diff options
Diffstat (limited to '2997-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 2997-0.txt | 5170 |
1 files changed, 5170 insertions, 0 deletions
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. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive +specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this +eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook +for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, +performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given +away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks +not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the +trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country outside the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + 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. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The +Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the +mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its +volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous +locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt +Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to +date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and +official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + |