants, without question!” they answer +me seemingly.<br /> +“Enjoy, suffer, wait: spread the table here freely like +us,<br /> +And, satisfied, placid, unfretting, watch Time away +beamingly!”</p> +<h3><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>AFTER THE LAST BREATH<br /> +(J. H. 1813–1904)</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There’s</span> no +more to be done, or feared, or hoped;<br /> +None now need watch, speak low, and list, and tire;<br /> +No irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped<br /> + Does she require.</p> +<p class="poetry">Blankly we gaze. We are free to go or +stay;<br /> +Our morrow’s anxious plans have missed their aim;<br /> +Whether we leave to-night or wait till day<br /> + Counts as the same.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lettered vessels of medicaments<br /> +Seem asking wherefore we have set them here;<br /> +Each palliative its silly face presents<br /> + As useless gear.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet we feel that something savours well;<br +/> +We note a numb relief withheld before;<br /> +<a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>Our +well-beloved is prisoner in the cell<br /> + Of Time no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">We see by littles now the deft achievement<br +/> +Whereby she has escaped the Wrongers all,<br /> +In view of which our momentary bereavement<br /> + Outshapes but small.</p> +<p>1904.</p> +<h3><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>IN +CHILDBED</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span class="smcap">In</span> +the middle of the night<br /> +Mother’s spirit came and spoke to me,<br /> + Looking weariful and white—<br /> +As ’twere untimely news she broke to me.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “O my daughter, joyed +are you<br /> +To own the weetless child you mother there;<br /> + ‘Men may search the wide world +through,’<br /> +You think, ‘nor find so fair another there!’</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Dear, this midnight +time unwombs<br /> +Thousands just as rare and beautiful;<br /> + Thousands whom High Heaven foredooms<br /> +To be as bright, as good, as dutiful.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Source of ecstatic +hopes and fears<br /> +And innocent maternal vanity,<br /> + Your fond exploit but shapes for tears<br /> +New thoroughfares in sad humanity.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page157"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 157</span>“Yet as you dream, so dreamt +I<br /> +When Life stretched forth its morning ray to me;<br /> + Other views for by and by!” . . .<br /> +Such strange things did mother say to me.</p> +<h3><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>THE +PINE PLANTERS<br /> +(<span class="smcap">Marty South’s Reverie</span>)</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> work here +together<br /> + In blast and breeze;<br /> +He fills the earth in,<br /> + I hold the trees.</p> +<p class="poetry">He does not notice<br /> + That what I do<br /> +Keeps me from moving<br /> + And chills me through.</p> +<p class="poetry">He has seen one fairer<br /> + I feel by his eye,<br /> +Which skims me as though<br /> + I were not by.</p> +<p class="poetry">And since she passed here<br /> + He scarce has known<br /> +But that the woodland<br /> + Holds him alone.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>I have worked here with him<br /> + Since morning shine,<br /> +He busy with his thoughts<br /> + And I with mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">I have helped him so many,<br /> + So many days,<br /> +But never win any<br /> + Small word of praise!</p> +<p class="poetry">Shall I not sigh to him<br /> + That I work on<br /> +Glad to be nigh to him<br /> + Though hope is gone?</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, though he never<br /> + Knew love like mine,<br /> +I’ll bear it ever<br /> + And make no sign!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry">From the bundle at hand here<br /> + I take each tree,<br /> +And set it to stand, here<br /> + Always to be;<br /> +When, in a second,<br /> + As if from fear<br /> +Of Life unreckoned<br /> + Beginning here,<br /> +<a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>It +starts a sighing<br /> + Through day and night,<br /> +Though while there lying<br /> + ’Twas voiceless quite.</p> +<p class="poetry">It will sigh in the morning,<br /> + Will sigh at noon,<br /> +At the winter’s warning,<br /> + In wafts of June;<br /> +Grieving that never<br /> + Kind Fate decreed <br /> +It should for ever<br /> + Remain a seed,<br /> +And shun the welter<br /> + Of things without,<br /> +Unneeding shelter<br /> + From storm and drought.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus, all unknowing<br /> + For whom or what<br /> +We set it growing<br /> + In this bleak spot,<br /> +It still will grieve here<br /> + Throughout its time,<br /> +Unable to leave here,<br /> + Or change its clime;<br /> +Or tell the story<br /> + Of us to-day<br /> +When, halt and hoary,<br /> + We pass away.</p> +<h3><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 161</span>THE +DEAR</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">plodded</span> to +Fairmile Hill-top, where<br /> + A maiden one fain would guard<br /> +From every hazard and every care<br /> + Advanced on the roadside sward.</p> +<p class="poetry">I wondered how succeeding suns<br /> + Would shape her wayfarings,<br /> +And wished some Power might take such ones<br /> + Under Its warding wings.</p> +<p class="poetry">The busy breeze came up the hill<br /> + And smartened her cheek to red,<br /> +And frizzled her hair to a haze. With a will<br /> + “Good-morning, my Dear!” I said.</p> +<p class="poetry">She glanced from me to the far-off gray,<br /> + And, with proud severity,<br /> +“Good-morning to you—though I may say<br /> + I am not <i>your</i> Dear,” quoth she:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span>“For I am the Dear of one not here—<br /> + One far from his native land!”—<br /> +And she passed me by; and I did not try<br /> + To make her understand.</p> +<p>1901</p> +<h3><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>ONE +WE KNEW<br /> +(M. H. 1772–1857)</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">She</span> told how they +used to form for the country dances—<br /> + “The Triumph,” “The New-rigged +Ship”—<br /> +To the light of the guttering wax in the panelled manses,<br /> + And in cots to the blink of a dip.</p> +<p class="poetry">She spoke of the wild “poussetting” +and “allemanding”<br /> + On carpet, on oak, and on sod;<br /> +And the two long rows of ladies and gentlemen standing,<br /> + And the figures the couples trod.</p> +<p class="poetry">She showed us the spot where the maypole was +yearly planted,<br /> + And where the bandsmen stood<br /> +While breeched and kerchiefed partners whirled, and panted <br /> + To choose each other for good.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>She told of that far-back day when they learnt +astounded<br /> + Of the death of the King of France:<br /> +Of the Terror; and then of Bonaparte’s unbounded<br /> + Ambition and arrogance.</p> +<p class="poetry">Of how his threats woke warlike preparations<br +/> + Along the southern strand,<br /> +And how each night brought tremors and trepidations<br /> + Lest morning should see him land.</p> +<p class="poetry">She said she had often heard the gibbet +creaking<br /> + As it swayed in the lightning flash,<br /> +Had caught from the neighbouring town a small child’s +shrieking<br /> + At the cart-tail under the lash . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">With cap-framed face and long gaze into the +embers—<br /> + We seated around her knees—<br /> +She would dwell on such dead themes, not as one who remembers,<br +/> + But rather as one who sees.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +165</span>She seemed one left behind of a band gone distant<br /> + So far that no tongue could hail:<br /> +Past things retold were to her as things existent,<br /> + Things present but as a tale.</p> +<p><i>May</i> 20, 1902.</p> +<h3><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>SHE +HEARS THE STORM</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a time in +former years—<br /> + While my roof-tree was his—<br /> +When I should have been distressed by fears<br /> + At such a night as this!</p> +<p class="poetry">I should have murmured anxiously,<br /> + “The pricking rain strikes cold;<br /> +His road is bare of hedge or tree,<br /> + And he is getting old.”</p> +<p class="poetry">But now the fitful chimney-roar,<br /> + The drone of Thorncombe trees,<br /> +The Froom in flood upon the moor,<br /> + The mud of Mellstock Leaze,</p> +<p class="poetry">The candle slanting sooty wick’d,<br /> + The thuds upon the thatch,<br /> +The eaves-drops on the window flicked,<br /> + The clacking garden-hatch,</p> +<p class="poetry">And what they mean to wayfarers,<br /> + I scarcely heed or mind;<br /> +He has won that storm-tight roof of hers<br /> + Which Earth grants all her kind.</p> +<h3><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>A +WET NIGHT</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">pace</span> along, the +rain-shafts riddling me,<br /> +Mile after mile out by the moorland way,<br /> +And up the hill, and through the ewe-leaze gray<br /> +Into the lane, and round the corner tree;</p> +<p class="poetry">Where, as my clothing clams me, +mire-bestarred,<br /> +And the enfeebled light dies out of day,<br /> +Leaving the liquid shades to reign, I say,<br /> +“This is a hardship to be calendared!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet sires of mine now perished and forgot,<br +/> +When worse beset, ere roads were shapen here,<br /> +And night and storm were foes indeed to fear,<br /> +Times numberless have trudged across this spot<br /> +In sturdy muteness on their strenuous lot,<br /> +And taking all such toils as trifles mere.</p> +<h3><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span>BEFORE LIFE AND AFTER</h3> +<p class="poetry"> A <span +class="smcap">time</span> there was—as one may guess<br /> +And as, indeed, earth’s testimonies tell—<br /> + Before the birth of consciousness,<br /> + When all went well.</p> +<p class="poetry"> None suffered sickness, love, +or loss,<br /> +None knew regret, starved hope, or heart-burnings;<br /> + None cared whatever crash or cross <br /> + Brought wrack to things.</p> +<p class="poetry"> If something ceased, no +tongue bewailed,<br /> +If something winced and waned, no heart was wrung;<br /> + If brightness dimmed, and dark prevailed,<br /> + No sense was stung.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But the disease of feeling +germed,<br /> +And primal rightness took the tinct of wrong;<br /> + Ere nescience shall be reaffirmed<br /> + How long, how long?</p> +<h3><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 169</span>NEW +YEAR’S EVE</h3> +<p class="poetry">“I <span class="smcap">have</span> +finished another year,” said God,<br /> + “In grey, green, white, and brown;<br /> +I have strewn the leaf upon the sod,<br /> +Sealed up the worm within the clod,<br /> + And let the last sun down.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“And what’s the good of it?” +I said.<br /> + “What reasons made you call<br /> +From formless void this earth we tread,<br /> +When nine-and-ninety can be read<br /> + Why nought should be at all?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yea, Sire; why shaped you us, ‘who +in<br /> + This tabernacle groan’—<br /> +If ever a joy be found herein,<br /> +Such joy no man had wished to win<br /> + If he had never known!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Then he: “My +labours—logicless—<br /> + You may explain; not I:<br /> +Sense-sealed I have wrought, without a guess<br /> +That I evolved a Consciousness<br /> + To ask for reasons why.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +170</span>“Strange that ephemeral creatures who<br /> + By my own ordering are,<br /> +Should see the shortness of my view,<br /> +Use ethic tests I never knew,<br /> + Or made provision for!”</p> +<p class="poetry">He sank to raptness as of yore,<br /> + And opening New Year’s Day<br /> +Wove it by rote as theretofore,<br /> +And went on working evermore<br /> + In his unweeting way.</p> +<p>1906.</p> +<h3><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +171</span>GOD’S EDUCATION</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">saw</span> him steal the +light away<br /> + That haunted in her eye:<br /> +It went so gently none could say<br /> +More than that it was there one day<br /> + And missing by-and-by.</p> +<p class="poetry">I watched her longer, and he stole<br /> + Her lily tincts and rose;<br /> +All her young sprightliness of soul<br /> +Next fell beneath his cold control,<br /> + And disappeared like those.</p> +<p class="poetry">I asked: “Why do you serve her so?<br /> + Do you, for some glad day,<br /> +Hoard these her sweets—?” He said, “O +no,<br /> +They charm not me; I bid Time throw<br /> + Them carelessly away.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Said I: “We call that cruelty—<br +/> + We, your poor mortal kind.”<br /> +He mused. “The thought is new to me.<br /> +Forsooth, though I men’s master be,<br /> + Theirs is the teaching mind!”</p> +<h3><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 172</span>TO +SINCERITY</h3> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">sweet</span> +sincerity!—<br /> +Where modern methods be<br /> +What scope for thine and thee?</p> +<p class="poetry">Life may be sad past saying,<br /> +Its greens for ever graying,<br /> +Its faiths to dust decaying;</p> +<p class="poetry">And youth may have foreknown it,<br /> +And riper seasons shown it,<br /> +But custom cries: “Disown it:</p> +<p class="poetry">“Say ye rejoice, though grieving,<br /> +Believe, while unbelieving,<br /> +Behold, without perceiving!”</p> +<p class="poetry">—Yet, would men look at true things,<br +/> +And unilluded view things,<br /> +And count to bear undue things,</p> +<p class="poetry">The real might mend the seeming,<br /> +Facts better their foredeeming,<br /> +And Life its disesteeming.</p> +<p><i>February</i> 1899.</p> +<h3><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +173</span>PANTHERA</h3> +<p>(For other forms of this legend—first met with in the +second century—see Origen contra Celsum; the Talmud; Sepher +Toldoth Jeschu; quoted fragments of lost Apocryphal gospels; +Strauss, Haeckel; etc.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Yea</span>, as I sit here, +crutched, and cricked, and bent,<br /> +I think of Panthera, who underwent<br /> +Much from insidious aches in his decline;<br /> +But his aches were not radical like mine;<br /> +They were the twinges of old wounds—the feel<br /> +Of the hand he had lost, shorn by barbarian steel,<br /> +Which came back, so he said, at a change in the air,<br /> +Fingers and all, as if it still were there.<br /> +My pains are otherwise: upclosing cramps<br /> +And stiffened tendons from this country’s damps,<br /> +Where Panthera was never commandant.—<br /> +The Fates sent him by way of the Levant.<br /> + <a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +174</span>He had been blithe in his young manhood’s +time,<br /> +And as centurion carried well his prime.<br /> +In Ethiop, Araby, climes fair and fell,<br /> +He had seen service and had borne him well.<br /> +Nought shook him then: he was serene as brave;<br /> +Yet later knew some shocks, and would grow grave<br /> +When pondering them; shocks less of corporal kind<br /> +Than phantom-like, that disarranged his mind;<br /> +And it was in the way of warning me<br /> +(By much his junior) against levity<br /> +That he recounted them; and one in chief<br /> +Panthera loved to set in bold relief.</p> +<p class="poetry"> This was a tragedy of his +Eastern days,<br /> +Personal in touch—though I have sometimes thought<br /> +That touch a possible delusion—wrought<br /> +Of half-conviction carried to a craze—<br /> +His mind at last being stressed by ails and age:—<br /> +Yet his good faith thereon I well could wage.</p> +<p class="poetry"> I had said it long had been a +wish with me<br /> +That I might leave a scion—some small tree<br /> +As channel for my sap, if not my name—<br /> +Ay, offspring even of no legitimate claim,<br /> +<a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>In whose +advance I secretly could joy.<br /> +Thereat he warned.<br /> + “Cancel such wishes, boy!<br +/> +A son may be a comfort or a curse,<br /> +A seer, a doer, a coward, a fool; yea, worse—<br /> +A criminal . . . That I could testify!”<br /> +“Panthera has no guilty son!” cried I<br /> +All unbelieving. “Friend, you do not know,”<br +/> +He darkly dropt: “True, I’ve none now to show,<br /> +For <i>the law took him</i>. Ay, in sooth, Jove shaped it +so!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> “This noon is not +unlike,” he again began,<br /> +“The noon these pricking memories print on me—<br /> +Yea, that day, when the sun grew copper-red,<br /> +And I served in Judæa . . . ’Twas a date<br /> +Of rest for arms. The <i>Pax Romana</i> ruled,<br /> +To the chagrin of frontier legionaries!<br /> +Palestine was annexed—though sullen yet,—<br /> +I, being in age some two-score years and ten<br /> +And having the garrison in Jerusalem<br /> +Part in my hands as acting officer<br /> +Under the Governor. A tedious time<br /> +I found it, of routine, amid a folk<br /> +Restless, contentless, and irascible.—<br /> +Quelling some riot, sentrying court and hall,<br /> +Sending men forth on public meeting-days<br /> +To maintain order, were my duties there.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page176"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 176</span>“Then came a morn in spring, +and the cheerful sun<br /> +Whitened the city and the hills around,<br /> +And every mountain-road that clambered them,<br /> +Tincturing the greyness of the olives warm,<br /> +And the rank cacti round the valley’s sides.<br /> +The day was one whereon death-penalties<br /> +Were put in force, and here and there were set<br /> +The soldiery for order, as I said,<br /> +Since one of the condemned had raised some heat,<br /> +And crowds surged passionately to see him slain.<br /> +I, mounted on a Cappadocian horse,<br /> +With some half-company of auxiliaries,<br /> +Had captained the procession through the streets<br /> +When it came streaming from the judgment-hall<br /> +After the verdicts of the Governor.<br /> +It drew to the great gate of the northern way<br /> +That bears towards Damascus; and to a knoll<br /> +Upon the common, just beyond the walls—<br /> +Whence could be swept a wide horizon round<br /> +Over the housetops to the remotest heights.<br /> +Here was the public execution-ground<br /> +For city crimes, called then and doubtless now<br /> +Golgotha, Kranion, or Calvaria.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page177"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 177</span>“The usual dooms were duly +meted out;<br /> +Some three or four were stript, transfixed, and nailed,<br /> +And no great stir occurred. A day of wont<br /> +It was to me, so far, and would have slid<br /> +Clean from my memory at its squalid close<br /> +But for an incident that followed these.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Among the tag-rag +rabble of either sex<br /> +That hung around the wretches as they writhed,<br /> +Till thrust back by our spears, one held my eye—<br /> +A weeping woman, whose strained countenance,<br /> +Sharpened against a looming livid cloud,<br /> +Was mocked by the crude rays of afternoon—<br /> +The mother of one of those who suffered there<br /> +I had heard her called when spoken roughly to<br /> +By my ranged men for pressing forward so.<br /> +It stole upon me hers was a face I knew;<br /> +Yet when, or how, I had known it, for a while<br /> +Eluded me. And then at once it came.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Some thirty years or +more before that noon<br /> +I was sub-captain of a company<br /> +Drawn from the legion of Calabria,<br /> +That marched up from Judæa north to Tyre.<br /> +We had pierced the old flat country of Jezreel, <br /> +<a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 178</span>The +great Esdraelon Plain and fighting-floor<br /> +Of Jew with Canaanite, and with the host<br /> +Of Pharaoh-Necho, king of Egypt, met<br /> +While crossing there to strike the Assyrian pride.<br /> +We left behind Gilboa; passed by Nain;<br /> +Till bulging Tabor rose, embossed to the top <br /> +With arbute, terabinth, and locust growths.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Encumbering me were +sundry sick, so fallen<br /> +Through drinking from a swamp beside the way;<br /> +But we pressed on, till, bearing over a ridge,<br /> +We dipt into a world of pleasantness—<br /> +A vale, the fairest I had gazed upon—<br /> +Which lapped a village on its furthest slopes<br /> +Called Nazareth, brimmed round by uplands nigh.<br /> +In the midst thereof a fountain bubbled, where,<br /> +Lime-dry from marching, our glad halt we made<br /> +To rest our sick ones, and refresh us all.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Here a day onward, +towards the eventide,<br /> +Our men were piping to a Pyrrhic dance<br /> +Trod by their comrades, when the young women came<br /> +<a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 179</span>To fill +their pitchers, as their custom was.<br /> +I proffered help to one—a slim girl, coy<br /> +Even as a fawn, meek, and as innocent.<br /> +Her long blue gown, the string of silver coins<br /> +That hung down by her banded beautiful hair,<br /> +Symboled in full immaculate modesty.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Well, I was young, and +hot, and readily stirred<br /> +To quick desire. ’Twas tedious timing out<br /> +The convalescence of the soldiery;<br /> +And I beguiled the long and empty days<br /> +By blissful yieldance to her sweet allure,<br /> +Who had no arts, but what out-arted all,<br /> +The tremulous tender charm of trustfulness.<br /> +We met, and met, and under the winking stars<br /> +That passed which peoples earth—true union, yea,<br /> +To the pure eye of her simplicity.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Meanwhile the sick +found health; and we pricked on.<br /> +I made her no rash promise of return,<br /> +As some do use; I was sincere in that;<br /> +I said we sundered never to meet again—<br /> +And yet I spoke untruth unknowingly!—<br /> +For meet again we did. Now, guess you aught?<br /> +<a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>The +weeping mother on Calvaria<br /> +Was she I had known—albeit that time and tears<br /> +Had wasted rudely her once flowerlike form,<br /> +And her soft eyes, now swollen with sorrowing.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Though I betrayed some +qualms, she marked me not;<br /> +And I was scarce of mood to comrade her<br /> +And close the silence of so wide a time<br /> +To claim a malefactor as my son—<br /> +(For so I guessed him). And inquiry made<br /> +Brought rumour how at Nazareth long before<br /> +An old man wedded her for pity’s sake<br /> +On finding she had grown pregnant, none knew how,<br /> +Cared for her child, and loved her till he died.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Well; there it ended; +save that then I learnt<br /> +That he—the man whose ardent blood was mine—<br /> +Had waked sedition long among the Jews,<br /> +And hurled insulting parlance at their god,<br /> +Whose temple bulked upon the adjoining hill,<br /> +Vowing that he would raze it, that himself<br /> +<a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span>Was god +as great as he whom they adored,<br /> +And by descent, moreover, was their king;<br /> +With sundry other incitements to misrule.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “The impalements done, +and done the soldiers’ game<br /> +Of raffling for the clothes, a legionary,<br /> +Longinus, pierced the young man with his lance<br /> +At signs from me, moved by his agonies<br /> +Through naysaying the drug they had offered him.<br /> +It brought the end. And when he had breathed his last<br /> +The woman went. I saw her never again . . .<br /> +Now glares my moody meaning on you, friend?—<br /> +That when you talk of offspring as sheer joy<br /> +So trustingly, you blink contingencies.<br /> +Fors Fortuna! He who goes fathering<br /> +Gives frightful hostages to hazardry!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thus Panthera’s +tale. ’Twas one he seldom told,<br /> +But yet it got abroad. He would unfold,<br /> +At other times, a story of less gloom,<br /> +Though his was not a heart where jests had room.<br /> +He would regret discovery of the truth<br /> +Was made too late to influence to ruth<br /> +The Procurator who had condemned his son—<br /> +<a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 182</span>Or +rather him so deemed. For there was none<br /> +To prove that Panthera erred not: and indeed,<br /> +When vagueness of identity I would plead,<br /> +Panther himself would sometimes own as much—<br /> +Yet lothly. But, assuming fact was such,<br /> +That the said woman did not recognize<br /> +Her lover’s face, is matter for surprise.<br /> +However, there’s his tale, fantasy or otherwise.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thereafter shone not men of +Panthera’s kind:<br /> +The indolent heads at home were ill-inclined<br /> +To press campaigning that would hoist the star <br /> +Of their lieutenants valorous afar.<br /> +Jealousies kept him irked abroad, controlled<br /> +And stinted by an Empire no more bold.<br /> +Yet in some actions southward he had share—<br /> +In Mauretania and Numidia; there<br /> +With eagle eye, and sword and steed and spur,<br /> +Quelling uprisings promptly. Some small stir<br /> +In Parthia next engaged him, until maimed,<br /> +As I have said; and cynic Time proclaimed<br /> +His noble spirit broken. What a waste<br /> +<a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>Of such +a Roman!—one in youth-time graced<br /> +With indescribable charm, so I have heard,<br /> +Yea, magnetism impossible to word<br /> +When faltering as I saw him. What a fame,<br /> +O Son of Saturn, had adorned his name,<br /> +Might the Three so have urged Thee!—Hour by hour<br /> +His own disorders hampered Panthera’s power<br /> +To brood upon the fate of those he had known,<br /> +Even of that one he always called his own—<br /> +Either in morbid dream or memory . . .<br /> +He died at no great age, untroublously,<br /> +An exit rare for ardent soldiers such as he.</p> +<h3><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>THE +UNBORN</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">rose</span> at night, and +visited<br /> + The Cave of the Unborn:<br /> +And crowding shapes surrounded me<br /> +For tidings of the life to be,<br /> +Who long had prayed the silent Head<br /> + To haste its advent morn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Their eyes were lit with artless trust,<br /> + Hope thrilled their every tone;<br /> +“A scene the loveliest, is it not?<br /> +A pure delight, a beauty-spot<br /> +Where all is gentle, true and just,<br /> + And darkness is unknown?”</p> +<p class="poetry">My heart was anguished for their sake,<br /> + I could not frame a word;<br /> +And they descried my sunken face,<br /> +And seemed to read therein, and trace<br /> +The news that pity would not break,<br /> + Nor truth leave unaverred.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +185</span>And as I silently retired<br /> + I turned and watched them still,<br /> +And they came helter-skelter out,<br /> +Driven forward like a rabble rout<br /> +Into the world they had so desired<br /> + By the all-immanent Will.</p> +<p>1905.</p> +<h3><a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>THE +MAN HE KILLED</h3> +<p class="poetry"> “<span +class="smcap">Had</span> he and I but met<br /> + By some old ancient inn,<br /> +We should have sat us down to wet<br /> + Right many a nipperkin!</p> +<p class="poetry"> “But ranged as +infantry,<br /> + And staring face to face,<br /> +I shot at him as he at me,<br /> + And killed him in his place.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “I shot him dead +because—<br /> + Because he was my foe,<br /> +Just so: my foe of course he was;<br /> + That’s clear enough; although</p> +<p class="poetry"> “He thought he’d +’list, perhaps,<br /> + Off-hand like—just as I—<br /> +Was out of work—had sold his traps—<br /> + No other reason why.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Yes; quaint and +curious war is!<br /> + You shoot a fellow down<br /> +You’d treat if met where any bar is,<br /> + Or help to half-a-crown.”</p> +<p>1902.</p> +<h3><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +187</span>GEOGRAPHICAL KNOWLEDGE<br /> +(A <span class="smcap">Memory of Christiana</span> C—)</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> Blackmoor was, +the road that led<br /> + To Bath, she could not show,<br /> +Nor point the sky that overspread<br /> + Towns ten miles off or so.</p> +<p class="poetry">But that Calcutta stood this way,<br /> + Cape Horn there figured fell,<br /> +That here was Boston, here Bombay,<br /> + She could declare full well.</p> +<p class="poetry">Less known to her the track athwart<br /> + Froom Mead or Yell’ham Wood<br /> +Than how to make some Austral port<br /> + In seas of surly mood.</p> +<p class="poetry">She saw the glint of Guinea’s shore<br /> + Behind the plum-tree nigh,<br /> +Heard old unruly Biscay’s roar<br /> + In the weir’s purl hard by . . .</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +188</span>“My son’s a sailor, and he knows<br /> + All seas and many lands,<br /> +And when he’s home he points and shows<br /> + Each country where it stands.</p> +<p class="poetry">“He’s now just there—by +Gib’s high rock—<br /> + And when he gets, you see,<br /> +To Portsmouth here, behind the clock,<br /> + Then he’ll come back to me!”</p> +<h3><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>ONE +RALPH BLOSSOM SOLILOQUIZES</h3> +<p>(“It being deposed that vij women who were mayds before +he knew them have been brought upon the towne [rates?] by the +fornicacions of one Ralph Blossom, Mr Major inquired why he +should not contribute xiv pence weekly toward their +mayntenance. But it being shewn that the sayd R. B. was +dying of a purple feaver, no order was +made.”—<i>Budmouth Borough Minutes</i>: +16–.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> I am in hell or +some such place,<br /> +A-groaning over my sorry case,<br /> +What will those seven women say to me<br /> +Who, when I coaxed them, answered “Aye” to me?</p> +<p class="poetry">“I did not understand your +sign!”<br /> +Will be the words of Caroline;<br /> +While Jane will cry, “If I’d had proof of you,<br /> +I should have learnt to hold aloof of you!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I won’t reproach: it was to +be!”<br /> +Will dryly murmur Cicely;<br /> +And Rosa: “I feel no hostility,<br /> +For I must own I lent facility.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>Lizzy says: “Sharp was my regret,<br /> +And sometimes it is now! But yet<br /> +I joy that, though it brought notoriousness,<br /> +I knew Love once and all its gloriousness!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Says Patience: “Why are we apart?<br /> +Small harm did you, my poor Sweet Heart!<br /> +A manchild born, now tall and beautiful,<br /> +Was worth the ache of days undutiful.”</p> +<p class="poetry">And Anne cries: “O the time was fair,<br +/> +So wherefore should you burn down there?<br /> +There is a deed under the sun, my Love,<br /> +And that was ours. What’s done is done, my Love.<br +/> +These trumpets here in Heaven are dumb to me<br /> +With you away. Dear, come, O come to me!”</p> +<h3><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>THE +NOBLE LADY’S TALE<br /> +(<i>circa</i> 1790)</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">I</p> +<p class="poetry"> “<span +class="smcap">We</span> moved with pensive paces,<br /> + I and he,<br /> + And bent our faded faces<br /> + Wistfully,<br /> +For something troubled him, and troubled me.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “The lanthorn feebly +lightened<br /> + Our grey hall,<br /> + Where ancient brands had brightened<br /> + Hearth and wall,<br /> +And shapes long vanished whither vanish all.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘O why, Love, +nightly, daily,’<br /> + I had said,<br /> + ‘Dost sigh, and smile so palely,<br /> + As if shed<br /> +Were all Life’s blossoms, all its dear things +dead?’</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page192"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 192</span>“‘Since silence sets +thee grieving,’<br /> + He replied,<br /> + ‘And I abhor deceiving<br /> + One so tried,<br /> +Why, Love, I’ll speak, ere time us twain divide.’</p> +<p class="poetry"> “He held me, I +remember,<br /> + Just as when<br /> + Our life was June—(September<br /> + It was then);<br /> +And we walked on, until he spoke again.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘Susie, an Irish +mummer,<br /> + Loud-acclaimed<br /> + Through the gay London summer,<br /> + Was I; named<br /> +A master in my art, who would be famed.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘But lo, there +beamed before me<br /> + Lady Su;<br /> + God’s altar-vow she swore me<br /> + When none knew,<br /> +And for her sake I bade the sock adieu.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘My Lord your +father’s pardon<br /> + Thus I won:<br /> + He let his heart unharden<br /> + Towards his son,<br /> +And honourably condoned what we had done;</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page193"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 193</span>“‘But said—recall +you, dearest?—<br /> + <i>As for Su</i>,<br /> + <i>I’d see her—ay</i>, <i>though +nearest</i><br /> + <i>Me unto</i>—<br /> +<i>Sooner entombed than in a stage purlieu</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘Just +so.—And here he housed us,<br /> + In this nook,<br /> + Where Love like balm has drowsed us:<br /> + Robin, rook,<br /> +Our chief familiars, next to string and book.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘Our days here, +peace-enshrouded,<br /> + Followed strange<br /> + The old stage-joyance, crowded,<br /> + Rich in range;<br /> +But never did my soul desire a change,</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘Till now, when +far uncertain<br /> + Lips of yore<br /> + Call, call me to the curtain,<br /> + There once more,<br /> +But <i>once</i>, to tread the boards I trod before.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘A +night—the last and single<br /> + Ere I die—<br /> + To face the lights, to mingle<br /> + As did I<br /> +Once in the game, and rivet every eye!’</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Such was his +wish. He feared it,<br /> + Feared it though<br /> + Rare memories endeared it.<br /> + I, also,<br /> +Feared it still more; its outcome who could know?</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘Alas, my +Love,’ said I then,<br /> + ‘Since it be<br /> + A wish so mastering, why, then,<br /> + E’en go ye!—<br /> +Despite your pledge to father and to me . . . ’</p> +<p class="poetry"> “’Twas fixed; no +more was spoken<br /> + Thereupon;<br /> + Our silences were broken<br /> + Only on<br /> +The petty items of his needs were gone.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Farewell he bade me, +pleading<br /> + That it meant<br /> + So little, thus conceding<br /> + To his bent;<br /> +And then, as one constrained to go, he went.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Thwart thoughts I let +deride me,<br /> + As, ’twere vain<br /> + To hope him back beside me<br /> + Ever again:<br /> +Could one plunge make a waxing passion wane?</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page195"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 195</span>“I thought, ‘Some wild +stage-woman,<br /> + Honour-wrecked . . . ’<br /> + But no: it was inhuman<br /> + To suspect;<br /> +Though little cheer could my lone heart affect!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">II</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Yet came it, to my +gladness,<br /> + That, as vowed,<br /> + He did return.—But sadness<br /> + Swiftly cowed<br /> +The job with which my greeting was endowed.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Some woe was +there. Estrangement<br /> + Marked his mind.<br /> + Each welcome-warm arrangement<br /> + I had designed<br /> +Touched him no more than deeds of careless kind.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “‘I—<i>failed</i>!’ +escaped him glumly.<br /> + ‘—I went on<br /> + In my old part. But dumbly—<br /> + Memory gone—<br /> +Advancing, I sank sick; my vision drawn</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page196"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 196</span>“‘To something drear, +distressing<br /> + As the knell<br /> + Of all hopes worth possessing!’ . . .<br /> + —What befell<br /> +Seemed linked with me, but how I could not tell.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Hours passed; till I +implored him,<br /> + As he knew<br /> + How faith and frankness toward him<br /> + Ruled me through,<br /> +To say what ill I had done, and could undo.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> “‘<i>Faith—frankness</i>. +Ah! Heaven save such!’<br /> + Murmured he,<br /> + ‘They are wedded wealth! <i>I</i> gave +such<br /> + Liberally,<br /> +But you, Dear, not. For you suspected me.’</p> +<p class="poetry"> “I was about +beseeching<br /> + In hurt haste<br /> + More meaning, when he, reaching<br /> + To my waist,<br /> +Led me to pace the hall as once we paced.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘I never meant +to draw you<br /> + To own all,’<br /> + Declared he. ‘But—I <i>saw</i> +you—<br /> + By the wall,<br /> +Half-hid. And that was why I failed withal!’</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page197"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 197</span>“‘Where? when?’ +said I—‘Why, nigh me,<br /> + At the play<br /> + That night. That you should spy me,<br /> + Doubt my fay,<br /> +And follow, furtive, took my heart away!’</p> +<p class="poetry"> “That I had never been +there,<br /> + But had gone<br /> + To my locked room—unseen there,<br /> + Curtains drawn,<br /> +Long days abiding—told I, wonder-wan.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘Nay, +’twas your form and vesture,<br /> + Cloak and gown,<br /> + Your hooded features—gesture<br /> + Half in frown,<br /> +That faced me, pale,’ he urged, ‘that night in +town.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “‘And when, +outside, I handed<br /> + To her chair<br /> + (As courtesy demanded<br /> + Of me there)<br /> +The leading lady, you peeped from the stair.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Straight pleaded I: +‘Forsooth, Love,<br /> + Had I gone,<br /> + I must have been in truth, Love,<br /> + Mad to don<br /> +Such well-known raiment.’ But he still went on</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page198"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 198</span>“That he was not mistaken<br +/> + Nor misled.—<br /> + I felt like one forsaken,<br /> + Wished me dead,<br /> +That he could think thus of the wife he had wed!</p> +<p class="poetry"> “His going seemed to +waste him<br /> + Like a curse,<br /> + To wreck what once had graced him;<br /> + And, averse<br /> +To my approach, he mused, and moped, and worse.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Till, what no words +effected<br /> + Thought achieved:<br /> + <i>It was my wraith</i>—projected,<br /> + He conceived,<br /> +Thither, by my tense brain at home aggrieved.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Thereon his credence +centred<br /> + Till he died;<br /> + And, no more tempted, entered<br /> + Sanctified,<br /> +The little vault with room for one beside.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page199"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 199</span>III</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thus far the lady’s +story.—<br /> + Now she, too,<br /> + Reclines within that hoary<br /> + Last dark mew<br /> +In Mellstock Quire with him she loved so true.</p> +<p class="poetry"> A yellowing marble, placed +there<br /> + Tablet-wise,<br /> + And two joined hearts enchased there<br /> + Meet the eyes;<br /> +And reading their twin names we moralize:</p> +<p class="poetry"> Did she, we wonder, follow<br +/> + Jealously?<br /> + And were those protests hollow?—<br /> + Or saw he<br /> +Some semblant dame? Or can wraiths really be?</p> +<p class="poetry"> Were it she went, her +honour,<br /> + All may hold,<br /> + Pressed truth at last upon her<br /> + Till she told—<br /> +(Him only—others as these lines unfold.)</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page200"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 200</span>Riddle death-sealed for ever,<br /> + Let it rest! . . .<br /> + One’s heart could blame her never<br /> + If one guessed<br /> +That go she did. She knew her actor best.</p> +<h3><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +201</span>UNREALIZED</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Down</span> comes the +winter rain—<br /> + Spoils my hat and bow—<br /> +Runs into the poll of me;<br /> + But mother won’t know.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ve been out and caught a cold,<br /> + Knee-deep in snow;<br /> +Such a lucky thing it is<br /> + That mother won’t know!</p> +<p class="poetry">Rosy lost herself last night—<br /> + Couldn’t tell where to go.<br /> +Yes—it rather frightened her,<br /> + But mother didn’t know.</p> +<p class="poetry">Somebody made Willy drunk<br /> + At the Christmas show:<br /> +O ’twas fun! It’s well for him<br /> + That mother won’t know!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +202</span>Howsoever wild we are,<br /> + Late at school or slow,<br /> +Mother won’t be cross with us,<br /> + Mother won’t know.</p> +<p class="poetry">How we cried the day she died!<br /> + Neighbours whispering low . . .<br /> +But we now do what we will—<br /> + Mother won’t know.</p> +<h3><a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +203</span>WAGTAIL AND BABY</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">baby</span> watched a +ford, whereto<br /> + A wagtail came for drinking;<br /> +A blaring bull went wading through,<br /> + The wagtail showed no shrinking.</p> +<p class="poetry">A stallion splashed his way across,<br /> + The birdie nearly sinking;<br /> +He gave his plumes a twitch and toss,<br /> + And held his own unblinking.</p> +<p class="poetry">Next saw the baby round the spot<br /> + A mongrel slowly slinking;<br /> +The wagtail gazed, but faltered not<br /> + In dip and sip and prinking.</p> +<p class="poetry">A perfect gentleman then neared;<br /> + The wagtail, in a winking,<br /> +With terror rose and disappeared;<br /> + The baby fell a-thinking.</p> +<h3><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +204</span>ABERDEEN<br /> +(April: 1905)</h3> +<blockquote><p>“And wisdom and knowledge shall be the +stability of thy times.”—Isaiah xxxiii. 6.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">looked</span> and +thought, “All is too gray and cold<br /> +To wake my place-enthusiasms of old!”<br /> +Till a voice passed: “Behind that granite mien<br /> +Lurks the imposing beauty of a Queen.”<br /> +I looked anew; and saw the radiant form<br /> +Of Her who soothes in stress, who steers in storm,<br /> +On the grave influence of whose eyes sublime<br /> +Men count for the stability of the time.</p> +<h3><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +205</span>GEORGE MEREDITH<br /> +1828–1909</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Forty</span> years back, +when much had place<br /> +That since has perished out of mind,<br /> +I heard that voice and saw that face.</p> +<p class="poetry">He spoke as one afoot will wind<br /> +A morning horn ere men awake;<br /> +His note was trenchant, turning kind.</p> +<p class="poetry">He was of those whose wit can shake<br /> +And riddle to the very core<br /> +The counterfeits that Time will break . . .</p> +<p class="poetry">Of late, when we two met once more,<br /> +The luminous countenance and rare<br /> +Shone just as forty years before.</p> +<p class="poetry">So that, when now all tongues declare<br /> +His shape unseen by his green hill,<br /> +I scarce believe he sits not there.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +206</span>No matter. Further and further still<br /> +Through the world’s vaporous vitiate air<br /> +His words wing on—as live words will.</p> +<p><i>May</i> 1909.</p> +<h3><a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +207</span>YELL’HAM-WOOD’S STORY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Coomb-Firtrees</span> say +that Life is a moan,<br /> + And Clyffe-hill Clump says “Yea!”<br /> +But Yell’ham says a thing of its own:<br /> + It’s not “Gray, +gray<br /> + Is Life alway!”<br /> + That Yell’ham says,<br /> + Nor that Life is for ends unknown.</p> +<p class="poetry">It says that Life would signify<br /> + A thwarted purposing:<br /> +That we come to live, and are called to die,<br /> + Yes, that’s the thing<br /> + In fall, in spring,<br /> + That Yell’ham +says:—<br /> + “Life offers—to deny!”</p> +<p>1902.</p> +<h3><a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span>A +YOUNG MAN’S EPIGRAM ON EXISTENCE</h3> +<p class="poetry">A senseless school, where we must give<br /> +Our lives that we may learn to live!<br /> +A dolt is he who memorizes<br /> +Lessons that leave no time for prizes.</p> +<p>16 W. P. V., 1866.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Printed in Great Britain by</i> +R. & R. <span class="smcap">Clark</span>, <span +class="smcap">Limited</span>, <i>Edinburgh</i></p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIME'S LAUGHINGSTOCKS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 2997-h.htm or 2997-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/9/9/2997 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.07.00*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared from the 1919 Macmillan and Co. edition by +David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk. + + + + + +TIME'S LAUGHINGSTOCKS AND OTHER VERSES + +by Thomas Hardy + + + + +Contents: + +Preface +TIME'S LAUGHINGSTOCKS - + The Revisitation + A Trampwoman's Tragedy + The Two Rosalinds + A Sunday Morning Tragedy + The House of Hospitalities + Bereft + John and Jane + The Curate's Kindness + The Flirt's Tragedy + The Rejected Member's Wife + The Farm-Woman's Winter + Autumn in King's Hintock Park + Shut out that Moon + Reminiscences of a Dancing Man + The Dead Man Walking +MORE LOVE LYRICS - + 1967 + Her Definition + The Division + On the Departure Platform + In a Cathedral City + "I say I'll seek Her" + Her Father + At Waking + Four Footprints + In the Vaulted Way + In the Mind's Eye + The End of the Episode + The Sigh + "In the Night She Came" + The Conformers + The Dawn after the Dance + The Sun on the Letter + The Night of the Dance + Misconception + The Voice of the Thorn + From Her in the Country + Her Confession + To an Impersonator of Rosalind + To an Actress + The Minute before Meeting + He abjures Love +A SET OF COUNTRY SONGS - + Let me Enjoy + At Casterbridge Fair: + I. The Ballad-Singer + II. Former Beauties + III. After the Club Dance + IV. The Market-Girl + V. The Inquiry + VI. A Wife Waits + VII. After the Fair + The Dark-eyed Gentleman + To Carrey Clavel + The Orphaned Old Maid + The Spring Call + Julie-Jane + News for Her Mother + The Fiddler + The Husband's View + Rose-Ann + The Homecoming +PIECES OCCASIONAL AND VARIOUS - + A Church Romance + The Rash Bride + The Dead Quire + The Christening + A Dream Question + By the Barrows + A Wife and Another + The Roman Road + The Vampirine Fair + The Reminder + The Rambler + Night in the Old Home + After the Last Breath + In Childbed + The Pine Planters + The Dear + One We Knew + She Hears the Storm + A Wet Night + Before Life and After + New Year's Eve + God's Education + To Sincerity + Panthera + The Unborn + The Man He Killed + Geographical Knowledge + One Ralph Blossom Soliloquizes + The Noble Lady's Tale + Unrealized + Wagtail and Baby + Aberdeen: 1905 + George Meredith, 1828-1909 + Yell'ham-wood's Story + A Young Man's Epigram on Existence + + + +PREFACE + + + +In collecting the following poems I have to thank the editors and +proprietors of the periodicals in which certain of them have appeared for +permission to reclaim them. + +Now that the miscellany is brought together, some lack of concord in pieces +written at widely severed dates, and in contrasting moods and circumstances, +will be obvious enough. This I cannot help, but the sense of disconnection, +particularly in respect of those lyrics penned in the first person, will be +immaterial when it is borne in mind that they are to be regarded, in the +main, as dramatic monologues by different characters. + +As a whole they will, I hope, take the reader forward, even if not far, +rather than backward. I should add that some lines in the early-dated poems +have been rewritten, though they have been left substantially unchanged. + +T. H. +September 1909. + + + +THE REVISITATION + + + + As I lay awake at night-time +In an ancient country barrack known to ancient cannoneers, +And recalled the hopes that heralded each seeming brave and bright time + Of my primal purple years, + + Much it haunted me that, nigh there, +I had borne my bitterest loss--when One who went, came not again; +In a joyless hour of discord, in a joyless-hued July there - + A July just such as then. + + And as thus I brooded longer, +With my faint eyes on the feeble square of wan-lit window frame, +A quick conviction sprung within me, grew, and grew yet stronger, + That the month-night was the same, + + Too, as that which saw her leave me +On the rugged ridge of Waterstone, the peewits plaining round; +And a lapsing twenty years had ruled that--as it were to grieve me - + I should near the once-loved ground. + + Though but now a war-worn stranger +Chance had quartered here, I rose up and descended to the yard. +All was soundless, save the troopers' horses tossing at the manger, + And the sentry keeping guard. + + Through the gateway I betook me +Down the High Street and beyond the lamps, across the battered bridge, +Till the country darkness clasped me and the friendly shine forsook me, + And I bore towards the Ridge, + + With a dim unowned emotion +Saying softly: "Small my reason, now at midnight, to be here . . . +Yet a sleepless swain of fifty with a brief romantic notion + May retrace a track so dear." + + Thus I walked with thoughts half-uttered +Up the lane I knew so well, the grey, gaunt, lonely Lane of Slyre; +And at whiles behind me, far at sea, a sullen thunder muttered + As I mounted high and higher. + + Till, the upper roadway quitting, +I adventured on the open drouthy downland thinly grassed, +While the spry white scuts of conies flashed before me, earthward flitting, + And an arid wind went past. + + Round about me bulged the barrows +As before, in antique silence--immemorial funeral piles - +Where the sleek herds trampled daily the remains of flint-tipt arrows + Mid the thyme and chamomiles; + + And the Sarsen stone there, dateless, +On whose breast we had sat and told the zephyrs many a tender vow, +Held the heat of yester sun, as sank thereon one fated mateless + From those far fond hours till now. + + Maybe flustered by my presence +Rose the peewits, just as all those years back, wailing soft and loud, +And revealing their pale pinions like a fitful phosphorescence + Up against the cope of cloud, + + Where their dolesome exclamations +Seemed the voicings of the self-same throats I had heard when life was +green, +Though since that day uncounted frail forgotten generations + Of their kind had flecked the scene. - + + And so, living long and longer +In a past that lived no more, my eyes discerned there, suddenly, +That a figure broke the skyline--first in vague contour, then stronger, + And was crossing near to me. + + Some long-missed familiar gesture, +Something wonted, struck me in the figure's pause to list and heed, +Till I fancied from its handling of its loosely wrapping vesture + That it might be She indeed. + + 'Twas not reasonless: below there +In the vale, had been her home; the nook might hold her even yet, +And the downlands were her father's fief; she still might come and go there; +- + So I rose, and said, "Agnette!" + + With a little leap, half-frightened, +She withdrew some steps; then letting intuition smother fear +In a place so long-accustomed, and as one whom thought enlightened, + She replied: "What--THAT voice?--here!" + + "Yes, Agnette!--And did the occasion +Of our marching hither make you think I MIGHT walk where we two--' +"O, I often come," she murmured with a moment's coy evasion, + "('Tis not far),--and--think of you." + + Then I took her hand, and led her +To the ancient people's stone whereon I had sat. There now sat we; +And together talked, until the first reluctant shyness fled her, + And she spoke confidingly. + + "It is JUST as ere we parted!" +Said she, brimming high with joy.--"And when, then, came you here, and why?" +"--Dear, I could not sleep for thinking of our trystings when twin-hearted." + She responded, "Nor could I. + + "There are few things I would rather +Than be wandering at this spirit-hour--lone-lived, my kindred dead - +On this wold of well-known feature I inherit from my father: + Night or day, I have no dread . . . + + "O I wonder, wonder whether +Any heartstring bore a signal-thrill between us twain or no? - +Some such influence can, at times, they say, draw severed souls together." + I said, "Dear, we'll dream it so." + + Each one's hand the other's grasping, +And a mutual forgiveness won, we sank to silent thought, +A large content in us that seemed our rended lives reclasping, + And contracting years to nought. + + Till I, maybe overweary +From the lateness, and a wayfaring so full of strain and stress +For one no longer buoyant, to a peak so steep and eery, + Sank to slow unconsciousness . . . + + How long I slept I knew not, +But the brief warm summer night had slid when, to my swift surprise, +A red upedging sun, of glory chambered mortals view not, + Was blazing on my eyes, + + From the Milton Woods to Dole-Hill +All the spacious landscape lighting, and around about my feet +Flinging tall thin tapering shadows from the meanest mound and mole-hill, + And on trails the ewes had beat. + + She was sitting still beside me, +Dozing likewise; and I turned to her, to take her hanging hand; +When, the more regarding, that which like a spectre shook and tried me + In her image then I scanned; + + That which Time's transforming chisel +Had been tooling night and day for twenty years, and tooled too well, +In its rendering of crease where curve was, where was raven, grizzle - + Pits, where peonies once did dwell. + + She had wakened, and perceiving +(I surmise) my sigh and shock, my quite involuntary dismay, +Up she started, and--her wasted figure all throughout it heaving - + Said, "Ah, yes: I am THUS by day! + + "Can you really wince and wonder +That the sunlight should reveal you such a thing of skin and bone, +As if unaware a Death's-head must of need lie not far under + Flesh whose years out-count your own? + + "Yes: that movement was a warning +Of the worth of man's devotion!--Yes, Sir, I am OLD," said she, +"And the thing which should increase love turns it quickly into scorning - + And your new-won heart from me!" + + Then she went, ere I could call her, +With the too proud temper ruling that had parted us before, +And I saw her form descend the slopes, and smaller grow and smaller, + Till I caught its course no more . . . + + True; I might have dogged her downward; +- But it MAY be (though I know not) that this trick on us of Time +Disconcerted and confused me.--Soon I bent my footsteps townward, + Like to one who had watched a crime. + + Well I knew my native weakness, +Well I know it still. I cherished her reproach like physic-wine, +For I saw in that emaciate shape of bitterness and bleakness + A nobler soul than mine. + + Did I not return, then, ever? - +Did we meet again?--mend all?--Alas, what greyhead perseveres! - +Soon I got the Route elsewhither.--Since that hour I have seen her never: + Love is lame at fifty years. + + + +A TRAMPWOMAN'S TRAGEDY +(182-) + + + +I + +From Wynyard's Gap the livelong day, + The livelong day, +We beat afoot the northward way + We had travelled times before. +The sun-blaze burning on our backs, +Our shoulders sticking to our packs, +By fosseway, fields, and turnpike tracks + We skirted sad Sedge-Moor. + +II + +Full twenty miles we jaunted on, + We jaunted on, - +My fancy-man, and jeering John, + And Mother Lee, and I. +And, as the sun drew down to west, +We climbed the toilsome Poldon crest, +And saw, of landskip sights the best, + The inn that beamed thereby. + +III + +For months we had padded side by side, + Ay, side by side +Through the Great Forest, Blackmoor wide, + And where the Parret ran. +We'd faced the gusts on Mendip ridge, +Had crossed the Yeo unhelped by bridge, +Been stung by every Marshwood midge, + I and my fancy-man. + +IV + +Lone inns we loved, my man and I, + My man and I; +"King's Stag," "Windwhistle" high and dry, + "The Horse" on Hintock Green, +The cosy house at Wynyard's Gap, +"The Hut" renowned on Bredy Knap, +And many another wayside tap + Where folk might sit unseen. + +V + +Now as we trudged--O deadly day, + O deadly day! - +I teased my fancy-man in play + And wanton idleness. +I walked alongside jeering John, +I laid his hand my waist upon; +I would not bend my glances on + My lover's dark distress. + +VI + +Thus Poldon top at last we won, + At last we won, +And gained the inn at sink of sun + Far-famed as "Marshal's Elm." +Beneath us figured tor and lea, +From Mendip to the western sea - +I doubt if finer sight there be + Within this royal realm. + +VII + +Inside the settle all a-row - + All four a-row +We sat, I next to John, to show + That he had wooed and won. +And then he took me on his knee, +And swore it was his turn to be +My favoured mate, and Mother Lee + Passed to my former one. + +VIII + +Then in a voice I had never heard, + I had never heard, +My only Love to me: "One word, + My lady, if you please! +Whose is the child you are like to bear? - +HIS? After all my months o' care?" +God knows 'twas not! But, O despair! + I nodded--still to tease. + +IX + +Then up he sprung, and with his knife - + And with his knife +He let out jeering Johnny's life, + Yes; there, at set of sun. +The slant ray through the window nigh +Gilded John's blood and glazing eye, +Ere scarcely Mother Lee and I + Knew that the deed was done. + +X + +The taverns tell the gloomy tale, + The gloomy tale, +How that at Ivel-chester jail + My Love, my sweetheart swung; +Though stained till now by no misdeed +Save one horse ta'en in time o' need; +(Blue Jimmy stole right many a steed + Ere his last fling he flung.) + +XI + +Thereaft I walked the world alone, + Alone, alone! +On his death-day I gave my groan + And dropt his dead-born child. +'Twas nigh the jail, beneath a tree, +None tending me; for Mother Lee +Had died at Glaston, leaving me + Unfriended on the wild. + +XII + +And in the night as I lay weak, + As I lay weak, +The leaves a-falling on my cheek, + The red moon low declined - +The ghost of him I'd die to kiss +Rose up and said: "Ah, tell me this! +Was the child mine, or was it his? + Speak, that I rest may find!" + +XIII + +O doubt not but I told him then, + I told him then, +That I had kept me from all men + Since we joined lips and swore. +Whereat he smiled, and thinned away +As the wind stirred to call up day . . . +- 'Tis past! And here alone I stray + Haunting the Western Moor. + +NOTES.--"Windwhistle" (Stanza iv.). The highness and dryness of Windwhistle +Inn was impressed upon the writer two or three years ago, when, after +climbing on a hot afternoon to the beautiful spot near which it stands and +entering the inn for tea, he was informed by the landlady that none could be +had, unless he would fetch water from a valley half a mile off, the house +containing not a drop, owing to its situation. However, a tantalizing row +of full barrels behind her back testified to a wetness of a certain sort, +which was not at that time desired. + +"Marshal's Elm" (Stanza vi.) so picturesquely situated, is no longer an inn, +though the house, or part of it, still remains. It used to exhibit a fine +old swinging sign. + +"Blue Jimmy" (Stanza x.) was a notorious horse-stealer of Wessex in those +days, who appropriated more than a hundred horses before he was caught, +among others one belonging to a neighbour of the writer's grandfather. He +was hanged at the now demolished Ivel-chester or Ilchester jail above +mentioned--that building formerly of so many sinister associations in the +minds of the local peasantry, and the continual haunt of fever, which at +last led to its condemnation. Its site is now an innocent-looking green +meadow. + +April 1902. + + + +THE TWO ROSALINDS + + + +I + + The dubious daylight ended, +And I walked the Town alone, unminding whither bound and why, +As from each gaunt street and gaping square a mist of light ascended + And dispersed upon the sky. + +II + + Files of evanescent faces +Passed each other without heeding, in their travail, teen, or joy, +Some in void unvisioned listlessness inwrought with pallid traces + Of keen penury's annoy. + +III + + Nebulous flames in crystal cages +Leered as if with discontent at city movement, murk, and grime, +And as waiting some procession of great ghosts from bygone ages + To exalt the ignoble time. + +IV + + In a colonnade high-lighted, +By a thoroughfare where stern utilitarian traffic dinned, +On a red and white emblazonment of players and parts, I sighted + The name of "Rosalind," + +V + + And her famous mates of "Arden," +Who observed no stricter customs than "the seasons' difference" bade, +Who lived with running brooks for books in Nature's wildwood garden, + And called idleness their trade . . . + +VI + + Now the poster stirred an ember +Still remaining from my ardours of some forty years before, +When the selfsame portal on an eve it thrilled me to remember + A like announcement bore; + +VII + + And expectantly I had entered, +And had first beheld in human mould a Rosalind woo and plead, +On whose transcendent figuring my speedy soul had centred + As it had been she indeed . . . + +VIII + + So; all other plans discarding, +I resolved on entrance, bent on seeing what I once had seen, +And approached the gangway of my earlier knowledge, disregarding + The tract of time between. + +IX + + "The words, sir?" cried a creature +Hovering mid the shine and shade as 'twixt the live world and the tomb; +But the well-known numbers needed not for me a text or teacher + To revive and re-illume. + +X + + Then the play . . . But how unfitted +Was THIS Rosalind!--a mammet quite to me, in memories nurst, +And with chilling disappointment soon I sought the street I had quitted, + To re-ponder on the first. + +XI + + The hag still hawked,--I met her +Just without the colonnade. "So you don't like her, sir?" said she. +"Ah--_I_ was once that Rosalind!--I acted her--none better - + Yes--in eighteen sixty-three. + +XII + + "Thus I won Orlando to me +In my then triumphant days when I had charm and maidenhood, +Now some forty years ago.--I used to say, COME WOO ME, WOO ME!" + And she struck the attitude. + +XIII + + It was when I had gone there nightly; +And the voice--though raucous now--was yet the old one.--Clear as noon +My Rosalind was here . . . Thereon the band withinside lightly + Beat up a merry tune. + + + +A SUNDAY MORNING TRAGEDY +(circa 186-) + + + +I bore a daughter flower-fair, +In Pydel Vale, alas for me; +I joyed to mother one so rare, +But dead and gone I now would be. + +Men looked and loved her as she grew, +And she was won, alas for me; +She told me nothing, but I knew, +And saw that sorrow was to be. + +I knew that one had made her thrall, +A thrall to him, alas for me; +And then, at last, she told me all, +And wondered what her end would be. + +She owned that she had loved too well, +Had loved too well, unhappy she, +And bore a secret time would tell, +Though in her shroud she'd sooner be. + +I plodded to her sweetheart's door +In Pydel Vale, alas for me: +I pleaded with him, pleaded sore, +To save her from her misery. + +He frowned, and swore he could not wed, +Seven times he swore it could not be; +"Poverty's worse than shame," he said, +Till all my hope went out of me. + +"I've packed my traps to sail the main" - +Roughly he spake, alas did he - +"Wessex beholds me not again, +'Tis worse than any jail would be!" + +- There was a shepherd whom I knew, +A subtle man, alas for me: +I sought him all the pastures through, +Though better I had ceased to be. + +I traced him by his lantern light, +And gave him hint, alas for me, +Of how she found her in the plight +That is so scorned in Christendie. + +"Is there an herb . . . ?" I asked. "Or none?" +Yes, thus I asked him desperately. +"--There is," he said; "a certain one . . . " +Would he had sworn that none knew he! + +"To-morrow I will walk your way," +He hinted low, alas for me. - +Fieldwards I gazed throughout next day; +Now fields I never more would see! + +The sunset-shine, as curfew strook, +As curfew strook beyond the lea, +Lit his white smock and gleaming crook, +While slowly he drew near to me. + +He pulled from underneath his smock +The herb I sought, my curse to be - +"At times I use it in my flock," +He said, and hope waxed strong in me. + +"'Tis meant to balk ill-motherings" - +(Ill-motherings! Why should they be?) - +"If not, would God have sent such things?" +So spoke the shepherd unto me. + +That night I watched the poppling brew, +With bended back and hand on knee: +I stirred it till the dawnlight grew, +And the wind whiffled wailfully. + +"This scandal shall be slain," said I, +"That lours upon her innocency: +I'll give all whispering tongues the lie;" - +But worse than whispers was to be. + +"Here's physic for untimely fruit," +I said to her, alas for me, +Early that morn in fond salute; +And in my grave I now would be. + +- Next Sunday came, with sweet church chimes +In Pydel Vale, alas for me: +I went into her room betimes; +No more may such a Sunday be! + +"Mother, instead of rescue nigh," +She faintly breathed, alas for me, +"I feel as I were like to die, +And underground soon, soon should be." + +From church that noon the people walked +In twos and threes, alas for me, +Showed their new raiment--smiled and talked, +Though sackcloth-clad I longed to be. + +Came to my door her lover's friends, +And cheerly cried, alas for me, +"Right glad are we he makes amends, +For never a sweeter bride can be." + +My mouth dried, as 'twere scorched within, +Dried at their words, alas for me: +More and more neighbours crowded in, +(O why should mothers ever be!) + +"Ha-ha! Such well-kept news!" laughed they, +Yes--so they laughed, alas for me. +"Whose banns were called in church to-day?" - +Christ, how I wished my soul could flee! + +"Where is she? O the stealthy miss," +Still bantered they, alas for me, +"To keep a wedding close as this . . ." +Ay, Fortune worked thus wantonly! + +"But you are pale--you did not know?" +They archly asked, alas for me, +I stammered, "Yes--some days-ago," +While coffined clay I wished to be. + +"'Twas done to please her, we surmise?" +(They spoke quite lightly in their glee) +"Done by him as a fond surprise?" +I thought their words would madden me. + +Her lover entered. "Where's my bird? - +My bird--my flower--my picotee? +First time of asking, soon the third!" +Ah, in my grave I well may be. + +To me he whispered: "Since your call--" +So spoke he then, alas for me - +"I've felt for her, and righted all." +- I think of it to agony. + +"She's faint to-day--tired--nothing more--" +Thus did I lie, alas for me . . . +I called her at her chamber door +As one who scarce had strength to be. + +No voice replied. I went within - +O women! scourged the worst are we . . . +I shrieked. The others hastened in +And saw the stroke there dealt on me. + +There she lay--silent, breathless, dead, +Stone dead she lay--wronged, sinless she! - +Ghost-white the cheeks once rosy-red: +Death had took her. Death took not me. + +I kissed her colding face and hair, +I kissed her corpse--the bride to be! - +My punishment I cannot bear, +But pray God NOT to pity me. + +January 1904. + + + +THE HOUSE OF HOSPITALITIES + + + +Here we broached the Christmas barrel, + Pushed up the charred log-ends; +Here we sang the Christmas carol, + And called in friends. + +Time has tired me since we met here + When the folk now dead were young, +Since the viands were outset here + And quaint songs sung. + +And the worm has bored the viol + That used to lead the tune, +Rust eaten out the dial + That struck night's noon. + +Now no Christmas brings in neighbours, + And the New Year comes unlit; +Where we sang the mole now labours, + And spiders knit. + +Yet at midnight if here walking, + When the moon sheets wall and tree, +I see forms of old time talking, + Who smile on me. + + + +BEREFT + + + + In the black winter morning +No light will be struck near my eyes +While the clock in the stairway is warning +For five, when he used to rise. + Leave the door unbarred, + The clock unwound, + Make my lone bed hard - + Would 'twere underground! + + When the summer dawns clearly, +And the appletree-tops seem alight, +Who will undraw the curtain and cheerly +Call out that the morning is bright? + + When I tarry at market +No form will cross Durnover Lea +In the gathering darkness, to hark at +Grey's Bridge for the pit-pat o' me. + + When the supper crock's steaming, +And the time is the time of his tread, +I shall sit by the fire and wait dreaming +In a silence as of the dead. + Leave the door unbarred, + The clock unwound, + Make my lone bed hard - + Would 'twere underground! + +1901. + + + +JOHN AND JANE + + + +I + +He sees the world as a boisterous place +Where all things bear a laughing face, +And humorous scenes go hourly on, + Does John. + +II + +They find the world a pleasant place +Where all is ecstasy and grace, +Where a light has risen that cannot wane, + Do John and Jane. + +III + +They see as a palace their cottage-place, +Containing a pearl of the human race, +A hero, maybe, hereafter styled, + Do John and Jane with a baby-child. + +IV + +They rate the world as a gruesome place, +Where fair looks fade to a skull's grimace, - +As a pilgrimage they would fain get done - + Do John and Jane with their worthless son. + + + +THE CURATE'S KINDNESS +A WORKHOUSE IRONY + + + +I + +I thought they'd be strangers aroun' me, + But she's to be there! +Let me jump out o' waggon and go back and drown me +At Pummery or Ten-Hatches Weir. + +II + +I thought: "Well, I've come to the Union - + The workhouse at last - +After honest hard work all the week, and Communion +O' Zundays, these fifty years past. + +III + +"'Tis hard; but," I thought, "never mind it: + There's gain in the end: +And when I get used to the place I shall find it + A home, and may find there a friend. + +IV + +"Life there will be better than t'other. + For peace is assured. +THE MEN IN ONE WING AND THEIR WIVES IN ANOTHER + Is strictly the rule of the Board." + +V + +Just then one young Pa'son arriving + Steps up out of breath +To the side o' the waggon wherein we were driving + To Union; and calls out and saith: + +VI + +"Old folks, that harsh order is altered, + Be not sick of heart! +The Guardians they poohed and they pished and they paltered + When urged not to keep you apart. + +VII + +"'It is wrong,' I maintained, 'to divide them, + Near forty years wed.' +'Very well, sir. We promise, then, they shall abide them + In one wing together,' they said." + +VIII + +Then I sank--knew 'twas quite a foredone thing + That misery should be +To the end! . . . To get freed of her there was the one thing + Had made the change welcome to me. + +IX + +To go there was ending but badly; + 'Twas shame and 'twas pain; +"But anyhow," thought I, "thereby I shall gladly + Get free of this forty years' chain." + +X + +I thought they'd be strangers aroun' me, + But she's to be there! +Let me jump out o' waggon and go back and drown me + At Pummery or Ten-Hatches Weir. + + + +THE FLIRT'S TRAGEDY +(17--) + + + +Here alone by the logs in my chamber, + Deserted, decrepit - +Spent flames limning ghosts on the wainscot + Of friends I once knew - + +My drama and hers begins weirdly + Its dumb re-enactment, +Each scene, sigh, and circumstance passing + In spectral review. + +- Wealth was mine beyond wish when I met her - + The pride of the lowland - +Embowered in Tintinhull Valley + By laurel and yew; + +And love lit my soul, notwithstanding + My features' ill favour, +Too obvious beside her perfections + Of line and of hue. + +But it pleased her to play on my passion, + And whet me to pleadings +That won from her mirthful negations + And scornings undue. + +Then I fled her disdains and derisions + To cities of pleasure, +And made me the crony of idlers + In every purlieu. + +Of those who lent ear to my story, + A needy Adonis +Gave hint how to grizzle her garden + From roses to rue, + +Could his price but be paid for so purging + My scorner of scornings: +Thus tempted, the lust to avenge me + Germed inly and grew. + +I clothed him in sumptuous apparel, + Consigned to him coursers, +Meet equipage, liveried attendants + In full retinue. + +So dowered, with letters of credit + He wayfared to England, +And spied out the manor she goddessed, + And handy thereto, + +Set to hire him a tenantless mansion + As coign-stone of vantage +For testing what gross adulation + Of beauty could do. + +He laboured through mornings and evens, + On new moons and sabbaths, +By wiles to enmesh her attention + In park, path, and pew; + +And having afar played upon her, + Advanced his lines nearer, +And boldly outleaping conventions, + Bent briskly to woo. + +His gay godlike face, his rare seeming + Anon worked to win her, +And later, at noontides and night-tides + They held rendezvous. + +His tarriance full spent, he departed + And met me in Venice, +And lines from her told that my jilter + Was stooping to sue. + +Not long could be further concealment, + She pled to him humbly: +"By our love and our sin, O protect me; + I fly unto you!" + +A mighty remorse overgat me, + I heard her low anguish, +And there in the gloom of the calle + My steel ran him through. + +A swift push engulphed his hot carrion + Within the canal there - +That still street of waters dividing + The city in two. + +- I wandered awhile all unable + To smother my torment, +My brain racked by yells as from Tophet + Of Satan's whole crew. + +A month of unrest brought me hovering + At home in her precincts, +To whose hiding-hole local story + Afforded a clue. + +Exposed, and expelled by her people, + Afar off in London +I found her alone, in a sombre + And soul-stifling mew. + +Still burning to make reparation + I pleaded to wive her, +And father her child, and thus faintly + My mischief undo. + +She yielded, and spells of calm weather + Succeeded the tempest; +And one sprung of him stood as scion + Of my bone and thew . . . + +But Time unveils sorrows and secrets, + And so it befell now: +By inches the curtain was twitched at, + And slowly undrew. + +As we lay, she and I, in the night-time, + We heard the boy moaning: +"O misery mine! My false father + Has murdered my true!" + +She gasped: yea, she heard; understood it. + Next day the child fled us; +And nevermore sighted was even + A print of his shoe. + +Thenceforward she shunned me, and languished; + Till one day the park-pool +Embraced her fair form, and extinguished + Her eyes' living blue. + +- So; ask not what blast may account for + This aspect of pallor, +These bones that just prison within them + Life's poor residue; + +But pass by, and leave unregarded + A Cain to his suffering, +For vengeance too dark on the woman + Whose lover he slew. + + + +THE REJECTED MEMBER'S WIFE + + + +We shall see her no more + On the balcony, +Smiling, while hurt, at the roar + As of surging sea +From the stormy sturdy band + Who have doomed her lord's cause, +Though she waves her little hand + As it were applause. + +Here will be candidates yet, + And candidates' wives, +Fervid with zeal to set + Their ideals on our lives: +Here will come market-men + On the market-days, +Here will clash now and then + More such party assays. + +And the balcony will fill + When such times are renewed, +And the throng in the street will thrill + With to-day's mettled mood; +But she will no more stand + In the sunshine there, +With that wave of her white-gloved hand, + And that chestnut hair. + +January 1906. + + + +THE FARM-WOMAN'S WINTER + + + +I + +If seasons all were summers, + And leaves would never fall, +And hopping casement-comers + Were foodless not at all, +And fragile folk might be here + That white winds bid depart; +Then one I used to see here + Would warm my wasted heart! + +II + +One frail, who, bravely tilling + Long hours in gripping gusts, +Was mastered by their chilling, + And now his ploughshare rusts. +So savage winter catches + The breath of limber things, +And what I love he snatches, + And what I love not, brings. + + + +AUTUMN IN KING'S HINTOCK PARK + + + +Here by the baring bough + Raking up leaves, +Often I ponder how + Springtime deceives, - +I, an old woman now, + Raking up leaves. + +Here in the avenue + Raking up leaves, +Lords' ladies pass in view, + Until one heaves +Sighs at life's russet hue, + Raking up leaves! + +Just as my shape you see + Raking up leaves, +I saw, when fresh and free, + Those memory weaves +Into grey ghosts by me, + Raking up leaves. + +Yet, Dear, though one may sigh, + Raking up leaves, +New leaves will dance on high - + Earth never grieves! - +Will not, when missed am I + Raking up leaves. + +1901. + + + +SHUT OUT THAT MOON + + + +Close up the casement, draw the blind, + Shut out that stealing moon, +She wears too much the guise she wore + Before our lutes were strewn +With years-deep dust, and names we read + On a white stone were hewn. + +Step not out on the dew-dashed lawn + To view the Lady's Chair, +Immense Orion's glittering form, + The Less and Greater Bear: +Stay in; to such sights we were drawn + When faded ones were fair. + +Brush not the bough for midnight scents + That come forth lingeringly, +And wake the same sweet sentiments + They breathed to you and me +When living seemed a laugh, and love + All it was said to be. + +Within the common lamp-lit room + Prison my eyes and thought; +Let dingy details crudely loom, + Mechanic speech be wrought: +Too fragrant was Life's early bloom, + Too tart the fruit it brought! + +1904. + + + +REMINISCENCES OF A DANCING MAN + + + +I + +Who now remembers Almack's balls - + Willis's sometime named - +In those two smooth-floored upper halls + For faded ones so famed? +Where as we trod to trilling sound +The fancied phantoms stood around, + Or joined us in the maze, +Of the powdered Dears from Georgian years, +Whose dust lay in sightless sealed-up biers, + The fairest of former days. + +II + +Who now remembers gay Cremorne, + And all its jaunty jills, +And those wild whirling figures born + Of Jullien's grand quadrilles? +With hats on head and morning coats +There footed to his prancing notes + Our partner-girls and we; +And the gas-jets winked, and the lustres clinked, +And the platform throbbed as with arms enlinked + We moved to the minstrelsy. + +III + +Who now recalls those crowded rooms + Of old yclept "The Argyle," +Where to the deep Drum-polka's booms + We hopped in standard style? +Whither have danced those damsels now! +Is Death the partner who doth moue + Their wormy chaps and bare? +Do their spectres spin like sparks within +The smoky halls of the Prince of Sin + To a thunderous Jullien air? + + + +THE DEAD MAN WALKING + + + +They hail me as one living, + But don't they know +That I have died of late years, + Untombed although? + +I am but a shape that stands here, + A pulseless mould, +A pale past picture, screening + Ashes gone cold. + +Not at a minute's warning, + Not in a loud hour, +For me ceased Time's enchantments + In hall and bower. + +There was no tragic transit, + No catch of breath, +When silent seasons inched me + On to this death . . . + +- A Troubadour-youth I rambled + With Life for lyre, +The beats of being raging + In me like fire. + +But when I practised eyeing + The goal of men, +It iced me, and I perished + A little then. + +When passed my friend, my kinsfolk + Through the Last Door, +And left me standing bleakly, + I died yet more; + +And when my Love's heart kindled + In hate of me, +Wherefore I knew not, died I + One more degree. + +And if when I died fully + I cannot say, +And changed into the corpse-thing + I am to-day; + +Yet is it that, though whiling + The time somehow +In walking, talking, smiling, + I live not now. + + + + +MORE LOVE LYRICS + + + + +1967 + + + +In five-score summers! All new eyes, +New minds, new modes, new fools, new wise; +New woes to weep, new joys to prize; + +With nothing left of me and you +In that live century's vivid view +Beyond a pinch of dust or two; + +A century which, if not sublime, +Will show, I doubt not, at its prime, +A scope above this blinkered time. + +- Yet what to me how far above? +For I would only ask thereof +That thy worm should be my worm, Love! + +16 WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS, 1867. + + + +HER DEFINITION + + + +I lingered through the night to break of day, +Nor once did sleep extend a wing to me, +Intently busied with a vast array +Of epithets that should outfigure thee. + +Full-featured terms--all fitless--hastened by, +And this sole speech remained: "That maiden mine!" - +Debarred from due description then did I +Perceive the indefinite phrase could yet define. + +As common chests encasing wares of price +Are borne with tenderness through halls of state, +For what they cover, so the poor device +Of homely wording I could tolerate, +Knowing its unadornment held as freight +The sweetest image outside Paradise. + +W. P. V., +Summer 1866. + + + +THE DIVISION + + + +Rain on the windows, creaking doors, + With blasts that besom the green, +And I am here, and you are there, + And a hundred miles between! + +O were it but the weather, Dear, + O were it but the miles +That summed up all our severance, + There might be room for smiles. + +But that thwart thing betwixt us twain, + Which nothing cleaves or clears, +Is more than distance, Dear, or rain, + And longer than the years! + +1893. + + + +ON THE DEPARTURE PLATFORM + + + +We kissed at the barrier; and passing through +She left me, and moment by moment got +Smaller and smaller, until to my view + She was but a spot; + +A wee white spot of muslin fluff +That down the diminishing platform bore +Through hustling crowds of gentle and rough + To the carriage door. + +Under the lamplight's fitful glowers, +Behind dark groups from far and near, +Whose interests were apart from ours, + She would disappear, + +Then show again, till I ceased to see +That flexible form, that nebulous white; +And she who was more than my life to me + Had vanished quite . . . + +We have penned new plans since that fair fond day, +And in season she will appear again - +Perhaps in the same soft white array - + But never as then! + +- "And why, young man, must eternally fly +A joy you'll repeat, if you love her well?" +--O friend, nought happens twice thus; why, + I cannot tell! + + + +IN A CATHEDRAL CITY + + + +These people have not heard your name; +No loungers in this placid place +Have helped to bruit your beauty's fame. + +The grey Cathedral, towards whose face +Bend eyes untold, has met not yours; +Your shade has never swept its base, + +Your form has never darked its doors, +Nor have your faultless feet once thrown +A pensive pit-pat on its floors. + +Along the street to maids well known +Blithe lovers hum their tender airs, +But in your praise voice not a tone. + +- Since nought bespeaks you here, or bears, +As I, your imprint through and through, +Here might I rest, till my heart shares +The spot's unconsciousness of you! + +SALISBURY. + + + +"I SAY I'LL SEEK HER" + + + +I say, "I'll seek her side + Ere hindrance interposes;" + But eve in midnight closes, +And here I still abide. + +When darkness wears I see + Her sad eyes in a vision; + They ask, "What indecision +Detains you, Love, from me? - + +"The creaking hinge is oiled, + I have unbarred the backway, + But you tread not the trackway; +And shall the thing be spoiled? + +"Far cockcrows echo shrill, + The shadows are abating, + And I am waiting, waiting; +But O, you tarry still!" + + + +HER FATHER + + + +I met her, as we had privily planned, +Where passing feet beat busily: +She whispered: "Father is at hand! + He wished to walk with me." + +His presence as he joined us there +Banished our words of warmth away; +We felt, with cloudings of despair, + What Love must lose that day. + +Her crimson lips remained unkissed, +Our fingers kept no tender hold, +His lack of feeling made the tryst + Embarrassed, stiff, and cold. + +A cynic ghost then rose and said, +"But is his love for her so small +That, nigh to yours, it may be read + As of no worth at all? + +"You love her for her pink and white; +But what when their fresh splendours close? +His love will last her in despite + Of Time, and wrack, and foes." + +WEYMOUTH. + + + +AT WAKING + + + + When night was lifting, +And dawn had crept under its shade, + Amid cold clouds drifting +Dead-white as a corpse outlaid, + With a sudden scare + I seemed to behold + My Love in bare + Hard lines unfold. + + Yea, in a moment, +An insight that would not die + Killed her old endowment +Of charm that had capped all nigh, + Which vanished to none + Like the gilt of a cloud, + And showed her but one + Of the common crowd. + + She seemed but a sample +Of earth's poor average kind, + Lit up by no ample +Enrichments of mien or mind. + I covered my eyes + As to cover the thought, + And unrecognize + What the morn had taught. + + O vision appalling +When the one believed-in thing + Is seen falling, falling, +With all to which hope can cling. + Off: it is not true; + For it cannot be + That the prize I drew + Is a blank to me! + +WEYMOUTH, 1869. + + + +FOUR FOOTPRINTS + + + +Here are the tracks upon the sand +Where stood last evening she and I - +Pressed heart to heart and hand to hand; +The morning sun has baked them dry. + +I kissed her wet face--wet with rain, +For arid grief had burnt up tears, +While reached us as in sleeping pain +The distant gurgling of the weirs. + +"I have married him--yes; feel that ring; +'Tis a week ago that he put it on . . . +A dutiful daughter does this thing, +And resignation succeeds anon! + +"But that I body and soul was yours +Ere he'd possession, he'll never know. +He's a confident man. 'The husband scores,' +He says, 'in the long run' . . . Now, Dear, go!" + +I went. And to-day I pass the spot; +It is only a smart the more to endure; +And she whom I held is as though she were not, +For they have resumed their honeymoon tour. + + + +IN THE VAULTED WAY + + + +In the vaulted way, where the passage turned +To the shadowy corner that none could see, +You paused for our parting,--plaintively; +Though overnight had come words that burned +My fond frail happiness out of me. + +And then I kissed you,--despite my thought +That our spell must end when reflection came +On what you had deemed me, whose one long aim +Had been to serve you; that what I sought +Lay not in a heart that could breathe such blame. + +But yet I kissed you; whereon you again +As of old kissed me. Why, why was it so? +Do you cleave to me after that light-tongued blow? +If you scorned me at eventide, how love then? +The thing is dark, Dear. I do not know. + + + +IN THE MIND'S EYE + + + +That was once her casement, + And the taper nigh, +Shining from within there, + Beckoned, "Here am I!" + +Now, as then, I see her + Moving at the pane; +Ah; 'tis but her phantom + Borne within my brain! - + +Foremost in my vision + Everywhere goes she; +Change dissolves the landscapes, + She abides with me. + +Shape so sweet and shy, Dear, + Who can say thee nay? +Never once do I, Dear, + Wish thy ghost away. + + + +THE END OF THE EPISODE + + + + Indulge no more may we +In this sweet-bitter pastime: +The love-light shines the last time + Between you, Dear, and me. + + There shall remain no trace +Of what so closely tied us, +And blank as ere love eyed us + Will be our meeting-place. + + The flowers and thymy air, +Will they now miss our coming? +The dumbles thin their humming + To find we haunt not there? + + Though fervent was our vow, +Though ruddily ran our pleasure, +Bliss has fulfilled its measure, + And sees its sentence now. + + Ache deep; but make no moans: +Smile out; but stilly suffer: +The paths of love are rougher + Than thoroughfares of stones. + + + +THE SIGH + + + +Little head against my shoulder, +Shy at first, then somewhat bolder, + And up-eyed; +Till she, with a timid quaver, +Yielded to the kiss I gave her; + But, she sighed. + +That there mingled with her feeling +Some sad thought she was concealing + It implied. +- Not that she had ceased to love me, +None on earth she set above me; + But she sighed. + +She could not disguise a passion, +Dread, or doubt, in weakest fashion + If she tried: +Nothing seemed to hold us sundered, +Hearts were victors; so I wondered + Why she sighed. + +Afterwards I knew her throughly, +And she loved me staunchly, truly, + Till she died; +But she never made confession +Why, at that first sweet concession, + She had sighed. + +It was in our May, remember; +And though now I near November, + And abide +Till my appointed change, unfretting, +Sometimes I sit half regretting + That she sighed. + + + +"IN THE NIGHT SHE CAME" + + + +I told her when I left one day +That whatsoever weight of care +Might strain our love, Time's mere assault + Would work no changes there. +And in the night she came to me, + Toothless, and wan, and old, +With leaden concaves round her eyes, + And wrinkles manifold. + +I tremblingly exclaimed to her, +"O wherefore do you ghost me thus! +I have said that dull defacing Time + Will bring no dreads to us." +"And is that true of YOU?" she cried + In voice of troubled tune. +I faltered: "Well . . . I did not think + You would test me quite so soon!" + +She vanished with a curious smile, +Which told me, plainlier than by word, +That my staunch pledge could scarce beguile + The fear she had averred. +Her doubts then wrought their shape in me, + And when next day I paid +My due caress, we seemed to be + Divided by some shade. + + + +THE CONFORMERS + + + + Yes; we'll wed, my little fay, + And you shall write you mine, +And in a villa chastely gray + We'll house, and sleep, and dine. + But those night-screened, divine, + Stolen trysts of heretofore, +We of choice ecstasies and fine + Shall know no more. + + The formal faced cohue + Will then no more upbraid +With smiting smiles and whisperings two + Who have thrown less loves in shade. + We shall no more evade + The searching light of the sun, +Our game of passion will be played, + Our dreaming done. + + We shall not go in stealth + To rendezvous unknown, +But friends will ask me of your health, + And you about my own. + When we abide alone, + No leapings each to each, +But syllables in frigid tone + Of household speech. + + When down to dust we glide + Men will not say askance, +As now: "How all the country side + Rings with their mad romance!" + But as they graveward glance + Remark: "In them we lose +A worthy pair, who helped advance + Sound parish views." + + +THE DAWN AFTER THE DANCE + + + +Here is your parents' dwelling with its curtained windows telling +Of no thought of us within it or of our arrival here; +Their slumbers have been normal after one day more of formal +Matrimonial commonplace and household life's mechanic gear. + +I would be candid willingly, but dawn draws on so chillingly +As to render further cheerlessness intolerable now, +So I will not stand endeavouring to declare a day for severing, +But will clasp you just as always--just the olden love avow. + +Through serene and surly weather we have walked the ways together, +And this long night's dance this year's end eve now finishes the spell; +Yet we dreamt us but beginning a sweet sempiternal spinning +Of a cord we have spun to breaking--too intemperately, too well. + +Yes; last night we danced I know, Dear, as we did that year ago, Dear, +When a new strange bond between our days was formed, and felt, and heard; +Would that dancing were the worst thing from the latest to the first thing +That the faded year can charge us with; but what avails a word! + +That which makes man's love the lighter and the woman's burn no brighter +Came to pass with us inevitably while slipped the shortening year . . . +And there stands your father's dwelling with its blind bleak windows telling +That the vows of man and maid are frail as filmy gossamere. + +WEYMOUTH, 1869. + + + +THE SUN ON THE LETTER + + + +I drew the letter out, while gleamed +The sloping sun from under a roof +Of cloud whose verge rose visibly. + +The burning ball flung rays that seemed +Stretched like a warp without a woof +Across the levels of the lea + +To where I stood, and where they beamed +As brightly on the page of proof +That she had shown her false to me + +As if it had shown her true--had teemed +With passionate thought for my behoof +Expressed with their own ardency! + + + +THE NIGHT OF THE DANCE + + + +The cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn, + And centres its gaze on me; +The stars, like eyes in reverie, +Their westering as for a while forborne, + Quiz downward curiously. + +Old Robert draws the backbrand in, + The green logs steam and spit; +The half-awakened sparrows flit +From the riddled thatch; and owls begin + To whoo from the gable-slit. + +Yes; far and nigh things seem to know + Sweet scenes are impending here; +That all is prepared; that the hour is near +For welcomes, fellowships, and flow + Of sally, song, and cheer; + +That spigots are pulled and viols strung; + That soon will arise the sound +Of measures trod to tunes renowned; +That She will return in Love's low tongue + My vows as we wheel around. + + + +MISCONCEPTION + + + +I busied myself to find a sure + Snug hermitage +That should preserve my Love secure + From the world's rage; +Where no unseemly saturnals, + Or strident traffic-roars, +Or hum of intervolved cabals + Should echo at her doors. + +I laboured that the diurnal spin + Of vanities +Should not contrive to suck her in + By dark degrees, +And cunningly operate to blur + Sweet teachings I had begun; +And then I went full-heart to her + To expound the glad deeds done. + +She looked at me, and said thereto + With a pitying smile, +"And THIS is what has busied you + So long a while? +O poor exhausted one, I see + You have worn you old and thin +For naught! Those moils you fear for me + I find most pleasure in!" + + + +THE VOICE OF THE THORN + + + +I + +When the thorn on the down +Quivers naked and cold, +And the mid-aged and old +Pace the path there to town, +In these words dry and drear +It seems to them sighing: +"O winter is trying +To sojourners here!" + +II + +When it stands fully tressed +On a hot summer day, +And the ewes there astray +Find its shade a sweet rest, +By the breath of the breeze +It inquires of each farer: +"Who would not be sharer +Of shadow with these?" + +III + +But by day or by night, +And in winter or summer, +Should I be the comer +Along that lone height, +In its voicing to me +Only one speech is spoken: +"Here once was nigh broken +A heart, and by thee." + + + +FROM HER IN THE COUNTRY + + + +I thought and thought of thy crass clanging town +To folly, till convinced such dreams were ill, +I held my heart in bond, and tethered down +Fancy to where I was, by force of will. + +I said: How beautiful are these flowers, this wood, +One little bud is far more sweet to me +Than all man's urban shows; and then I stood +Urging new zest for bird, and bush, and tree; + +And strove to feel my nature brought it forth +Of instinct, or no rural maid was I; +But it was vain; for I could not see worth +Enough around to charm a midge or fly, + +And mused again on city din and sin, +Longing to madness I might move therein! + +16 W. P. V., 1866. + + + +HER CONFESSION + + + +As some bland soul, to whom a debtor says +"I'll now repay the amount I owe to you," +In inward gladness feigns forgetfulness +That such a payment ever was his due + +(His long thought notwithstanding), so did I +At our last meeting waive your proffered kiss +With quick divergent talk of scenery nigh, +By such suspension to enhance my bliss. + +And as his looks in consternation fall +When, gathering that the debt is lightly deemed, +The debtor makes as not to pay at all, +So faltered I, when your intention seemed + +Converted by my false uneagerness +To putting off for ever the caress. + +W. P. V., 1865-67. + + + +TO AN IMPERSONATOR OF ROSALIND + + + +Did he who drew her in the years ago - +Till now conceived creator of her grace - +With telescopic sight high natures know, +Discern remote in Time's untravelled space + +Your soft sweet mien, your gestures, as do we, +And with a copyist's hand but set them down, +Glowing yet more to dream our ecstasy +When his Original should be forthshown? + +For, kindled by that animated eye, +Whereto all fairnesses about thee brim, +And by thy tender tones, what wight can fly +The wild conviction welling up in him + +That he at length beholds woo, parley, plead, +The "very, very Rosalind" indeed! + +8 ADELPHI TERRACE, 21st April 1867. + + + +TO AN ACTRESS + + + +I read your name when you were strange to me, +Where it stood blazoned bold with many more; +I passed it vacantly, and did not see +Any great glory in the shape it wore. + +O cruelty, the insight barred me then! +Why did I not possess me with its sound, +And in its cadence catch and catch again +Your nature's essence floating therearound? + +Could THAT man be this I, unknowing you, +When now the knowing you is all of me, +And the old world of then is now a new, +And purpose no more what it used to be - +A thing of formal journeywork, but due +To springs that then were sealed up utterly? + +1867. + + + +THE MINUTE BEFORE MEETING + + + +The grey gaunt days dividing us in twain +Seemed hopeless hills my strength must faint to climb, +But they are gone; and now I would detain +The few clock-beats that part us; rein back Time, + +And live in close expectance never closed +In change for far expectance closed at last, +So harshly has expectance been imposed +On my long need while these slow blank months passed. + +And knowing that what is now about to be +Will all HAVE BEEN in O, so short a space! +I read beyond it my despondency +When more dividing months shall take its place, +Thereby denying to this hour of grace +A full-up measure of felicity. + +1871. + + + +HE ABJURES LOVE + + + +At last I put off love, + For twice ten years +The daysman of my thought, + And hope, and doing; +Being ashamed thereof, + And faint of fears +And desolations, wrought +In his pursuing, + +Since first in youthtime those + Disquietings +That heart-enslavement brings + To hale and hoary, +Became my housefellows, + And, fool and blind, +I turned from kith and kind + To give him glory. + +I was as children be + Who have no care; +I did not shrink or sigh, + I did not sicken; +But lo, Love beckoned me, + And I was bare, +And poor, and starved, and dry, + And fever-stricken. + +Too many times ablaze + With fatuous fires, +Enkindled by his wiles + To new embraces, +Did I, by wilful ways + And baseless ires, +Return the anxious smiles + Of friendly faces. + +No more will now rate I + The common rare, +The midnight drizzle dew, + The gray hour golden, +The wind a yearning cry, + The faulty fair, +Things dreamt, of comelier hue + Than things beholden! . . . + +--I speak as one who plumbs + Life's dim profound, +One who at length can sound + Clear views and certain. +But--after love what comes? + A scene that lours, +A few sad vacant hours, + And then, the Curtain. + +1883. + + + + +A SET OF COUNTRY SONGS + + + + +LET ME ENJOY +(MINOR KEY) + + + +I + +Let me enjoy the earth no less +Because the all-enacting Might +That fashioned forth its loveliness +Had other aims than my delight. + +II + +About my path there flits a Fair, +Who throws me not a word or sign; +I'll charm me with her ignoring air, +And laud the lips not meant for mine. + +III + +From manuscripts of moving song +Inspired by scenes and dreams unknown +I'll pour out raptures that belong +To others, as they were my own. + +IV + +And some day hence, towards Paradise, +And all its blest--if such should be - +I will lift glad, afar-off eyes, +Though it contain no place for me. + + + +AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR + + + +I + +THE BALLAD-SINGER + +Sing, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune; +Make me forget that there was ever a one +I walked with in the meek light of the moon + When the day's work was done. + +Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song; +Make me forget that she whom I loved well +Swore she would love me dearly, love me long, + Then--what I cannot tell! + +Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book; +Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears; +Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look - + Make me forget her tears. + +II + +FORMER BEAUTIES + +These market-dames, mid-aged, with lips thin-drawn, + And tissues sere, +Are they the ones we loved in years agone, + And courted here? + +Are these the muslined pink young things to whom + We vowed and swore +In nooks on summer Sundays by the Froom, + Or Budmouth shore? + +Do they remember those gay tunes we trod + Clasped on the green; +Aye; trod till moonlight set on the beaten sod + A satin sheen? + +They must forget, forget! They cannot know + What once they were, +Or memory would transfigure them, and show + Them always fair. + +III + +AFTER THE CLUB-DANCE + +Black'on frowns east on Maidon, + And westward to the sea, +But on neither is his frown laden + With scorn, as his frown on me! + +At dawn my heart grew heavy, + I could not sip the wine, +I left the jocund bevy + And that young man o' mine. + +The roadside elms pass by me, - + Why do I sink with shame +When the birds a-perch there eye me? + They, too, have done the same! + +IV + +THE MARKET-GIRL + +Nobody took any notice of her as she stood on the causey kerb, +All eager to sell her honey and apples and bunches of garden herb; +And if she had offered to give her wares and herself with them too that day, +I doubt if a soul would have cared to take a bargain so choice away. + +But chancing to trace her sunburnt grace that morning as I passed nigh, +I went and I said "Poor maidy dear!--and will none of the people buy?" +And so it began; and soon we knew what the end of it all must be, +And I found that though no others had bid, a prize had been won by me. + +V + +THE INQUIRY + +And are ye one of Hermitage - +Of Hermitage, by Ivel Road, +And do ye know, in Hermitage +A thatch-roofed house where sengreens grow? +And does John Waywood live there still - +He of the name that there abode +When father hurdled on the hill + Some fifteen years ago? + +Does he now speak o' Patty Beech, +The Patty Beech he used to--see, +Or ask at all if Patty Beech +Is known or heard of out this way? +- Ask ever if she's living yet, +And where her present home may be, +And how she bears life's fag and fret + After so long a day? + +In years agone at Hermitage +This faded face was counted fair, +None fairer; and at Hermitage +We swore to wed when he should thrive. +But never a chance had he or I, +And waiting made his wish outwear, +And Time, that dooms man's love to die, + Preserves a maid's alive. + +VI + +A WIFE WAITS + +Will's at the dance in the Club-room below, + Where the tall liquor-cups foam; +I on the pavement up here by the Bow, + Wait, wait, to steady him home. + +Will and his partner are treading a tune, + Loving companions they be; +Willy, before we were married in June, + Said he loved no one but me; + +Said he would let his old pleasures all go + Ever to live with his Dear. +Will's at the dance in the Club-room below, + Shivering I wait for him here. + +NOTE.--"The Bow" (line 3). The old name for the curved corner by the cross- +streets in the middle of Casterbridge. + +VII + +AFTER THE FAIR + +The singers are gone from the Cornmarket-place + With their broadsheets of rhymes, +The street rings no longer in treble and bass + With their skits on the times, +And the Cross, lately thronged, is a dim naked space + That but echoes the stammering chimes. + +From Clock-corner steps, as each quarter ding-dongs, + Away the folk roam +By the "Hart" and Grey's Bridge into byways and "drongs," + Or across the ridged loam; +The younger ones shrilling the lately heard songs, + The old saying, "Would we were home." + +The shy-seeming maiden so mute in the fair + Now rattles and talks, +And that one who looked the most swaggering there + Grows sad as she walks, +And she who seemed eaten by cankering care + In statuesque sturdiness stalks. + +And midnight clears High Street of all but the ghosts + Of its buried burghees, +From the latest far back to those old Roman hosts + Whose remains one yet sees, +Who loved, laughed, and fought, hailed their friends, drank their toasts + At their meeting-times here, just as these! + +1902. + +NOTE.--"The Chimes" (line 6) will be listened for in vain here at midnight +now, having been abolished some years ago. + + + +THE DARK-EYED GENTLEMAN + + + +I + +I pitched my day's leazings in Crimmercrock Lane, +To tie up my garter and jog on again, +When a dear dark-eyed gentleman passed there and said, +In a way that made all o' me colour rose-red, + "What do I see - + O pretty knee!" +And he came and he tied up my garter for me. + +II + +'Twixt sunset and moonrise it was, I can mind: +Ah, 'tis easy to lose what we nevermore find! - +Of the dear stranger's home, of his name, I knew nought, +But I soon knew his nature and all that it brought. + Then bitterly + Sobbed I that he +Should ever have tied up my garter for me! + +III + +Yet now I've beside me a fine lissom lad, +And my slip's nigh forgot, and my days are not sad; +My own dearest joy is he, comrade, and friend, +He it is who safe-guards me, on him I depend; + No sorrow brings he, + And thankful I be +That his daddy once tied up my garter for me! + +NOTE.--"Leazings" (line 1).--Bundle of gleaned corn. + + + +TO CARREY CLAVEL + + + +You turn your back, you turn your back, + And never your face to me, +Alone you take your homeward track, + And scorn my company. + +What will you do when Charley's seen + Dewbeating down this way? +- You'll turn your back as now, you mean? + Nay, Carrey Clavel, nay! + +You'll see none's looking; put your lip + Up like a tulip, so; +And he will coll you, bend, and sip: + Yes, Carrey, yes; I know! + + + +THE ORPHANED OLD MAID + + + +I wanted to marry, but father said, "No - +'Tis weakness in women to give themselves so; +If you care for your freedom you'll listen to me, +Make a spouse in your pocket, and let the men be." + +I spake on't again and again: father cried, +"Why--if you go husbanding, where shall I bide? +For never a home's for me elsewhere than here!" +And I yielded; for father had ever been dear. + +But now father's gone, and I feel growing old, +And I'm lonely and poor in this house on the wold, +And my sweetheart that was found a partner elsewhere, +And nobody flings me a thought or a care. + + + +THE SPRING CALL + + + +Down Wessex way, when spring's a-shine, + The blackbird's "pret-ty de-urr!" +In Wessex accents marked as mine + Is heard afar and near. + +He flutes it strong, as if in song + No R's of feebler tone +Than his appear in "pretty dear," + Have blackbirds ever known. + +Yet they pipe "prattie deerh!" I glean, + Beneath a Scottish sky, +And "pehty de-aw!" amid the treen + Of Middlesex or nigh. + +While some folk say--perhaps in play - + Who know the Irish isle, +'Tis "purrity dare!" in treeland there + When songsters would beguile. + +Well: I'll say what the listening birds + Say, hearing "pret-ty de-urr!" - +However strangers sound such words, + That's how we sound them here. + +Yes, in this clime at pairing time, + As soon as eyes can see her +At dawn of day, the proper way + To call is "pret-ty de-urr!" + + + +JULIE-JANE + + + + Sing; how 'a would sing! + How 'a would raise the tune +When we rode in the waggon from harvesting + By the light o' the moon! + + Dance; how 'a would dance! + If a fiddlestring did but sound +She would hold out her coats, give a slanting glance, + And go round and round. + + Laugh; how 'a would laugh! + Her peony lips would part +As if none such a place for a lover to quaff + At the deeps of a heart. + + Julie, O girl of joy, + Soon, soon that lover he came. +Ah, yes; and gave thee a baby-boy, + But never his name . . . + + --Tolling for her, as you guess; + And the baby too . . . 'Tis well. +You knew her in maidhood likewise?--Yes, + That's her burial bell. + + "I suppose," with a laugh, she said, + "I should blush that I'm not a wife; +But how can it matter, so soon to be dead, + What one does in life!" + + When we sat making the mourning + By her death-bed side, said she, +"Dears, how can you keep from your lovers, adorning + In honour of me!" + + Bubbling and brightsome eyed! + But now--O never again. +She chose her bearers before she died + From her fancy-men. + +NOTE.--It is, or was, a common custom in Wessex, and probably other country +places, to prepare the mourning beside the death-bed, the dying person +sometimes assisting, who also selects his or her bearers on such occasions. + +"Coats" (line 7).--Old name for petticoats. + + + +NEWS FOR HER MOTHER + + + +I + + One mile more is + Where your door is + Mother mine! - + Harvest's coming, + Mills are strumming, + Apples fine, +And the cider made to-year will be as wine. + +II + + Yet, not viewing + What's a-doing + Here around + Is it thrills me, + And so fills me + That I bound +Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground. + +III + + Tremble not now + At your lot now, + Silly soul! + Hosts have sped them + Quick to wed them, + Great and small, +Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole. + +IV + + Yet I wonder, + Will it sunder + Her from me? + Will she guess that + I said "Yes,"--that + His I'd be, +Ere I thought she might not see him as I see! + +V + + Old brown gable, + Granary, stable, + Here you are! + O my mother, + Can another + Ever bar +Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar? + + + +THE FIDDLER + + + +The fiddler knows what's brewing + To the lilt of his lyric wiles: +The fiddler knows what rueing + Will come of this night's smiles! + +He sees couples join them for dancing, + And afterwards joining for life, +He sees them pay high for their prancing + By a welter of wedded strife. + +He twangs: "Music hails from the devil, + Though vaunted to come from heaven, +For it makes people do at a revel + What multiplies sins by seven. + +"There's many a heart now mangled, + And waiting its time to go, +Whose tendrils were first entangled + By my sweet viol and bow!" + + + +THE HUSBAND'S VIEW + + + +"Can anything avail +Beldame, for my hid grief? - +Listen: I'll tell the tale, +It may bring faint relief! - + +"I came where I was not known, +In hope to flee my sin; +And walking forth alone +A young man said, 'Good e'en.' + +"In gentle voice and true +He asked to marry me; +'You only--only you +Fulfil my dream!' said he. + +"We married o' Monday morn, +In the month of hay and flowers; +My cares were nigh forsworn, +And perfect love was ours. + +"But ere the days are long +Untimely fruit will show; +My Love keeps up his song, +Undreaming it is so. + +"And I awake in the night, +And think of months gone by, +And of that cause of flight +Hidden from my Love's eye. + +"Discovery borders near, +And then! . . . But something stirred? - +My husband--he is here! +Heaven--has he overheard?" - + +"Yes; I have heard, sweet Nan; +I have known it all the time. +I am not a particular man; +Misfortunes are no crime: + +"And what with our serious need +Of sons for soldiering, +That accident, indeed, +To maids, is a useful thing!" + + + +ROSE-ANN + + + +Why didn't you say you was promised, Rose-Ann? + Why didn't you name it to me, +Ere ever you tempted me hither, Rose-Ann, + So often, so wearifully? + +O why did you let me be near 'ee, Rose-Ann, + Talking things about wedlock so free, +And never by nod or by whisper, Rose-Ann, + Give a hint that it wasn't to be? + +Down home I was raising a flock of stock ewes, + Cocks and hens, and wee chickens by scores, +And lavendered linen all ready to use, + A-dreaming that they would be yours. + +Mother said: "She's a sport-making maiden, my son"; + And a pretty sharp quarrel had we; +O why do you prove by this wrong you have done + That I saw not what mother could see? + +Never once did you say you was promised, Rose-Ann, + Never once did I dream it to be; +And it cuts to the heart to be treated, Rose-Ann, + As you in your scorning treat me! + + + +THE HOMECOMING + + + +Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare, +And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there. + +"Now don't ye rub your eyes so red; we're home and have no cares; +Here's a skimmer-cake for supper, peckled onions, and some pears; +I've got a little keg o' summat strong, too, under stairs: +- What, slight your husband's victuals? Other brides can tackle theirs!" + +The wind of winter mooed and mouthed their chimney like a horn, +And round the house and past the house 'twas leafless and lorn. + +"But my dear and tender poppet, then, how came ye to agree +In Ivel church this morning? Sure, there-right you married me!" +- "Hoo-hoo!--I don't know--I forgot how strange and far 'twould be, +An' I wish I was at home again with dear daddee!" + +Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare, +And lonesome was the house and dark; and few came there. + +"I didn't think such furniture as this was all you'd own, +And great black beams for ceiling, and a floor o' wretched stone, +And nasty pewter platters, horrid forks of steel and bone, +And a monstrous crock in chimney. 'Twas to me quite unbeknown!" + +Rattle rattle went the door; down flapped a cloud of smoke, +As shifting north the wicked wind assayed a smarter stroke. + +"Now sit ye by the fire, poppet; put yourself at ease: +And keep your little thumb out of your mouth, dear, please! +And I'll sing to 'ee a pretty song of lovely flowers and bees, +And happy lovers taking walks within a grove o' trees." + +Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down, so bleak and bare, +And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there. + +"Now, don't ye gnaw your handkercher; 'twill hurt your little tongue, +And if you do feel spitish, 'tis because ye are over young; +But you'll be getting older, like us all, ere very long, +And you'll see me as I am--a man who never did 'ee wrong." + +Straight from Whit'sheet Hill to Benvill Lane the blusters pass, +Hitting hedges, milestones, handposts, trees, and tufts of grass. + +"Well, had I only known, my dear, that this was how you'd be, +I'd have married her of riper years that was so fond of me. +But since I can't, I've half a mind to run away to sea, +And leave 'ee to go barefoot to your d-d daddee!" + +Up one wall and down the other--past each window-pane - +Prance the gusts, and then away down Crimmercrock's long lane. + +"I--I--don't know what to say to't, since your wife I've vowed to be; +And as 'tis done, I s'pose here I must bide --poor me! +Aye--as you are ki-ki-kind, I'll try to live along with 'ee, +Although I'd fain have stayed at home with dear daddee!" + +Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down, so bleak and bare, +And lonesome was the house and dark; and few came there. + +"That's right, my Heart! And though on haunted Toller Down we be, +And the wind swears things in chimley, we'll to supper merrily! +So don't ye tap your shoe so pettish-like; but smile at me, +And ye'll soon forget to sock and sigh for dear daddee!" + +December 1901. + + + + +PIECES OCCASIONAL AND VARIOUS + + + + +A CHURCH ROMANCE +(MELLSTOCK circa 1835) + + + +She turned in the high pew, until her sight +Swept the west gallery, and caught its row +Of music-men with viol, book, and bow +Against the sinking sad tower-window light. + +She turned again; and in her pride's despite +One strenuous viol's inspirer seemed to throw +A message from his string to her below, +Which said: "I claim thee as my own forthright!" + +Thus their hearts' bond began, in due time signed. +And long years thence, when Age had scared Romance, +At some old attitude of his or glance +That gallery-scene would break upon her mind, +With him as minstrel, ardent, young, and trim, +Bowing "New Sabbath" or "Mount Ephraim." + + + +THE RASH BRIDE +AN EXPERIENCE OF THE MELLSTOCK QUIRE + + + +I + +We Christmas-carolled down the Vale, and up the Vale, and round the Vale, +We played and sang that night as we were yearly wont to do - +A carol in a minor key, a carol in the major D, +Then at each house: "Good wishes: many Christmas joys to you!" + +II + +Next, to the widow's John and I and all the rest drew on. And I +Discerned that John could hardly hold the tongue of him for joy. +The widow was a sweet young thing whom John was bent on marrying, +And quiring at her casement seemed romantic to the boy. + +III + +"She'll make reply, I trust," said he, "to our salute? She must!" said he, +"And then I will accost her gently--much to her surprise! - +For knowing not I am with you here, when I speak up and call her dear +A tenderness will fill her voice, a bashfulness her eyes. + +IV + +So, by her window-square we stood; ay, with our lanterns there we stood, +And he along with us,--not singing, waiting for a sign; +And when we'd quired her carols three a light was lit and out looked she, +A shawl about her bedgown, and her colour red as wine. + +V + +And sweetly then she bowed her thanks, and smiled, and spoke aloud her +thanks; +When lo, behind her back there, in the room, a man appeared. +I knew him--one from Woolcomb way--Giles Swetman--honest as the day, +But eager, hasty; and I felt that some strange trouble neared. + +VI + +"How comes he there? . . . Suppose," said we, "she's wed of late! Who +knows?" said we. +- "She married yester-morning--only mother yet has known +The secret o't!" shrilled one small boy. "But now I've told, let's wish 'em +joy!" +A heavy fall aroused us: John had gone down like a stone. + +VII + +We rushed to him and caught him round, and lifted him, and brought him +round, +When, hearing something wrong had happened, oped the window she: +"Has one of you fallen ill?" she asked, "by these night labours overtasked?" +None answered. That she'd done poor John a cruel turn felt we. + +VIII + +Till up spoke Michael: "Fie, young dame! You've broke your promise, sly +young dame, +By forming this new tie, young dame, and jilting John so true, +Who trudged to-night to sing to 'ee because he thought he'd bring to 'ee +Good wishes as your coming spouse. May ye such trifling rue!" + +IX + +Her man had said no word at all; but being behind had heard it all, +And now cried: "Neighbours, on my soul I knew not 'twas like this!" +And then to her: "If I had known you'd had in tow not me alone, +No wife should you have been of mine. It is a dear bought bliss!" + +X + +She changed death-white, and heaved a cry: we'd never heard so grieved a +cry +As came from her at this from him: heart-broken quite seemed she; +And suddenly, as we looked on, she turned, and rushed; and she was gone, +Whither, her husband, following after, knew not; nor knew we. + +XI + +We searched till dawn about the house; within the house, without the house, +We searched among the laurel boughs that grew beneath the wall, +And then among the crocks and things, and stores for winter junketings, +In linhay, loft, and dairy; but we found her not at all. + +XII + +Then John rushed in: "O friends," he said, "hear this, this, this!" and +bends his head: +"I've--searched round by the--WELL, and find the cover open wide! +I am fearful that--I can't say what . . . Bring lanterns, and some cords to +knot." +We did so, and we went and stood the deep dark hole beside. + +XIII + +And then they, ropes in hand, and I--ay, John, and all the band, and I +Let down a lantern to the depths--some hundred feet and more; +It glimmered like a fog-dimmed star; and there, beside its light, afar, +White drapery floated, and we knew the meaning that it bore. + +XIV + +The rest is naught . . . We buried her o' Sunday. Neighbours carried her; +And Swetman--he who'd married her--now miserablest of men, +Walked mourning first; and then walked John; just quivering, but composed +anon; +And we the quire formed round the grave, as was the custom then. + +XV + +Our old bass player, as I recall--his white hair blown--but why recall! - +His viol upstrapped, bent figure--doomed to follow her full soon - +Stood bowing, pale and tremulous; and next to him the rest of us . . . +We sang the Ninetieth Psalm to her--set to Saint Stephen's tune. + + + +THE DEAD QUIRE + + + +I + +Beside the Mead of Memories, +Where Church-way mounts to Moaning Hill, +The sad man sighed his phantasies: + He seems to sigh them still. + +II + +"'Twas the Birth-tide Eve, and the hamleteers +Made merry with ancient Mellstock zest, +But the Mellstock quire of former years + Had entered into rest. + +III + +"Old Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree, +And Reuben and Michael a pace behind, +And Bowman with his family + By the wall that the ivies bind. + +IV + +"The singers had followed one by one, +Treble, and tenor, and thorough-bass; +And the worm that wasteth had begun + To mine their mouldering place. + +V + +"For two-score years, ere Christ-day light, +Mellstock had throbbed to strains from these; +But now there echoed on the night + No Christmas harmonies. + +VI + +"Three meadows off, at a dormered inn, +The youth had gathered in high carouse, +And, ranged on settles, some therein + Had drunk them to a drowse. + +VII + +"Loud, lively, reckless, some had grown, +Each dandling on his jigging knee +Eliza, Dolly, Nance, or Joan - + Livers in levity. + +VIII + +"The taper flames and hearthfire shine +Grew smoke-hazed to a lurid light, +And songs on subjects not divine + Were warbled forth that night. + +IX + +"Yet many were sons and grandsons here +Of those who, on such eves gone by, +At that still hour had throated clear + Their anthems to the sky. + +X + +"The clock belled midnight; and ere long +One shouted, 'Now 'tis Christmas morn; +Here's to our women old and young, + And to John Barleycorn!' + +XI + +"They drink the toast and shout again: +The pewter-ware rings back the boom, +And for a breath-while follows then + A silence in the room. + +XII + +"When nigh without, as in old days, +The ancient quire of voice and string +Seemed singing words of prayer and praise + As they had used to sing: + +XIII + +"'While shepherds watch'd their flocks by night,' - +Thus swells the long familiar sound +In many a quaint symphonic flight - + To, 'Glory shone around.' + +XIV + +"The sons defined their fathers' tones, +The widow his whom she had wed, +And others in the minor moans + The viols of the dead. + +XV + +"Something supernal has the sound +As verse by verse the strain proceeds, +And stilly staring on the ground + Each roysterer holds and heeds. + +XVI + +"Towards its chorded closing bar +Plaintively, thinly, waned the hymn, +Yet lingered, like the notes afar + Of banded seraphim. + +XVII + +"With brows abashed, and reverent tread, +The hearkeners sought the tavern door: +But nothing, save wan moonlight, spread + The empty highway o'er. + +XVIII + +"While on their hearing fixed and tense +The aerial music seemed to sink, +As it were gently moving thence + Along the river brink. + +XIX + +"Then did the Quick pursue the Dead +By crystal Froom that crinkles there; +And still the viewless quire ahead + Voiced the old holy air. + +XX + +"By Bank-walk wicket, brightly bleached, +It passed, and 'twixt the hedges twain, +Dogged by the living; till it reached + The bottom of Church Lane. + +XXI + +"There, at the turning, it was heard +Drawing to where the churchyard lay: +But when they followed thitherward + It smalled, and died away. + +XXII + +"Each headstone of the quire, each mound, +Confronted them beneath the moon; +But no more floated therearound + That ancient Birth-night tune. + +XXIII + +"There Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree, +There Reuben and Michael, a pace behind, +And Bowman with his family + By the wall that the ivies bind . . . + +XXIV + +"As from a dream each sobered son +Awoke, and musing reached his door: +'Twas said that of them all, not one + Sat in a tavern more." + +XXV + +- The sad man ceased; and ceased to heed +His listener, and crossed the leaze +From Moaning Hill towards the mead - + The Mead of Memories. + +1897. + + + +THE CHRISTENING + + + +Whose child is this they bring + Into the aisle? - +At so superb a thing +The congregation smile +And turn their heads awhile. + +Its eyes are blue and bright, + Its cheeks like rose; +Its simple robes unite +Whitest of calicoes +With lawn, and satin bows. + +A pride in the human race + At this paragon +Of mortals, lights each face +While the old rite goes on; +But ah, they are shocked anon. + +What girl is she who peeps + From the gallery stair, +Smiles palely, redly weeps, +With feverish furtive air +As though not fitly there? + +"I am the baby's mother; + This gem of the race +The decent fain would smother, +And for my deep disgrace +I am bidden to leave the place." + +"Where is the baby's father?" - + "In the woods afar. +He says there is none he'd rather +Meet under moon or star +Than me, of all that are. + +"To clasp me in lovelike weather, + Wish fixing when, +He says: To be together +At will, just now and then, +Makes him the blest of men; + +"But chained and doomed for life + To slovening +As vulgar man and wife, +He says, is another thing: +Yea: sweet Love's sepulchring!" + +1904. + + + +A DREAM QUESTION + + + +"It shall be dark unto you, that ye shall not divine." +Micah iii. 6. + +I asked the Lord: "Sire, is this true +Which hosts of theologians hold, +That when we creatures censure you +For shaping griefs and ails untold +(Deeming them punishments undue) +You rage, as Moses wrote of old? + +When we exclaim: 'Beneficent +He is not, for he orders pain, +Or, if so, not omnipotent: +To a mere child the thing is plain!' +Those who profess to represent +You, cry out: 'Impious and profane!'" + +He: "Save me from my friends, who deem +That I care what my creatures say! +Mouth as you list: sneer, rail, blaspheme, +O manikin, the livelong day, +Not one grief-groan or pleasure-gleam +Will you increase or take away. + +"Why things are thus, whoso derides, +May well remain my secret still . . . +A fourth dimension, say the guides, +To matter is conceivable. +Think some such mystery resides +Within the ethic of my will." + + + +BY THE BARROWS + + + +Not far from Mellstock--so tradition saith - +Where barrows, bulging as they bosoms were +Of Multimammia stretched supinely there, +Catch night and noon the tempest's wanton breath, + +A battle, desperate doubtless unto death, +Was one time fought. The outlook, lone and bare, +The towering hawk and passing raven share, +And all the upland round is called "The He'th." + +Here once a woman, in our modern age, +Fought singlehandedly to shield a child - +One not her own--from a man's senseless rage. +And to my mind no patriots' bones there piled +So consecrate the silence as her deed +Of stoic and devoted self-unheed. + + + +A WIFE AND ANOTHER + + + + "War ends, and he's returning + Early; yea, + The evening next to-morrow's!" - + --This I say +To her, whom I suspiciously survey, + + Holding my husband's letter + To her view. - + She glanced at it but lightly, + And I knew +That one from him that day had reached her too. + + There was no time for scruple; + Secretly + I filched her missive, conned it, + Learnt that he +Would lodge with her ere he came home to me. + + To reach the port before her, + And, unscanned, + There wait to intercept them + Soon I planned: +That, in her stead, _I_ might before him stand. + + So purposed, so effected; + At the inn + Assigned, I found her hidden:- + O that sin +Should bear what she bore when I entered in! + + Her heavy lids grew laden + With despairs, + Her lips made soundless movements + Unawares, +While I peered at the chamber hired as theirs. + + And as beside its doorway, + Deadly hued, + One inside, one withoutside + We two stood, +He came--my husband--as she knew he would. + + No pleasurable triumph + Was that sight! + The ghastly disappointment + Broke them quite. +What love was theirs, to move them with such might! + + "Madam, forgive me!" said she, + Sorrow bent, + "A child--I soon shall bear him . . . + Yes--I meant +To tell you--that he won me ere he went." + + Then, as it were, within me + Something snapped, + As if my soul had largened: + Conscience-capped, +I saw myself the snarer--them the trapped. + + "My hate dies, and I promise, + Grace-beguiled," + I said, "to care for you, be + Reconciled; +And cherish, and take interest in the child." + + Without more words I pressed him + Through the door + Within which she stood, powerless + To say more, +And closed it on them, and downstairward bore. + + "He joins his wife--my sister," + I, below, + Remarked in going--lightly - + Even as though +All had come right, and we had arranged it so . . . + + As I, my road retracing, + Left them free, + The night alone embracing + Childless me, +I held I had not stirred God wrothfully. + + + +THE ROMAN ROAD + + + +The Roman Road runs straight and bare +As the pale parting-line in hair +Across the heath. And thoughtful men +Contrast its days of Now and Then, +And delve, and measure, and compare; + +Visioning on the vacant air +Helmed legionaries, who proudly rear +The Eagle, as they pace again + The Roman Road. + +But no tall brass-helmed legionnaire +Haunts it for me. Uprises there +A mother's form upon my ken, +Guiding my infant steps, as when +We walked that ancient thoroughfare, + The Roman Road. + + + +THE VAMPIRINE FAIR + + + +Gilbert had sailed to India's shore, + And I was all alone: +My lord came in at my open door + And said, "O fairest one!" + +He leant upon the slant bureau, + And sighed, "I am sick for thee!" +"My lord," said I, "pray speak not so, + Since wedded wife I be." + +Leaning upon the slant bureau, + Bitter his next words came: +"So much I know; and likewise know + My love burns on the same! + +"But since you thrust my love away, + And since it knows no cure, +I must live out as best I may + The ache that I endure." + +When Michaelmas browned the nether Coomb, + And Wingreen Hill above, +And made the hollyhocks rags of bloom, + My lord grew ill of love. + +My lord grew ill with love for me; + Gilbert was far from port; +And--so it was--that time did see + Me housed at Manor Court. + +About the bowers of Manor Court + The primrose pushed its head +When, on a day at last, report + Arrived of him I had wed. + +"Gilbert, my lord, is homeward bound, + His sloop is drawing near, +What shall I do when I am found + Not in his house but here?" + +"O I will heal the injuries + I've done to him and thee. +I'll give him means to live at ease + Afar from Shastonb'ry." + +When Gilbert came we both took thought: + "Since comfort and good cheer," +Said he, "So readily are bought, + He's welcome to thee, Dear." + +So when my lord flung liberally + His gold in Gilbert's hands, +I coaxed and got my brothers three + Made stewards of his lands. + +And then I coaxed him to install + My other kith and kin, +With aim to benefit them all + Before his love ran thin. + +And next I craved to be possessed + Of plate and jewels rare. +He groaned: "You give me, Love, no rest, + Take all the law will spare!" + +And so in course of years my wealth + Became a goodly hoard, +My steward brethren, too, by stealth + Had each a fortune stored. + +Thereafter in the gloom he'd walk, + And by and by began +To say aloud in absent talk, + "I am a ruined man! - + +"I hardly could have thought," he said, + "When first I looked on thee, +That one so soft, so rosy red, + Could thus have beggared me!" + +Seeing his fair estates in pawn, + And him in such decline, +I knew that his domain had gone + To lift up me and mine. + +Next month upon a Sunday morn + A gunshot sounded nigh: +By his own hand my lordly born + Had doomed himself to die. + +"Live, my dear lord, and much of thine + Shall be restored to thee!" +He smiled, and said 'twixt word and sign, + "Alas--that cannot be!" + +And while I searched his cabinet + For letters, keys, or will, +'Twas touching that his gaze was set + With love upon me still. + +And when I burnt each document + Before his dying eyes, +'Twas sweet that he did not resent + My fear of compromise. + +The steeple-cock gleamed golden when + I watched his spirit go: +And I became repentant then + That I had wrecked him so. + +Three weeks at least had come and gone, + With many a saddened word, +Before I wrote to Gilbert on + The stroke that so had stirred. + +And having worn a mournful gown, + I joined, in decent while, +My husband at a dashing town + To live in dashing style. + +Yet though I now enjoy my fling, + And dine and dance and drive, +I'd give my prettiest emerald ring + To see my lord alive. + +And when the meet on hunting-days + Is near his churchyard home, +I leave my bantering beaux to place + A flower upon his tomb; + +And sometimes say: "Perhaps too late + The saints in Heaven deplore +That tender time when, moved by Fate, + He darked my cottage door." + + + +THE REMINDER + + + +I + +While I watch the Christmas blaze +Paint the room with ruddy rays, +Something makes my vision glide +To the frosty scene outside. + +There, to reach a rotting berry, +Toils a thrush,--constrained to very +Dregs of food by sharp distress, +Taking such with thankfulness. + +Why, O starving bird, when I +One day's joy would justify, +And put misery out of view, +Do you make me notice you! + + + +THE RAMBLER + + + +I do not see the hills around, +Nor mark the tints the copses wear; +I do not note the grassy ground +And constellated daisies there. + +I hear not the contralto note +Of cuckoos hid on either hand, +The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat +When eve's brown awning hoods the land. + +Some say each songster, tree, and mead - +All eloquent of love divine - +Receives their constant careful heed: +Such keen appraisement is not mine. + +The tones around me that I hear, +The aspects, meanings, shapes I see, +Are those far back ones missed when near, +And now perceived too late by me! + + + +NIGHT IN THE OLD HOME + + + +When the wasting embers redden the chimney-breast, +And Life's bare pathway looms like a desert track to me, +And from hall and parlour the living have gone to their rest, +My perished people who housed them here come back to me. + +They come and seat them around in their mouldy places, +Now and then bending towards me a glance of wistfulness, +A strange upbraiding smile upon all their faces, +And in the bearing of each a passive tristfulness. + +"Do you uphold me, lingering and languishing here, +A pale late plant of your once strong stock?" I say to them; +"A thinker of crooked thoughts upon Life in the sere, +And on That which consigns men to night after showing the day to them?" + +"--O let be the Wherefore! We fevered our years not thus: +Take of Life what it grants, without question!" they answer me seemingly. +"Enjoy, suffer, wait: spread the table here freely like us, +And, satisfied, placid, unfretting, watch Time away beamingly!" + + + +AFTER THE LAST BREATH +(J. H. 1813-1904) + + + +There's no more to be done, or feared, or hoped; +None now need watch, speak low, and list, and tire; +No irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped + Does she require. + +Blankly we gaze. We are free to go or stay; +Our morrow's anxious plans have missed their aim; +Whether we leave to-night or wait till day + Counts as the same. + +The lettered vessels of medicaments +Seem asking wherefore we have set them here; +Each palliative its silly face presents + As useless gear. + +And yet we feel that something savours well; +We note a numb relief withheld before; +Our well-beloved is prisoner in the cell + Of Time no more. + +We see by littles now the deft achievement +Whereby she has escaped the Wrongers all, +In view of which our momentary bereavement + Outshapes but small. + +1904. + + + +IN CHILDBED + + + + In the middle of the night +Mother's spirit came and spoke to me, + Looking weariful and white - +As 'twere untimely news she broke to me. + + "O my daughter, joyed are you +To own the weetless child you mother there; + 'Men may search the wide world through,' +You think, 'nor find so fair another there!' + + "Dear, this midnight time unwombs +Thousands just as rare and beautiful; + Thousands whom High Heaven foredooms +To be as bright, as good, as dutiful. + + "Source of ecstatic hopes and fears +And innocent maternal vanity, + Your fond exploit but shapes for tears +New thoroughfares in sad humanity. + + "Yet as you dream, so dreamt I +When Life stretched forth its morning ray to me; + Other views for by and by!" . . . +Such strange things did mother say to me. + + + +THE PINE PLANTERS +(MARTY SOUTH'S REVERIE) + + + +I + +We work here together + In blast and breeze; +He fills the earth in, + I hold the trees. + +He does not notice + That what I do +Keeps me from moving + And chills me through. + +He has seen one fairer + I feel by his eye, +Which skims me as though + I were not by. + +And since she passed here + He scarce has known +But that the woodland + Holds him alone. + +I have worked here with him + Since morning shine, +He busy with his thoughts + And I with mine. + +I have helped him so many, + So many days, +But never win any + Small word of praise! + +Shall I not sigh to him + That I work on +Glad to be nigh to him + Though hope is gone? + +Nay, though he never + Knew love like mine, +I'll bear it ever + And make no sign! + +II + +From the bundle at hand here + I take each tree, +And set it to stand, here + Always to be; +When, in a second, + As if from fear +Of Life unreckoned + Beginning here, +It starts a sighing + Through day and night, +Though while there lying + 'Twas voiceless quite. + +It will sigh in the morning, + Will sigh at noon, +At the winter's warning, + In wafts of June; +Grieving that never + Kind Fate decreed +It should for ever + Remain a seed, +And shun the welter + Of things without, +Unneeding shelter + From storm and drought. + +Thus, all unknowing + For whom or what +We set it growing + In this bleak spot, +It still will grieve here + Throughout its time, +Unable to leave here, + Or change its clime; +Or tell the story + Of us to-day +When, halt and hoary, + We pass away. + + + +THE DEAR + + + +I plodded to Fairmile Hill-top, where + A maiden one fain would guard +From every hazard and every care + Advanced on the roadside sward. + +I wondered how succeeding suns + Would shape her wayfarings, +And wished some Power might take such ones + Under Its warding wings. + +The busy breeze came up the hill + And smartened her cheek to red, +And frizzled her hair to a haze. With a will + "Good-morning, my Dear!" I said. + +She glanced from me to the far-off gray, + And, with proud severity, +"Good-morning to you--though I may say + I am not YOUR Dear," quoth she: + +"For I am the Dear of one not here - + One far from his native land!" - +And she passed me by; and I did not try + To make her understand. + +1901 + + + +ONE WE KNEW +(M. H. 1772-1857) + + + +She told how they used to form for the country dances - + "The Triumph," "The New-rigged Ship" - +To the light of the guttering wax in the panelled manses, + And in cots to the blink of a dip. + +She spoke of the wild "poussetting" and "allemanding" + On carpet, on oak, and on sod; +And the two long rows of ladies and gentlemen standing, + And the figures the couples trod. + +She showed us the spot where the maypole was yearly planted, + And where the bandsmen stood +While breeched and kerchiefed partners whirled, and panted + To choose each other for good. + +She told of that far-back day when they learnt astounded + Of the death of the King of France: +Of the Terror; and then of Bonaparte's unbounded + Ambition and arrogance. + +Of how his threats woke warlike preparations + Along the southern strand, +And how each night brought tremors and trepidations + Lest morning should see him land. + +She said she had often heard the gibbet creaking + As it swayed in the lightning flash, +Had caught from the neighbouring town a small child's shrieking + At the cart-tail under the lash . . . + +With cap-framed face and long gaze into the embers - + We seated around her knees - +She would dwell on such dead themes, not as one who remembers, + But rather as one who sees. + +She seemed one left behind of a band gone distant + So far that no tongue could hail: +Past things retold were to her as things existent, + Things present but as a tale. + +May 20, 1902. + + + +SHE HEARS THE STORM + + + +There was a time in former years - + While my roof-tree was his - +When I should have been distressed by fears + At such a night as this! + +I should have murmured anxiously, + "The pricking rain strikes cold; +His road is bare of hedge or tree, + And he is getting old." + +But now the fitful chimney-roar, + The drone of Thorncombe trees, +The Froom in flood upon the moor, + The mud of Mellstock Leaze, + +The candle slanting sooty wick'd, + The thuds upon the thatch, +The eaves-drops on the window flicked, + The clacking garden-hatch, + +And what they mean to wayfarers, + I scarcely heed or mind; +He has won that storm-tight roof of hers + Which Earth grants all her kind. + + + +A WET NIGHT + + + +I pace along, the rain-shafts riddling me, +Mile after mile out by the moorland way, +And up the hill, and through the ewe-leaze gray +Into the lane, and round the corner tree; + +Where, as my clothing clams me, mire-bestarred, +And the enfeebled light dies out of day, +Leaving the liquid shades to reign, I say, +"This is a hardship to be calendared!" + +Yet sires of mine now perished and forgot, +When worse beset, ere roads were shapen here, +And night and storm were foes indeed to fear, +Times numberless have trudged across this spot +In sturdy muteness on their strenuous lot, +And taking all such toils as trifles mere. + + + +BEFORE LIFE AND AFTER + + + + A time there was--as one may guess +And as, indeed, earth's testimonies tell - + Before the birth of consciousness, + When all went well. + + None suffered sickness, love, or loss, +None knew regret, starved hope, or heart-burnings; + None cared whatever crash or cross + Brought wrack to things. + + If something ceased, no tongue bewailed, +If something winced and waned, no heart was wrung; + If brightness dimmed, and dark prevailed, + No sense was stung. + + But the disease of feeling germed, +And primal rightness took the tinct of wrong; + Ere nescience shall be reaffirmed + How long, how long? + + + +NEW YEAR'S EVE + + + +"I have finished another year," said God, + "In grey, green, white, and brown; +I have strewn the leaf upon the sod, +Sealed up the worm within the clod, + And let the last sun down." + +"And what's the good of it?" I said. + "What reasons made you call +From formless void this earth we tread, +When nine-and-ninety can be read + Why nought should be at all? + +"Yea, Sire; why shaped you us, 'who in + This tabernacle groan' - +If ever a joy be found herein, +Such joy no man had wished to win + If he had never known!" + +Then he: "My labours--logicless - + You may explain; not I: +Sense-sealed I have wrought, without a guess +That I evolved a Consciousness + To ask for reasons why. + +"Strange that ephemeral creatures who + By my own ordering are, +Should see the shortness of my view, +Use ethic tests I never knew, + Or made provision for!" + +He sank to raptness as of yore, + And opening New Year's Day +Wove it by rote as theretofore, +And went on working evermore + In his unweeting way. + +1906. + + + +GOD'S EDUCATION + + + +I saw him steal the light away + That haunted in her eye: +It went so gently none could say +More than that it was there one day + And missing by-and-by. + +I watched her longer, and he stole + Her lily tincts and rose; +All her young sprightliness of soul +Next fell beneath his cold control, + And disappeared like those. + +I asked: "Why do you serve her so? + Do you, for some glad day, +Hoard these her sweets--?" He said, "O no, +They charm not me; I bid Time throw + Them carelessly away." + +Said I: "We call that cruelty - + We, your poor mortal kind." +He mused. "The thought is new to me. +Forsooth, though I men's master be, + Theirs is the teaching mind!" + + + +TO SINCERITY + + + +O sweet sincerity! - +Where modern methods be +What scope for thine and thee? + +Life may be sad past saying, +Its greens for ever graying, +Its faiths to dust decaying; + +And youth may have foreknown it, +And riper seasons shown it, +But custom cries: "Disown it: + +"Say ye rejoice, though grieving, +Believe, while unbelieving, +Behold, without perceiving!" + +- Yet, would men look at true things, +And unilluded view things, +And count to bear undue things, + +The real might mend the seeming, +Facts better their foredeeming, +And Life its disesteeming. + +February 1899. + + + +PANTHERA + + + +(For other forms of this legend--first met with in the second century--see +Origen contra Celsum; the Talmud; Sepher Toldoth Jeschu; quoted fragments of +lost Apocryphal gospels; Strauss, Haeckel; etc.) + +Yea, as I sit here, crutched, and cricked, and bent, +I think of Panthera, who underwent +Much from insidious aches in his decline; +But his aches were not radical like mine; +They were the twinges of old wounds--the feel +Of the hand he had lost, shorn by barbarian steel, +Which came back, so he said, at a change in the air, +Fingers and all, as if it still were there. +My pains are otherwise: upclosing cramps +And stiffened tendons from this country's damps, +Where Panthera was never commandant. - +The Fates sent him by way of the Levant. + He had been blithe in his young manhood's time, +And as centurion carried well his prime. +In Ethiop, Araby, climes fair and fell, +He had seen service and had borne him well. +Nought shook him then: he was serene as brave; +Yet later knew some shocks, and would grow grave +When pondering them; shocks less of corporal kind +Than phantom-like, that disarranged his mind; +And it was in the way of warning me +(By much his junior) against levity +That he recounted them; and one in chief +Panthera loved to set in bold relief. + + This was a tragedy of his Eastern days, +Personal in touch--though I have sometimes thought +That touch a possible delusion--wrought +Of half-conviction carried to a craze - +His mind at last being stressed by ails and age:- +Yet his good faith thereon I well could wage. + + I had said it long had been a wish with me +That I might leave a scion--some small tree +As channel for my sap, if not my name - +Ay, offspring even of no legitimate claim, +In whose advance I secretly could joy. +Thereat he warned. + "Cancel such wishes, boy! +A son may be a comfort or a curse, +A seer, a doer, a coward, a fool; yea, worse - +A criminal . . . That I could testify!" +"Panthera has no guilty son!" cried I +All unbelieving. "Friend, you do not know," +He darkly dropt: "True, I've none now to show, +For THE LAW TOOK HIM. Ay, in sooth, Jove shaped it so!" + + "This noon is not unlike," he again began, +"The noon these pricking memories print on me - +Yea, that day, when the sun grew copper-red, +And I served in Judaea . . . 'Twas a date +Of rest for arms. The Pax Romana ruled, +To the chagrin of frontier legionaries! +Palestine was annexed--though sullen yet, - +I, being in age some two-score years and ten +And having the garrison in Jerusalem +Part in my hands as acting officer +Under the Governor. A tedious time +I found it, of routine, amid a folk +Restless, contentless, and irascible. - +Quelling some riot, sentrying court and hall, +Sending men forth on public meeting-days +To maintain order, were my duties there. + + "Then came a morn in spring, and the cheerful sun +Whitened the city and the hills around, +And every mountain-road that clambered them, +Tincturing the greyness of the olives warm, +And the rank cacti round the valley's sides. +The day was one whereon death-penalties +Were put in force, and here and there were set +The soldiery for order, as I said, +Since one of the condemned had raised some heat, +And crowds surged passionately to see him slain. +I, mounted on a Cappadocian horse, +With some half-company of auxiliaries, +Had captained the procession through the streets +When it came streaming from the judgment-hall +After the verdicts of the Governor. +It drew to the great gate of the northern way +That bears towards Damascus; and to a knoll +Upon the common, just beyond the walls - +Whence could be swept a wide horizon round +Over the housetops to the remotest heights. +Here was the public execution-ground +For city crimes, called then and doubtless now +Golgotha, Kranion, or Calvaria. + + "The usual dooms were duly meted out; +Some three or four were stript, transfixed, and nailed, +And no great stir occurred. A day of wont +It was to me, so far, and would have slid +Clean from my memory at its squalid close +But for an incident that followed these. + + "Among the tag-rag rabble of either sex +That hung around the wretches as they writhed, +Till thrust back by our spears, one held my eye - +A weeping woman, whose strained countenance, +Sharpened against a looming livid cloud, +Was mocked by the crude rays of afternoon - +The mother of one of those who suffered there +I had heard her called when spoken roughly to +By my ranged men for pressing forward so. +It stole upon me hers was a face I knew; +Yet when, or how, I had known it, for a while +Eluded me. And then at once it came. + + "Some thirty years or more before that noon +I was sub-captain of a company +Drawn from the legion of Calabria, +That marched up from Judaea north to Tyre. +We had pierced the old flat country of Jezreel, +The great Esdraelon Plain and fighting-floor +Of Jew with Canaanite, and with the host +Of Pharaoh-Necho, king of Egypt, met +While crossing there to strike the Assyrian pride. +We left behind Gilboa; passed by Nain; +Till bulging Tabor rose, embossed to the top +With arbute, terabinth, and locust growths. + + "Encumbering me were sundry sick, so fallen +Through drinking from a swamp beside the way; +But we pressed on, till, bearing over a ridge, +We dipt into a world of pleasantness - +A vale, the fairest I had gazed upon - +Which lapped a village on its furthest slopes +Called Nazareth, brimmed round by uplands nigh. +In the midst thereof a fountain bubbled, where, +Lime-dry from marching, our glad halt we made +To rest our sick ones, and refresh us all. + + "Here a day onward, towards the eventide, +Our men were piping to a Pyrrhic dance +Trod by their comrades, when the young women came +To fill their pitchers, as their custom was. +I proffered help to one--a slim girl, coy +Even as a fawn, meek, and as innocent. +Her long blue gown, the string of silver coins +That hung down by her banded beautiful hair, +Symboled in full immaculate modesty. + + "Well, I was young, and hot, and readily stirred +To quick desire. 'Twas tedious timing out +The convalescence of the soldiery; +And I beguiled the long and empty days +By blissful yieldance to her sweet allure, +Who had no arts, but what out-arted all, +The tremulous tender charm of trustfulness. +We met, and met, and under the winking stars +That passed which peoples earth--true union, yea, +To the pure eye of her simplicity. + + "Meanwhile the sick found health; and we pricked on. +I made her no rash promise of return, +As some do use; I was sincere in that; +I said we sundered never to meet again - +And yet I spoke untruth unknowingly! - +For meet again we did. Now, guess you aught? +The weeping mother on Calvaria +Was she I had known--albeit that time and tears +Had wasted rudely her once flowerlike form, +And her soft eyes, now swollen with sorrowing. + + "Though I betrayed some qualms, she marked me not; +And I was scarce of mood to comrade her +And close the silence of so wide a time +To claim a malefactor as my son - +(For so I guessed him). And inquiry made +Brought rumour how at Nazareth long before +An old man wedded her for pity's sake +On finding she had grown pregnant, none knew how, +Cared for her child, and loved her till he died. + + "Well; there it ended; save that then I learnt +That he--the man whose ardent blood was mine - +Had waked sedition long among the Jews, +And hurled insulting parlance at their god, +Whose temple bulked upon the adjoining hill, +Vowing that he would raze it, that himself +Was god as great as he whom they adored, +And by descent, moreover, was their king; +With sundry other incitements to misrule. + + "The impalements done, and done the soldiers' game +Of raffling for the clothes, a legionary, +Longinus, pierced the young man with his lance +At signs from me, moved by his agonies +Through naysaying the drug they had offered him. +It brought the end. And when he had breathed his last +The woman went. I saw her never again . . . +Now glares my moody meaning on you, friend? - +That when you talk of offspring as sheer joy +So trustingly, you blink contingencies. +Fors Fortuna! He who goes fathering +Gives frightful hostages to hazardry!" + + Thus Panthera's tale. 'Twas one he seldom told, +But yet it got abroad. He would unfold, +At other times, a story of less gloom, +Though his was not a heart where jests had room. +He would regret discovery of the truth +Was made too late to influence to ruth +The Procurator who had condemned his son-- +Or rather him so deemed. For there was none +To prove that Panthera erred not: and indeed, +When vagueness of identity I would plead, +Panther himself would sometimes own as much - +Yet lothly. But, assuming fact was such, +That the said woman did not recognize +Her lover's face, is matter for surprise. +However, there's his tale, fantasy or otherwise. + + Thereafter shone not men of Panthera's kind: +The indolent heads at home were ill-inclined +To press campaigning that would hoist the star +Of their lieutenants valorous afar. +Jealousies kept him irked abroad, controlled +And stinted by an Empire no more bold. +Yet in some actions southward he had share - +In Mauretania and Numidia; there +With eagle eye, and sword and steed and spur, +Quelling uprisings promptly. Some small stir +In Parthia next engaged him, until maimed, +As I have said; and cynic Time proclaimed +His noble spirit broken. What a waste +Of such a Roman!--one in youth-time graced +With indescribable charm, so I have heard, +Yea, magnetism impossible to word +When faltering as I saw him. What a fame, +O Son of Saturn, had adorned his name, +Might the Three so have urged Thee!--Hour by hour +His own disorders hampered Panthera's power +To brood upon the fate of those he had known, +Even of that one he always called his own - +Either in morbid dream or memory . . . +He died at no great age, untroublously, +An exit rare for ardent soldiers such as he. + + + +THE UNBORN + + + +I rose at night, and visited + The Cave of the Unborn: +And crowding shapes surrounded me +For tidings of the life to be, +Who long had prayed the silent Head + To haste its advent morn. + +Their eyes were lit with artless trust, + Hope thrilled their every tone; +"A scene the loveliest, is it not? +A pure delight, a beauty-spot +Where all is gentle, true and just, + And darkness is unknown?" + +My heart was anguished for their sake, + I could not frame a word; +And they descried my sunken face, +And seemed to read therein, and trace +The news that pity would not break, + Nor truth leave unaverred. + +And as I silently retired + I turned and watched them still, +And they came helter-skelter out, +Driven forward like a rabble rout +Into the world they had so desired + By the all-immanent Will. + +1905. + + + +THE MAN HE KILLED + + + + "Had he and I but met + By some old ancient inn, +We should have sat us down to wet + Right many a nipperkin! + + "But ranged as infantry, + And staring face to face, +I shot at him as he at me, + And killed him in his place. + + "I shot him dead because - + Because he was my foe, +Just so: my foe of course he was; + That's clear enough; although + + "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps, + Off-hand like--just as I - +Was out of work--had sold his traps - + No other reason why. + + "Yes; quaint and curious war is! + You shoot a fellow down +You'd treat if met where any bar is, + Or help to half-a-crown." + +1902. + + + +GEOGRAPHICAL KNOWLEDGE +(A MEMORY OF CHRISTIANA C-) + + + +Where Blackmoor was, the road that led + To Bath, she could not show, +Nor point the sky that overspread + Towns ten miles off or so. + +But that Calcutta stood this way, + Cape Horn there figured fell, +That here was Boston, here Bombay, + She could declare full well. + +Less known to her the track athwart + Froom Mead or Yell'ham Wood +Than how to make some Austral port + In seas of surly mood. + +She saw the glint of Guinea's shore + Behind the plum-tree nigh, +Heard old unruly Biscay's roar + In the weir's purl hard by . . . + +"My son's a sailor, and he knows + All seas and many lands, +And when he's home he points and shows + Each country where it stands. + +"He's now just there--by Gib's high rock - + And when he gets, you see, +To Portsmouth here, behind the clock, + Then he'll come back to me!" + + + +ONE RALPH BLOSSOM SOLILOQUIZES + + + +("It being deposed that vij women who were mayds before he knew them have +been brought upon the towne [rates?] by the fornicacions of one Ralph +Blossom, Mr Major inquired why he should not contribute xiv pence weekly +toward their mayntenance. But it being shewn that the sayd R. B. was dying +of a purple feaver, no order was made."--Budmouth Borough Minutes: 16--.) + +When I am in hell or some such place, +A-groaning over my sorry case, +What will those seven women say to me +Who, when I coaxed them, answered "Aye" to me? + +"I did not understand your sign!" +Will be the words of Caroline; +While Jane will cry, "If I'd had proof of you, +I should have learnt to hold aloof of you!" + +"I won't reproach: it was to be!" +Will dryly murmur Cicely; +And Rosa: "I feel no hostility, +For I must own I lent facility." + +Lizzy says: "Sharp was my regret, +And sometimes it is now! But yet +I joy that, though it brought notoriousness, +I knew Love once and all its gloriousness!" + +Says Patience: "Why are we apart? +Small harm did you, my poor Sweet Heart! +A manchild born, now tall and beautiful, +Was worth the ache of days undutiful." + +And Anne cries: "O the time was fair, +So wherefore should you burn down there? +There is a deed under the sun, my Love, +And that was ours. What's done is done, my Love. +These trumpets here in Heaven are dumb to me +With you away. Dear, come, O come to me!" + + + +THE NOBLE LADY'S TALE +(circa 1790) + + + +I + + "We moved with pensive paces, + I and he, + And bent our faded faces + Wistfully, +For something troubled him, and troubled me. + + "The lanthorn feebly lightened + Our grey hall, + Where ancient brands had brightened + Hearth and wall, +And shapes long vanished whither vanish all. + + "'O why, Love, nightly, daily,' + I had said, + 'Dost sigh, and smile so palely, + As if shed +Were all Life's blossoms, all its dear things dead?' + + "'Since silence sets thee grieving,' + He replied, + 'And I abhor deceiving + One so tried, +Why, Love, I'll speak, ere time us twain divide.' + + "He held me, I remember, + Just as when + Our life was June--(September + It was then); +And we walked on, until he spoke again. + + "'Susie, an Irish mummer, + Loud-acclaimed + Through the gay London summer, + Was I; named +A master in my art, who would be famed. + + "'But lo, there beamed before me + Lady Su; + God's altar-vow she swore me + When none knew, +And for her sake I bade the sock adieu. + + "'My Lord your father's pardon + Thus I won: + He let his heart unharden + Towards his son, +And honourably condoned what we had done; + + "'But said--recall you, dearest? - + As for Su, + I'd see her--ay, though nearest + Me unto - +Sooner entombed than in a stage purlieu! + + "'Just so.--And here he housed us, + In this nook, + Where Love like balm has drowsed us: + Robin, rook, +Our chief familiars, next to string and book. + + "'Our days here, peace-enshrouded, + Followed strange + The old stage-joyance, crowded, + Rich in range; +But never did my soul desire a change, + + "'Till now, when far uncertain + Lips of yore + Call, call me to the curtain, + There once more, +But ONCE, to tread the boards I trod before. + + "'A night--the last and single + Ere I die - + To face the lights, to mingle + As did I +Once in the game, and rivet every eye!' + + "'To something drear, distressing + As the knell + Of all hopes worth possessing!' . . . + --What befell +Seemed linked with me, but how I could not tell. + + "Hours passed; till I implored him, + As he knew + How faith and frankness toward him + Ruled me through, +To say what ill I had done, and could undo. + + "'FAITH--FRANKNESS. Ah! Heaven save such!' + Murmured he, + 'They are wedded wealth! _I_ gave such + Liberally, +But you, Dear, not. For you suspected me.' + + "I was about beseeching + In hurt haste + More meaning, when he, reaching + To my waist, +Led me to pace the hall as once we paced. + + "'I never meant to draw you + To own all,' + Declared he. 'But--I SAW you - + By the wall, +Half-hid. And that was why I failed withal!' + + "'Where? when?' said I--'Why, nigh me, + At the play + That night. That you should spy me, + Doubt my fay, +And follow, furtive, took my heart away!' + + "That I had never been there, + But had gone + To my locked room--unseen there, + Curtains drawn, +Long days abiding--told I, wonder-wan. + + "'Nay, 'twas your form and vesture, + Cloak and gown, + Your hooded features--gesture + Half in frown, +That faced me, pale,' he urged, 'that night in town. + + "'And when, outside, I handed + To her chair + (As courtesy demanded + Of me there) +The leading lady, you peeped from the stair. + + "Straight pleaded I: 'Forsooth, Love, + Had I gone, + I must have been in truth, Love, + Mad to don +Such well-known raiment.' But he still went on + + "That he was not mistaken + Nor misled. - + I felt like one forsaken, + Wished me dead, +That he could think thus of the wife he had wed! + + "His going seemed to waste him + Like a curse, + To wreck what once had graced him; + And, averse +To my approach, he mused, and moped, and worse. + + "Till, what no words effected + Thought achieved: + IT WAS MY WRAITH--projected, + He conceived, +Thither, by my tense brain at home aggrieved. + + "Thereon his credence centred + Till he died; + And, no more tempted, entered + Sanctified, +The little vault with room for one beside." + +III + + Thus far the lady's story. - + Now she, too, + Reclines within that hoary + Last dark mew +In Mellstock Quire with him she loved so true. + + A yellowing marble, placed there + Tablet-wise, + And two joined hearts enchased there + Meet the eyes; +And reading their twin names we moralize: + + Did she, we wonder, follow + Jealously? + And were those protests hollow? - + Or saw he +Some semblant dame? Or can wraiths really be? + + Were it she went, her honour, + All may hold, + Pressed truth at last upon her + Till she told - +(Him only--others as these lines unfold.) + + Riddle death-sealed for ever, + Let it rest! . . . + One's heart could blame her never + If one guessed +That go she did. She knew her actor best. + + + +UNREALIZED + + + +Down comes the winter rain - + Spoils my hat and bow - +Runs into the poll of me; + But mother won't know. + +We've been out and caught a cold, + Knee-deep in snow; +Such a lucky thing it is + That mother won't know! + +Rosy lost herself last night - + Couldn't tell where to go. +Yes--it rather frightened her, + But mother didn't know. + +Somebody made Willy drunk + At the Christmas show: +O 'twas fun! It's well for him + That mother won't know! + +Howsoever wild we are, + Late at school or slow, +Mother won't be cross with us, + Mother won't know. + +How we cried the day she died! + Neighbours whispering low . . . +But we now do what we will - + Mother won't know. + + + +WAGTAIL AND BABY + + + +A baby watched a ford, whereto + A wagtail came for drinking; +A blaring bull went wading through, + The wagtail showed no shrinking. + +A stallion splashed his way across, + The birdie nearly sinking; +He gave his plumes a twitch and toss, + And held his own unblinking. + +Next saw the baby round the spot + A mongrel slowly slinking; +The wagtail gazed, but faltered not + In dip and sip and prinking. + +A perfect gentleman then neared; + The wagtail, in a winking, +With terror rose and disappeared; + The baby fell a-thinking. + + + +ABERDEEN +(April: 1905) + + + +"And wisdom and knowledge shall be the stability of thy times."--Isaiah +xxxiii. 6. + +I looked and thought, "All is too gray and cold +To wake my place-enthusiasms of old!" +Till a voice passed: "Behind that granite mien +Lurks the imposing beauty of a Queen." +I looked anew; and saw the radiant form +Of Her who soothes in stress, who steers in storm, +On the grave influence of whose eyes sublime +Men count for the stability of the time. + + + +GEORGE MEREDITH +1828-1909 + + + +Forty years back, when much had place +That since has perished out of mind, +I heard that voice and saw that face. + +He spoke as one afoot will wind +A morning horn ere men awake; +His note was trenchant, turning kind. + +He was of those whose wit can shake +And riddle to the very core +The counterfeits that Time will break . . . + +Of late, when we two met once more, +The luminous countenance and rare +Shone just as forty years before. + +So that, when now all tongues declare +His shape unseen by his green hill, +I scarce believe he sits not there. + +No matter. Further and further still +Through the world's vaporous vitiate air +His words wing on--as live words will. + +May 1909. + + + +YELL'HAM-WOOD'S STORY + + + +Coomb-Firtrees say that Life is a moan, + And Clyffe-hill Clump says "Yea!" +But Yell'ham says a thing of its own: + It's not "Gray, gray + Is Life alway!" + That Yell'ham says, + Nor that Life is for ends unknown. + +It says that Life would signify + A thwarted purposing: +That we come to live, and are called to die, + Yes, that's the thing + In fall, in spring, + That Yell'ham says:- + "Life offers--to deny!" + +1902. + + + +A YOUNG MAN'S EPIGRAM ON EXISTENCE + + + +A senseless school, where we must give +Our lives that we may learn to live! +A dolt is he who memorizes +Lessons that leave no time for prizes. + +16 W. P. V., 1866. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Time's Laughingstocks etc., by Thomas Hardy + diff --git a/old/tmsls10.zip b/old/tmsls10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c0e7116 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tmsls10.zip |