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diff --git a/3167-0.txt b/3167-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d0dadf6 --- /dev/null +++ b/3167-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3688 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Wessex Poems and Other Verses, by Thomas +Hardy, Illustrated 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: Wessex Poems and Other Verses + + +Author: Thomas Hardy + + + +Release Date: January 30, 2015 [eBook #3167] +[This file was first posted on January 30, 2001] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WESSEX POEMS AND OTHER VERSES*** + + +Transcribed from the 1919 Macmillan and Co. “Wessex Poems and Other +Verses; Poems of the Past and the Present” edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + WESSEX POEMS AND + OTHER VERSES + + + * * * * * + + BY + THOMAS HARDY + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED + ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON + 1919 + + * * * * * + + COPYRIGHT + + “_Wessex Poems_”: _First Edition_, _Crown_ 8vo, 1898. _New Edition_ + 1903. + _First Pocket Edition June_ 1907. _Reprinted January_ 1909, 1913 + + “_Poems_, _Past and Present_”: _First edition_ 1901 (dated 1902) + _Second Edition_ 1903. _First Pocket Edition June_ 1907 + _Reprinted January_ 1908, 1913, 1918, 1919 + + * * * * * + + + + +PREFACE TO WESSEX POEMS + + +OF the miscellaneous collection of verse that follows, only four pieces +have been published, though many were written long ago, and other partly +written. In some few cases the verses were turned into prose and printed +as such, it having been unanticipated at that time that they might see +the light. + +Whenever an ancient and legitimate word of the district, for which there +was no equivalent in received English, suggested itself as the most +natural, nearest, and often only expression of a thought, it has been +made use of, on what seemed good grounds. + +The pieces are in a large degree dramatic or personative in conception; +and this even where they are not obviously so. + +The dates attached to some of the poems do not apply to the rough +sketches given in illustration, which have been recently made, and, as +may be surmised, are inserted for personal and local reasons rather than +for their intrinsic qualities. + + T. H. + +_September_ 1898. + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +THE TEMPORARY THE ALL 1 +AMABEL 4 +HAP 7 +“IN VISION I ROAMED” 9 +AT A BRIDAL 11 +POSTPONEMENT 13 +A CONFESSION TO A FRIEND IN TROUBLE 15 +NEUTRAL TONES 17 +SHE 19 +HER INITIALS 21 +HER DILEMMA 23 +REVULSION 27 +SHE, TO HIM, I. 31 + ,, ,, II. 33 + ,, ,, III. 35 + ,, ,, IV. 37 +DITTY 39 +THE SERGEANT’S SONG 43 +VALENCIENNES 45 +SAN SEBASTIAN 51 +THE STRANGER’S SONG 59 +THE BURGHERS 61 +LEIPZIG 67 +THE PEASANT’S CONFESSION 79 +THE ALARM 91 +HER DEATH AND AFTER 103 +THE DANCE AT THE PHŒNIX 115 +THE CASTERBRIDGE CAPTAINS 125 +A SIGN-SEEKER 129 +MY CICELY 133 +HER IMMORTALITY 143 +THE IVY-WIFE 147 +A MEETING WITH DESPAIR 149 +UNKNOWING 153 +FRIENDS BEYOND 155 +TO OUTER NATURE 159 +THOUGHTS OF PHENA 163 +MIDDLE-AGE ENTHUSIASMS 167 +IN A WOOD 169 +TO A LADY 173 +TO AN ORPHAN CHILD 175 +NATURE’S QUESTIONING 177 +THE IMPERCIPIENT 181 +AT AN INN 187 +THE SLOW NATURE 191 +IN A EWELEAZE NEAR WEATHERBURY 195 +THE FIRE AT TRANTER SWEATLEY’S 201 +HEIRESS AND ARCHITECT 211 +THE TWO MEN 217 +LINES 223 +“I LOOK INTO MY GLASS” 227 + + [Picture: Sketch of tower with sun-dial] + + + + +THE TEMPORARY THE ALL + + + CHANGE and chancefulness in my flowering youthtime, + Set me sun by sun near to one unchosen; + Wrought us fellow-like, and despite divergence, + Friends interlinked us. + + “Cherish him can I while the true one forthcome— + Come the rich fulfiller of my prevision; + Life is roomy yet, and the odds unbounded.” + So self-communed I. + + Thwart my wistful way did a damsel saunter, + Fair, the while unformed to be all-eclipsing; + “Maiden meet,” held I, “till arise my forefelt + Wonder of women.” + + Long a visioned hermitage deep desiring, + Tenements uncouth I was fain to house in; + “Let such lodging be for a breath-while,” thought I, + “Soon a more seemly. + + “Then, high handiwork will I make my life-deed, + Truth and Light outshow; but the ripe time pending, + Intermissive aim at the thing sufficeth.” + Thus I . . . But lo, me! + + Mistress, friend, place, aims to be bettered straightway, + Bettered not has Fate or my hand’s achieving; + Sole the showance those of my onward earth-track— + Never transcended! + + + + +AMABEL + + + I MARKED her ruined hues, + Her custom-straitened views, + And asked, “Can there indwell + My Amabel?” + + I looked upon her gown, + Once rose, now earthen brown; + The change was like the knell + Of Amabel. + + Her step’s mechanic ways + Had lost the life of May’s; + Her laugh, once sweet in swell, + Spoilt Amabel. + + I mused: “Who sings the strain + I sang ere warmth did wane? + Who thinks its numbers spell + His Amabel?”— + + Knowing that, though Love cease, + Love’s race shows undecrease; + All find in dorp or dell + An Amabel. + + —I felt that I could creep + To some housetop, and weep, + That Time the tyrant fell + Ruled Amabel! + + I said (the while I sighed + That love like ours had died), + “Fond things I’ll no more tell + To Amabel, + + “But leave her to her fate, + And fling across the gate, + ‘Till the Last Trump, farewell, + O Amabel!’” + +1865. + + [Picture: Sketch of hour-glass] + + + + +HAP + + + IF but some vengeful god would call to me + From up the sky, and laugh: “Thou suffering thing, + Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy, + That thy love’s loss is my hate’s profiting!” + + Then would I bear, and clench myself, and die, + Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited; + Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I + Had willed and meted me the tears I shed. + + But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain, + And why unblooms the best hope ever sown? + —Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain, + And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan . . . + These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown + Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain. + +1866. + + + + +“IN VISION I ROAMED” +TO — + + + IN vision I roamed the flashing Firmament, + So fierce in blazon that the Night waxed wan, + As though with an awed sense of such ostent; + And as I thought my spirit ranged on and on + + In footless traverse through ghast heights of sky, + To the last chambers of the monstrous Dome, + Where stars the brightest here to darkness die: + Then, any spot on our own Earth seemed Home! + + And the sick grief that you were far away + Grew pleasant thankfulness that you were near? + Who might have been, set on some outstep sphere, + Less than a Want to me, as day by day + I lived unware, uncaring all that lay + Locked in that Universe taciturn and drear. + +1866. + + + + +AT A BRIDAL +TO — + + + WHEN you paced forth, to wait maternity, + A dream of other offspring held my mind, + Compounded of us twain as Love designed; + Rare forms, that corporate now will never be! + + Should I, too, wed as slave to Mode’s decree, + And each thus found apart, of false desire, + A stolid line, whom no high aims will fire + As had fired ours could ever have mingled we; + + And, grieved that lives so matched should mis-compose, + Each mourn the double waste; and question dare + To the Great Dame whence incarnation flows. + Why those high-purposed children never were: + What will she answer? That she does not care + If the race all such sovereign types unknows. + +1866. + + + + +POSTPONEMENT + + + SNOW-BOUND in woodland, a mournful word, + Dropt now and then from the bill of a bird, + Reached me on wind-wafts; and thus I heard, + Wearily waiting:— + + “I planned her a nest in a leafless tree, + But the passers eyed and twitted me, + And said: ‘How reckless a bird is he, + Cheerily mating!’ + + “Fear-filled, I stayed me till summer-tide, + In lewth of leaves to throne her bride; + But alas! her love for me waned and died, + Wearily waiting. + + “Ah, had I been like some I see, + Born to an evergreen nesting-tree, + None had eyed and twitted me, + Cheerily mating!” + +1866. + + + + +A CONFESSION TO A FRIEND IN TROUBLE + + + YOUR troubles shrink not, though I feel them less + Here, far away, than when I tarried near; + I even smile old smiles—with listlessness— + Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere. + + A thought too strange to house within my brain + Haunting its outer precincts I discern: + —_That I will not show zeal again to learn_ + _Your griefs_, _and sharing them_, _renew my pain_ . . . + + It goes, like murky bird or buccaneer + That shapes its lawless figure on the main, + And each new impulse tends to make outflee + The unseemly instinct that had lodgment here; + Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge be + Than that, though banned, such instinct was in me! + +1866. + + + + +NEUTRAL TONES + + + WE stood by a pond that winter day, + And the sun was white, as though chidden of God, + And a few leaves lay on the starving sod, + —They had fallen from an ash, and were gray. + + Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove + Over tedious riddles solved years ago; + And some words played between us to and fro— + On which lost the more by our love. + + The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing + Alive enough to have strength to die; + And a grin of bitterness swept thereby + Like an ominous bird a-wing . . . + + Since then, keen lessons that love deceives, + And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me + Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree, + And a pond edged with grayish leaves. + +1867. + + [Picture: Sketch of church with person outside wall] + + + + +SHE +AT HIS FUNERAL + + + THEY bear him to his resting-place— + In slow procession sweeping by; + I follow at a stranger’s space; + His kindred they, his sweetheart I. + Unchanged my gown of garish dye, + Though sable-sad is their attire; + But they stand round with griefless eye, + Whilst my regret consumes like fire! + +187–. + + [Picture: Sketch of open book with two letters hand-written on left-hand + page] + + + + +HER INITIALS + + + UPON a poet’s page I wrote + Of old two letters of her name; + Part seemed she of the effulgent thought + Whence that high singer’s rapture came. + —When now I turn the leaf the same + Immortal light illumes the lay, + But from the letters of her name + The radiance has died away! + +1869. + + + + +HER DILEMMA +(IN — CHURCH) + + + THE two were silent in a sunless church, + Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving-stones, + And wasted carvings passed antique research; + And nothing broke the clock’s dull monotones. + + Leaning against a wormy poppy-head, + So wan and worn that he could scarcely stand, + —For he was soon to die,—he softly said, + “Tell me you love me!”—holding hard her hand. + + She would have given a world to breathe “yes” truly, + So much his life seemed handing on her mind, + And hence she lied, her heart persuaded throughly + ’Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind. + + But the sad need thereof, his nearing death, + So mocked humanity that she shamed to prize + A world conditioned thus, or care for breath + Where Nature such dilemmas could devise. + +1866. + + [Picture: Sketch of two people in a church] + + + + +REVULSION + + + THOUGH I waste watches framing words to fetter + Some spirit to mine own in clasp and kiss, + Out of the night there looms a sense ’twere better + To fail obtaining whom one fails to miss. + + For winning love we win the risk of losing, + And losing love is as one’s life were riven; + It cuts like contumely and keen ill-using + To cede what was superfluously given. + + Let me then feel no more the fateful thrilling + That devastates the love-worn wooer’s frame, + The hot ado of fevered hopes, the chilling + That agonizes disappointed aim! + So may I live no junctive law fulfilling, + And my heart’s table bear no woman’s name. + +1866. + + [Picture: Sketch of person walking long path to building on hill] + + + + +SHE, TO HIM +I + + + WHEN you shall see me in the toils of Time, + My lauded beauties carried off from me, + My eyes no longer stars as in their prime, + My name forgot of Maiden Fair and Free; + + When in your being heart concedes to mind, + And judgment, though you scarce its process know, + Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined, + And you are irked that they have withered so: + + Remembering that with me lies not the blame, + That Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill, + Knowing me in my soul the very same— + One who would die to spare you touch of ill!— + Will you not grant to old affection’s claim + The hand of friendship down Life’s sunless hill? + +1866. + + + + +SHE, TO HIM +II + + + PERHAPS, long hence, when I have passed away, + Some other’s feature, accent, thought like mine, + Will carry you back to what I used to say, + And bring some memory of your love’s decline. + + Then you may pause awhile and think, “Poor jade!” + And yield a sigh to me—as ample due, + Not as the tittle of a debt unpaid + To one who could resign her all to you— + + And thus reflecting, you will never see + That your thin thought, in two small words conveyed, + Was no such fleeting phantom-thought to me, + But the Whole Life wherein my part was played; + And you amid its fitful masquerade + A Thought—as I in yours but seem to be. + +1866. + + + + +SHE, TO HIM +III + + + I WILL be faithful to thee; aye, I will! + And Death shall choose me with a wondering eye + That he did not discern and domicile + One his by right ever since that last Good-bye! + + I have no care for friends, or kin, or prime + Of manhood who deal gently with me here; + Amid the happy people of my time + Who work their love’s fulfilment, I appear + + Numb as a vane that cankers on its point, + True to the wind that kissed ere canker came; + Despised by souls of Now, who would disjoint + The mind from memory, and make Life all aim, + + My old dexterities of hue quite gone, + And nothing left for Love to look upon. + +1866. + + + + +SHE, TO HIM +IV + + + This love puts all humanity from me; + I can but maledict her, pray her dead, + For giving love and getting love of thee— + Feeding a heart that else mine own had fed! + + How much I love I know not, life not known, + Save as some unit I would add love by; + But this I know, my being is but thine own— + Fused from its separateness by ecstasy. + + And thus I grasp thy amplitudes, of her + Ungrasped, though helped by nigh-regarding eyes; + Canst thou then hate me as an envier + Who see unrecked what I so dearly prize? + Believe me, Lost One, Love is lovelier + The more it shapes its moan in selfish-wise. + +1866. + + + + +DITTY +(E. L G.) + + + BENEATH a knap where flown + Nestlings play, + Within walls of weathered stone, + Far away + From the files of formal houses, + By the bough the firstling browses, + Lives a Sweet: no merchants meet, + No man barters, no man sells + Where she dwells. + + Upon that fabric fair + “Here is she!” + Seems written everywhere + Unto me. + But to friends and nodding neighbours, + Fellow-wights in lot and labours, + Who descry the times as I, + No such lucid legend tells + Where she dwells. + + Should I lapse to what I was + Ere we met; + (Such can not be, but because + Some forget + Let me feign it)—none would notice + That where she I know by rote is + Spread a strange and withering change, + Like a drying of the wells + Where she dwells. + + To feel I might have kissed— + Loved as true— + Otherwhere, nor Mine have missed + My life through. + Had I never wandered near her, + Is a smart severe—severer + In the thought that she is nought, + Even as I, beyond the dells + Where she dwells. + + And Devotion droops her glance + To recall + What bond-servants of Chance + We are all. + I but found her in that, going + On my errant path unknowing, + I did not out-skirt the spot + That no spot on earth excels, + —Where she dwells! + +1870. + + [Picture: Sketch of man in military dress] + + + + +THE SERGEANT’S SONG +(1803) + + + WHEN Lawyers strive to heal a breach, + And Parsons practise what they preach; + Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down, + And march his men on London town! + Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lorum, + Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay! + + When Justices hold equal scales, + And Rogues are only found in jails; + Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down, + And march his men on London town! + Rollicum-rorum, &c. + + When Rich Men find their wealth a curse, + And fill therewith the Poor Man’s purse; + Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down, + And march his men on London town! + Rollicum-rorum, &c. + + When Husbands with their Wives agree, + And Maids won’t wed from modesty; + Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down, + And march his men on London town! + Rollicum-rorum, tol-tol-lorum, + Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay! + +1878. + + _Published in_ “_The Trumpet-Major_,” 1880. + + [Picture: Sketch of cannons overlooking a town] + + + + +VALENCIENNES +(1793) + + + BY CORP’L TULLIDGE: _see_ “_The Trumpet-Major_” + IN MEMORY OF S. C. (PENSIONER). DIED 184– + + WE trenched, we trumpeted and drummed, + And from our mortars tons of iron hummed + Ath’art the ditch, the month we bombed + The Town o’ Valencieën. + + ’Twas in the June o’ Ninety-dree + (The Duke o’ Yark our then Commander been) + The German Legion, Guards, and we + Laid siege to Valencieën. + + This was the first time in the war + That French and English spilled each other’s gore; + —Few dreamt how far would roll the roar + Begun at Valencieën! + + ’Twas said that we’d no business there + A-topperèn the French for disagreën; + However, that’s not my affair— + We were at Valencieën. + + Such snocks and slats, since war began + Never knew raw recruit or veteran: + Stone-deaf therence went many a man + Who served at Valencieën. + + Into the streets, ath’art the sky, + A hundred thousand balls and bombs were fleën; + And harmless townsfolk fell to die + Each hour at Valencieën! + + And, sweatèn wi’ the bombardiers, + A shell was slent to shards anighst my ears: + —’Twas nigh the end of hopes and fears + For me at Valencieën! + + They bore my wownded frame to camp, + And shut my gapèn skull, and washed en cleän, + And jined en wi’ a zilver clamp + Thik night at Valencieën. + + “We’ve fetched en back to quick from dead; + But never more on earth while rose is red + Will drum rouse Corpel!” Doctor said + O’ me at Valencieën. + + ’Twer true. No voice o’ friend or foe + Can reach me now, or any livèn beën; + And little have I power to know + Since then at Valencieën! + + I never hear the zummer hums + O’ bees; and don’ know when the cuckoo comes; + But night and day I hear the bombs + We threw at Valencieën . . . + + As for the Duke o’ Yark in war, + There be some volk whose judgment o’ en is mean; + But this I say—a was not far + From great at Valencieën. + + O’ wild wet nights, when all seems sad, + My wownds come back, as though new wownds I’d had; + But yet—at times I’m sort o’ glad + I fout at Valencieën. + + Well: Heaven wi’ its jasper halls + Is now the on’y Town I care to be in . . . + Good Lord, if Nick should bomb the walls + As we did Valencieën! + +1878–1897. + + + + +SAN SEBASTIAN +(August 1813) + + + WITH THOUGHTS OF SERGEANT M— (PENSIONER), WHO DIED 185–. + + “WHY, Sergeant, stray on the Ivel Way, + As though at home there were spectres rife? + From first to last ’twas a proud career! + And your sunny years with a gracious wife + Have brought you a daughter dear. + + “I watched her to-day; a more comely maid, + As she danced in her muslin bowed with blue, + Round a Hintock maypole never gayed.” + —“Aye, aye; I watched her this day, too, + As it happens,” the Sergeant said. + + “My daughter is now,” he again began, + “Of just such an age as one I knew + When we of the Line and Forlorn-hope van, + On an August morning—a chosen few— + Stormed San Sebastian. + + “She’s a score less three; so about was _she_— + The maiden I wronged in Peninsular days . . . + You may prate of your prowess in lusty times, + But as years gnaw inward you blink your bays, + And see too well your crimes! + + “We’d stormed it at night, by the vlanker-light + Of burning towers, and the mortar’s boom: + We’d topped the breach; but had failed to stay, + For our files were misled by the baffling gloom; + And we said we’d storm by day. + + [Picture: Sketch of mountain] + + “So, out of the trenches, with features set, + On that hot, still morning, in measured pace, + Our column climbed; climbed higher yet, + Past the fauss’bray, scarp, up the curtain-face, + And along the parapet. + + “From the battened hornwork the cannoneers + Hove crashing balls of iron fire; + On the shaking gap mount the volunteers + In files, and as they mount expire + Amid curses, groans, and cheers. + + “Five hours did we storm, five hours re-form, + As Death cooled those hot blood pricked on; + Till our cause was helped by a woe within: + They swayed from the summit we’d leapt upon, + And madly we entered in. + + “On end for plunder, ’mid rain and thunder + That burst with the lull of our cannonade, + We vamped the streets in the stifling air— + Our hunger unsoothed, our thirst unstayed— + And ransacked the buildings there. + + “Down the stony steps of the house-fronts white + We rolled rich puncheons of Spanish grape, + Till at length, with the fire of the wine alight, + I saw at a doorway a fair fresh shape— + A woman, a sylph, or sprite. + + “Afeard she fled, and with heated head + I pursued to the chamber she called her own; + —When might is right no qualms deter, + And having her helpless and alone + I wreaked my will on her. + + “She raised her beseeching eyes to me, + And I heard the words of prayer she sent + In her own soft language . . . Seemingly + I copied those eyes for my punishment + In begetting the girl you see! + + “So, to-day I stand with a God-set brand + Like Cain’s, when he wandered from kindred’s ken . . . + I served through the war that made Europe free; + I wived me in peace-year. But, hid from men, + I bear that mark on me. + + “And I nightly stray on the Ivel Way + As though at home there were spectres rife; + I delight me not in my proud career; + And ’tis coals of fire that a gracious wife + Should have brought me a daughter dear!” + + + + +THE STRANGER’S SONG + + + (_As sung by_ MR. CHARLES CHARRINGTON _in the play of_ “_The Three + Wayfarers_”) + + O MY trade it is the rarest one, + Simple shepherds all— + My trade is a sight to see; + For my customers I tie, and take ’em up on high, + And waft ’em to a far countree! + + My tools are but common ones, + Simple shepherds all— + My tools are no sight to see: + A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing, + Are implements enough for me! + + To-morrow is my working day, + Simple shepherds all— + To-morrow is a working day for me: + For the farmer’s sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta’en, + And on his soul may God ha’ mer-cy! + + _Printed in_ “_The Three Strangers_,” 1883. + + [Picture: Sketch of man in old street] + + + + +THE BURGHERS +(17–) + + + THE sun had wheeled from Grey’s to Dammer’s Crest, + And still I mused on that Thing imminent: + At length I sought the High-street to the West. + + The level flare raked pane and pediment + And my wrecked face, and shaped my nearing friend + Like one of those the Furnace held unshent. + + “I’ve news concerning her,” he said. “Attend. + They fly to-night at the late moon’s first gleam: + Watch with thy steel: two righteous thrusts will end + + Her shameless visions and his passioned dream. + I’ll watch with thee, to testify thy wrong— + To aid, maybe.—Law consecrates the scheme.” + + I started, and we paced the flags along + Till I replied: “Since it has come to this + I’ll do it! But alone. I can be strong.” + + Three hours past Curfew, when the Froom’s mild hiss + Reigned sole, undulled by whirr of merchandize, + From Pummery-Tout to where the Gibbet is, + + I crossed my pleasaunce hard by Glyd’path Rise, + And stood beneath the wall. Eleven strokes went, + And to the door they came, contrariwise, + + And met in clasp so close I had but bent + My lifted blade upon them to have let + Their two souls loose upon the firmament. + + But something held my arm. “A moment yet + As pray-time ere you wantons die!” I said; + And then they saw me. Swift her gaze was set + + With eye and cry of love illimited + Upon her Heart-king. Never upon me + Had she thrown look of love so thorough-sped! . . . + + At once she flung her faint form shieldingly + On his, against the vengeance of my vows; + The which o’erruling, her shape shielded he. + + Blanked by such love, I stood as in a drowse, + And the slow moon edged from the upland nigh, + My sad thoughts moving thuswise: “I may house + + And I may husband her, yet what am I + But licensed tyrant to this bonded pair? + Says Charity, Do as ye would be done by.” . . . + + Hurling my iron to the bushes there, + I bade them stay. And, as if brain and breast + Were passive, they walked with me to the stair. + + Inside the house none watched; and on we prest + Before a mirror, in whose gleam I read + Her beauty, his,—and mine own mien unblest; + + Till at her room I turned. “Madam,” I said, + “Have you the wherewithal for this? Pray speak. + Love fills no cupboard. You’ll need daily bread.” + + “We’ve nothing, sire,” said she; “and nothing seek. + ’Twere base in me to rob my lord unware; + Our hands will earn a pittance week by week.” + + And next I saw she’d piled her raiment rare + Within the garde-robes, and her household purse, + Her jewels, and least lace of personal wear; + + And stood in homespun. Now grown wholly hers, + I handed her the gold, her jewels all, + And him the choicest of her robes diverse. + + “I’ll take you to the doorway in the wall, + And then adieu,” I to them. “Friends, withdraw.” + They did so; and she went—beyond recall. + + And as I paused beneath the arch I saw + Their moonlit figures—slow, as in surprise— + Descend the slope, and vanish on the haw. + + “‘Fool,’ some will say,” I thought. “But who is wise, + Save God alone, to weigh my reasons why?” + —“Hast thou struck home?” came with the boughs’ night-sighs. + + It was my friend. “I have struck well. They fly, + But carry wounds that none can cicatrize.” + —“Not mortal?” said he. “Lingering—worse,” said I. + + + + +LEIPZIG +(1813) + + + _Scene_: _The Master-tradesmen’s Parlour at the Old Ship Inn_, + _Casterbridge_. _Evening_. + + “OLD Norbert with the flat blue cap— + A German said to be— + Why let your pipe die on your lap, + Your eyes blink absently?”— + + —“Ah! . . . Well, I had thought till my cheek was wet + Of my mother—her voice and mien + When she used to sing and pirouette, + And touse the tambourine + + “To the march that yon street-fiddler plies: + She told me ’twas the same + She’d heard from the trumpets, when the Allies + Her city overcame. + + “My father was one of the German Hussars, + My mother of Leipzig; but he, + Long quartered here, fetched her at close of the wars, + And a Wessex lad reared me. + + “And as I grew up, again and again + She’d tell, after trilling that air, + Of her youth, and the battles on Leipzig plain + And of all that was suffered there! . . . + + “—’Twas a time of alarms. Three Chiefs-at-arms + Combined them to crush One, + And by numbers’ might, for in equal fight + He stood the matched of none. + + “Carl Schwarzenberg was of the plot, + And Blücher, prompt and prow, + And Jean the Crown-Prince Bernadotte: + Buonaparte was the foe. + + “City and plain had felt his reign + From the North to the Middle Sea, + And he’d now sat down in the noble town + Of the King of Saxony. + + “October’s deep dew its wet gossamer threw + Upon Leipzig’s lawns, leaf-strewn, + Where lately each fair avenue + Wrought shade for summer noon. + + “To westward two dull rivers crept + Through miles of marsh and slough, + Whereover a streak of whiteness swept— + The Bridge of Lindenau. + + “Hard by, in the City, the One, care-tossed, + Gloomed over his shrunken power; + And without the walls the hemming host + Waxed denser every hour. + + “He had speech that night on the morrow’s designs + With his chiefs by the bivouac fire, + While the belt of flames from the enemy’s lines + Flared nigher him yet and nigher. + + “Three sky-lights then from the girdling trine + Told, ‘Ready!’ As they rose + Their flashes seemed his Judgment-Sign + For bleeding Europe’s woes. + + “’Twas seen how the French watch-fires that night + Glowed still and steadily; + And the Three rejoiced, for they read in the sight + That the One disdained to flee . . . + + “—Five hundred guns began the affray + On next day morn at nine; + Such mad and mangling cannon-play + Had never torn human line. + + “Around the town three battles beat, + Contracting like a gin; + As nearer marched the million feet + Of columns closing in. + + “The first battle nighed on the low Southern side; + The second by the Western way; + The nearing of the third on the North was heard: + —The French held all at bay. + + “Against the first band did the Emperor stand; + Against the second stood Ney; + Marmont against the third gave the order-word: + —Thus raged it throughout the day. + + “Fifty thousand sturdy souls on those trampled plains and knolls, + Who met the dawn hopefully, + And were lotted their shares in a quarrel not theirs, + Dropt then in their agony. + + “‘O,’ the old folks said, ‘ye Preachers stern! + O so-called Christian time! + When will men’s swords to ploughshares turn? + When come the promised prime?’ . . . + + “—The clash of horse and man which that day began, + Closed not as evening wore; + And the morrow’s armies, rear and van, + Still mustered more and more. + + “From the City towers the Confederate Powers + Were eyed in glittering lines, + And up from the vast a murmuring passed + As from a wood of pines. + + “‘’Tis well to cover a feeble skill + By numbers!’ scoffèd He; + ‘But give me a third of their strength, I’d fill + Half Hell with their soldiery!’ + + [Picture: Sketch of town square, Leipzig?] + + “All that day raged the war they waged, + And again dumb night held reign, + Save that ever upspread from the dark deathbed + A miles-wide pant of pain. + + “Hard had striven brave Ney, the true Bertrand, + Victor, and Augereau, + Bold Poniatowski, and Lauriston, + To stay their overthrow; + + “But, as in the dream of one sick to death + There comes a narrowing room + That pens him, body and limbs and breath, + To wait a hideous doom, + + “So to Napoleon, in the hush + That held the town and towers + Through these dire nights, a creeping crush + Seemed inborne with the hours. + + “One road to the rearward, and but one, + Did fitful Chance allow; + ’Twas where the Pleiss’ and Elster run— + The Bridge of Lindenau. + + “The nineteenth dawned. Down street and Platz + The wasted French sank back, + Stretching long lines across the Flats + And on the bridge-way track; + + “When there surged on the sky an earthen wave, + And stones, and men, as though + Some rebel churchyard crew updrave + Their sepulchres from below. + + “To Heaven is blown Bridge Lindenau; + Wrecked regiments reel therefrom; + And rank and file in masses plough + The sullen Elster-Strom. + + “A gulf was Lindenau; and dead + Were fifties, hundreds, tens; + And every current rippled red + With Marshal’s blood and men’s. + + “The smart Macdonald swam therein, + And barely won the verge; + Bold Poniatowski plunged him in + Never to re-emerge. + + “Then stayed the strife. The remnants wound + Their Rhineward way pell-mell; + And thus did Leipzig City sound + An Empire’s passing bell; + + “While in cavalcade, with band and blade, + Came Marshals, Princes, Kings; + And the town was theirs . . . Ay, as simple maid, + My mother saw these things! + + “And whenever those notes in the street begin, + I recall her, and that far scene, + And her acting of how the Allies marched in, + And her touse of the tambourine!” + + [Picture: Sketch of person standing outside bay window, looking in] + + + + +THE PEASANT’S CONFESSION + + + “Si le maréchal Grouchy avait été rejoint par l’officier que Napoléon + lui avait expédié la veille à dix heures du soir, toute question eût + disparu. Mais cet officier n’était point parvenu à sa destination, + ainsi que le maréchal n’a cessé de l’affirmer toute sa vie, et il + faut l’en croire, car autrement il n’aurait eu aucune raison pour + hésiter. Cet officier avait-il été pris? avait-il passé à l’ennemi? + C’est ce qu’on a toujours ignoré.” + + —THIERS: _Histoire de l’Empire_. “Waterloo.” + + GOOD Father! . . . ’Twas an eve in middle June, + And war was waged anew + By great Napoleon, who for years had strewn + Men’s bones all Europe through. + + Three nights ere this, with columned corps he’d crossed + The Sambre at Charleroi, + To move on Brussels, where the English host + Dallied in Parc and Bois. + + The yestertide we’d heard the gloomy gun + Growl through the long-sunned day + From Quatre-Bras and Ligny; till the dun + Twilight suppressed the fray; + + Albeit therein—as lated tongues bespoke— + Brunswick’s high heart was drained, + And Prussia’s Line and Landwehr, though unbroke, + Stood cornered and constrained. + + And at next noon-time Grouchy slowly passed + With thirty thousand men: + We hoped thenceforth no army, small or vast, + Would trouble us again. + + My hut lay deeply in a vale recessed, + And never a soul seemed nigh + When, reassured at length, we went to rest— + My children, wife, and I. + + But what was this that broke our humble ease? + What noise, above the rain, + Above the dripping of the poplar trees + That smote along the pane? + + —A call of mastery, bidding me arise, + Compelled me to the door, + At which a horseman stood in martial guise— + Splashed—sweating from every pore. + + Had I seen Grouchy? Yes? Which track took he? + Could I lead thither on?— + Fulfilment would ensure gold pieces three, + Perchance more gifts anon. + + “I bear the Emperor’s mandate,” then he said, + “Charging the Marshal straight + To strike between the double host ahead + Ere they co-operate, + + “Engaging Blücher till the Emperor put + Lord Wellington to flight, + And next the Prussians. This to set afoot + Is my emprise to-night.” + + I joined him in the mist; but, pausing, sought + To estimate his say. + Grouchy had made for Wavre; and yet, on thought, + I did not lead that way. + + I mused: “If Grouchy thus instructed be, + The clash comes sheer hereon; + My farm is stript. While, as for pieces three, + Money the French have none. + + “Grouchy unwarned, moreo’er, the English win, + And mine is left to me— + They buy, not borrow.”—Hence did I begin + To lead him treacherously. + + By Joidoigne, near to east, as we ondrew, + Dawn pierced the humid air; + And eastward faced I with him, though I knew + Never marched Grouchy there. + + Near Ottignies we passed, across the Dyle + (Lim’lette left far aside), + And thence direct toward Pervez and Noville + Through green grain, till he cried: + + “I doubt thy conduct, man! no track is here— + I doubt thy gagèd word!” + Thereat he scowled on me, and pranced me near, + And pricked me with his sword. + + “Nay, Captain, hold! We skirt, not trace the course + Of Grouchy,” said I then: + “As we go, yonder went he, with his force + Of thirty thousand men.” + + —At length noon nighed; when west, from Saint-John’s-Mound, + A hoarse artillery boomed, + And from Saint-Lambert’s upland, chapel-crowned, + The Prussian squadrons loomed. + + Then to the wayless wet gray ground he leapt; + “My mission fails!” he cried; + “Too late for Grouchy now to intercept, + For, peasant, you have lied!” + + He turned to pistol me. I sprang, and drew + The sabre from his flank, + And ’twixt his nape and shoulder, ere he knew, + I struck, and dead he sank. + + [Picture: Sketch of landscape] + + I hid him deep in nodding rye and oat— + His shroud green stalks and loam; + His requiem the corn-blade’s husky note— + And then I hastened home, . . . + + —Two armies writhe in coils of red and blue, + And brass and iron clang + From Goumont, past the front of Waterloo, + To Pap’lotte and Smohain. + + The Guard Imperial wavered on the height; + The Emperor’s face grew glum; + “I sent,” he said, “to Grouchy yesternight, + And yet he does not come!” + + ’Twas then, Good Father, that the French espied, + Streaking the summer land, + The men of Blücher. But the Emperor cried, + “Grouchy is now at hand!” + + And meanwhile Vand’leur, Vivian, Maitland, Kempt, + Met d’Erlon, Friant, Ney; + But Grouchy—mis-sent, blamed, yet blame-exempt— + Grouchy was far away. + + By even, slain or struck, Michel the strong, + Bold Travers, Dnop, Delord, + Smart Guyot, Reil-le, l’Heriter, Friant, + Scattered that champaign o’er. + + Fallen likewise wronged Duhesme, and skilled Lobau + Did that red sunset see; + Colbert, Legros, Blancard! . . . And of the foe + Picton and Ponsonby; + + With Gordon, Canning, Blackman, Ompteda, + L’Estrange, Delancey, Packe, + Grose, D’Oyly, Stables, Morice, Howard, Hay, + Von Schwerin, Watzdorf, Boek, + + Smith, Phelips, Fuller, Lind, and Battersby, + And hosts of ranksmen round . . . + Memorials linger yet to speak to thee + Of those that bit the ground! + + The Guards’ last column yielded; dykes of dead + Lay between vale and ridge, + As, thinned yet closing, faint yet fierce, they sped + In packs to Genappe Bridge. + + Safe was my stock; my capple cow unslain; + Intact each cock and hen; + But Grouchy far at Wavre all day had lain, + And thirty thousand men. + + O Saints, had I but lost my earing corn + And saved the cause once prized! + O Saints, why such false witness had I borne + When late I’d sympathized! . . . + + So now, being old, my children eye askance + My slowly dwindling store, + And crave my mite; till, worn with tarriance, + I care for life no more. + + To Almighty God henceforth I stand confessed, + And Virgin-Saint Marie; + O Michael, John, and Holy Ones in rest, + Entreat the Lord for me! + + [Picture: Silhouette of solder standing on hill] + + + + +THE ALARM +(1803) + + + _See_ “_The Trumpet-Major_” + + IN MEMORY OF ONE OF THE WRITER’S FAMILY WHO WAS A + VOLUNTEER DURING THE WAR WITH NAPOLEON + + IN a ferny byway + Near the great South-Wessex Highway, + A homestead raised its breakfast-smoke aloft; + The dew-damps still lay steamless, for the sun had made no sky-way, + And twilight cloaked the croft. + + ’Twas hard to realize on + This snug side the mute horizon + That beyond it hostile armaments might steer, + Save from seeing in the porchway a fair woman weep with eyes on + A harnessed Volunteer. + + In haste he’d flown there + To his comely wife alone there, + While marching south hard by, to still her fears, + For she soon would be a mother, and few messengers were known there + In these campaigning years. + + ’Twas time to be Good-bying, + Since the assembly-hour was nighing + In royal George’s town at six that morn; + And betwixt its wharves and this retreat were ten good miles of hieing + Ere ring of bugle-horn. + + “I’ve laid in food, Dear, + And broached the spiced and brewed, Dear; + And if our July hope should antedate, + Let the char-wench mount and gallop by the halterpath and wood, Dear, + And fetch assistance straight. + + “As for Buonaparte, forget him; + He’s not like to land! But let him, + Those strike with aim who strike for wives and sons! + And the war-boats built to float him; ’twere but wanted to upset him + A slat from Nelson’s guns! + + “But, to assure thee, + And of creeping fears to cure thee, + If he _should_ be rumoured anchoring in the Road, + Drive with the nurse to Kingsbere; and let nothing thence allure thee + Till we’ve him safe-bestowed. + + “Now, to turn to marching matters:— + I’ve my knapsack, firelock, spatters, + Crossbelts, priming-horn, stock, bay’net, blackball, clay, + Pouch, magazine, flints, flint-box that at every quick-step clatters; + . . . My heart, Dear; that must stay!” + + —With breathings broken + Farewell was kissed unspoken, + And they parted there as morning stroked the panes; + And the Volunteer went on, and turned, and twirled his glove for + token, + And took the coastward lanes. + + When above He’th Hills he found him, + He saw, on gazing round him, + The Barrow-Beacon burning—burning low, + As if, perhaps, uplighted ever since he’d homeward bound him; + And it meant: Expect the Foe! + + [Picture: Sketch of person riding with wide landscape behind] + + Leaving the byway, + And following swift the highway, + Car and chariot met he, faring fast inland; + “He’s anchored, Soldier!” shouted some: “God save thee, marching thy + way, + Th’lt front him on the strand!” + + He slowed; he stopped; he paltered + Awhile with self, and faltered, + “Why courting misadventure shoreward roam? + To Molly, surely! Seek the woods with her till times have altered; + Charity favours home. + + “Else, my denying + He would come she’ll read as lying— + Think the Barrow-Beacon must have met my eyes— + That my words were not unwareness, but deceit of her, while trying + My life to jeopardize. + + “At home is stocked provision, + And to-night, without suspicion, + We might bear it with us to a covert near; + Such sin, to save a childing wife, would earn it Christ’s remission, + Though none forgive it here!” + + While thus he, thinking, + A little bird, quick drinking + Among the crowfoot tufts the river bore, + Was tangled in their stringy arms, and fluttered, well-nigh sinking, + Near him, upon the moor. + + He stepped in, reached, and seized it, + And, preening, had released it + But that a thought of Holy Writ occurred, + And Signs Divine ere battle, till it seemed him Heaven had pleased it + As guide to send the bird. + + “O Lord, direct me! . . . + Doth Duty now expect me + To march a-coast, or guard my weak ones near? + Give this bird a flight according, that I thence know to elect me + The southward or the rear.” + + He loosed his clasp; when, rising, + The bird—as if surmising— + Bore due to southward, crossing by the Froom, + And Durnover Great-Field and Fort, the soldier clear advising— + Prompted he wist by Whom. + + Then on he panted + By grim Mai-Don, and slanted + Up the steep Ridge-way, hearkening betwixt whiles; + Till, nearing coast and harbour, he beheld the shore-line planted + With Foot and Horse for miles. + + Mistrusting not the omen, + He gained the beach, where Yeomen, + Militia, Fencibles, and Pikemen bold, + With Regulars in thousands, were enmassed to meet the Foemen, + Whose fleet had not yet shoaled. + + Captain and Colonel, + Sere Generals, Ensigns vernal, + Were there; of neighbour-natives, Michel, Smith, + Meggs, Bingham, Gambier, Cunningham, roused by the hued nocturnal + Swoop on their land and kith. + + But Buonaparte still tarried; + His project had miscarried; + At the last hour, equipped for victory, + The fleet had paused; his subtle combinations had been parried + By British strategy. + + Homeward returning + Anon, no beacons burning, + No alarms, the Volunteer, in modest bliss, + Te Deum sang with wife and friends: “We praise Thee, Lord, discerning + That Thou hast helped in this!” + + + + +HER DEATH AND AFTER + + + ’TWAS a death-bed summons, and forth I went + By the way of the Western Wall, so drear + On that winter night, and sought a gate— + The home, by Fate, + Of one I had long held dear. + + And there, as I paused by her tenement, + And the trees shed on me their rime and hoar, + I thought of the man who had left her lone— + Him who made her his own + When I loved her, long before. + + The rooms within had the piteous shine + That home-things wear when there’s aught amiss; + From the stairway floated the rise and fall + Of an infant’s call, + Whose birth had brought her to this. + + Her life was the price she would pay for that whine— + For a child by the man she did not love. + “But let that rest for ever,” I said, + And bent my tread + To the chamber up above. + + She took my hand in her thin white own, + And smiled her thanks—though nigh too weak— + And made them a sign to leave us there + Then faltered, ere + She could bring herself to speak. + + “’Twas to see you before I go—he’ll condone + Such a natural thing now my time’s not much— + When Death is so near it hustles hence + All passioned sense + Between woman and man as such! + + “My husband is absent. As heretofore + The City detains him. But, in truth, + He has not been kind . . . I will speak no blame, + But—the child is lame; + O, I pray she may reach his ruth! + + “Forgive past days—I can say no more— + Maybe if we’d wedded you’d now repine! . . . + But I treated you ill. I was punished. Farewell! + —Truth shall I tell? + Would the child were yours and mine! + + “As a wife I was true. But, such my unease + That, could I insert a deed back in Time, + I’d make her yours, to secure your care; + And the scandal bear, + And the penalty for the crime!” + + —When I had left, and the swinging trees + Rang above me, as lauding her candid say, + Another was I. Her words were enough: + Came smooth, came rough, + I felt I could live my day. + + Next night she died; and her obsequies + In the Field of Tombs, by the Via renowned, + Had her husband’s heed. His tendance spent, + I often went + And pondered by her mound. + + All that year and the next year whiled, + And I still went thitherward in the gloam; + But the Town forgot her and her nook, + And her husband took + Another Love to his home. + + And the rumour flew that the lame lone child + Whom she wished for its safety child of mine, + Was treated ill when offspring came + Of the new-made dame, + And marked a more vigorous line. + + [Picture: Sketch of cemetery] + + A smarter grief within me wrought + Than even at loss of her so dear; + Dead the being whose soul my soul suffused, + Her child ill-used, + I helpless to interfere! + + One eve as I stood at my spot of thought + In the white-stoned Garth, brooding thus her wrong, + Her husband neared; and to shun his view + By her hallowed mew + I went from the tombs among + + To the Cirque of the Gladiators which faced— + That haggard mark of Imperial Rome, + Whose Pagan echoes mock the chime + Of our Christian time: + It was void, and I inward clomb. + + Scarce night the sun’s gold touch displaced + From the vast Rotund and the neighbouring dead + When her husband followed; bowed; half-passed, + With lip upcast; + Then, halting, sullenly said: + + “It is noised that you visit my first wife’s tomb. + Now, I gave her an honoured name to bear + While living, when dead. So I’ve claim to ask + By what right you task + My patience by vigiling there? + + “There’s decency even in death, I assume; + Preserve it, sir, and keep away; + For the mother of my first-born you + Show mind undue! + —Sir, I’ve nothing more to say.” + + A desperate stroke discerned I then— + God pardon—or pardon not—the lie; + She had sighed that she wished (lest the child should pine + Of slights) ’twere mine, + So I said: “But the father I. + + “That you thought it yours is the way of men; + But I won her troth long ere your day: + You learnt how, in dying, she summoned me? + ’Twas in fealty. + —Sir, I’ve nothing more to say, + + “Save that, if you’ll hand me my little maid, + I’ll take her, and rear her, and spare you toil. + Think it more than a friendly act none can; + I’m a lonely man, + While you’ve a large pot to boil. + + “If not, and you’ll put it to ball or blade— + To-night, to-morrow night, anywhen— + I’ll meet you here . . . But think of it, + And in season fit + Let me hear from you again.” + + —Well, I went away, hoping; but nought I heard + Of my stroke for the child, till there greeted me + A little voice that one day came + To my window-frame + And babbled innocently: + + “My father who’s not my own, sends word + I’m to stay here, sir, where I belong!” + Next a writing came: “Since the child was the fruit + Of your lawless suit, + Pray take her, to right a wrong.” + + And I did. And I gave the child my love, + And the child loved me, and estranged us none. + But compunctions loomed; for I’d harmed the dead + By what I’d said + For the good of the living one. + + —Yet though, God wot, I am sinner enough, + And unworthy the woman who drew me so, + Perhaps this wrong for her darling’s good + She forgives, or would, + If only she could know! + + [Picture: Sketch of tree-lined path] + + * * * * * + + [Picture: Sketch of a decorative stave of music] + + + + +THE DANCE AT THE PHŒNIX + + + TO Jenny came a gentle youth + From inland leazes lone, + His love was fresh as apple-blooth + By Parrett, Yeo, or Tone. + And duly he entreated her + To be his tender minister, + And call him aye her own. + + Fair Jenny’s life had hardly been + A life of modesty; + At Casterbridge experience keen + Of many loves had she + From scarcely sixteen years above; + Among them sundry troopers of + The King’s-Own Cavalry. + + But each with charger, sword, and gun, + Had bluffed the Biscay wave; + And Jenny prized her gentle one + For all the love he gave. + She vowed to be, if they were wed, + His honest wife in heart and head + From bride-ale hour to grave. + + Wedded they were. Her husband’s trust + In Jenny knew no bound, + And Jenny kept her pure and just, + Till even malice found + No sin or sign of ill to be + In one who walked so decently + The duteous helpmate’s round. + + Two sons were born, and bloomed to men, + And roamed, and were as not: + Alone was Jenny left again + As ere her mind had sought + A solace in domestic joys, + And ere the vanished pair of boys + Were sent to sun her cot. + + She numbered near on sixty years, + And passed as elderly, + When, in the street, with flush of fears, + One day discovered she, + From shine of swords and thump of drum. + Her early loves from war had come, + The King’s-Own Cavalry. + + She turned aside, and bowed her head + Anigh Saint Peter’s door; + “Alas for chastened thoughts!” she said; + “I’m faded now, and hoar, + And yet those notes—they thrill me through, + And those gay forms move me anew + As in the years of yore!” . . . + + ’Twas Christmas, and the Phœnix Inn + Was lit with tapers tall, + For thirty of the trooper men + Had vowed to give a ball + As “Theirs” had done (’twas handed down) + When lying in the selfsame town + Ere Buonaparté’s fall. + + That night the throbbing “Soldier’s Joy,” + The measured tread and sway + Of “Fancy-Lad” and “Maiden Coy,” + Reached Jenny as she lay + Beside her spouse; till springtide blood + Seemed scouring through her like a flood + That whisked the years away. + + She rose, and rayed, and decked her head + Where the bleached hairs ran thin; + Upon her cap two bows of red + She fixed with hasty pin; + Unheard descending to the street, + She trod the flags with tune-led feet, + And stood before the Inn. + + Save for the dancers’, not a sound + Disturbed the icy air; + No watchman on his midnight round + Or traveller was there; + But over All-Saints’, high and bright, + Pulsed to the music Sirius white, + The Wain by Bullstake Square. + + She knocked, but found her further stride + Checked by a sergeant tall: + “Gay Granny, whence come you?” he cried; + “This is a private ball.” + —“No one has more right here than me! + Ere you were born, man,” answered she, + “I knew the regiment all!” + + “Take not the lady’s visit ill!” + Upspoke the steward free; + “We lack sufficient partners still, + So, prithee let her be!” + They seized and whirled her ’mid the maze, + And Jenny felt as in the days + Of her immodesty. + + Hour chased each hour, and night advanced; + She sped as shod with wings; + Each time and every time she danced— + Reels, jigs, poussettes, and flings: + They cheered her as she soared and swooped, + (She’d learnt ere art in dancing drooped + From hops to slothful swings). + + The favourite Quick-step “Speed the Plough”— + (Cross hands, cast off, and wheel)— + “The Triumph,” “Sylph,” “The Row-dow-dow,” + Famed “Major Malley’s Reel,” + “The Duke of York’s,” “The Fairy Dance,” + “The Bridge of Lodi” (brought from France), + She beat out, toe and heel. + + The “Fall of Paris” clanged its close, + And Peter’s chime told four, + When Jenny, bosom-beating, rose + To seek her silent door. + They tiptoed in escorting her, + Lest stroke of heel or clink of spur + Should break her goodman’s snore. + + The fire that late had burnt fell slack + When lone at last stood she; + Her nine-and-fifty years came back; + She sank upon her knee + Beside the durn, and like a dart + A something arrowed through her heart + In shoots of agony. + + Their footsteps died as she leant there, + Lit by the morning star + Hanging above the moorland, where + The aged elm-rows are; + And, as o’ernight, from Pummery Ridge + To Maembury Ring and Standfast Bridge + No life stirred, near or far. + + Though inner mischief worked amain, + She reached her husband’s side; + Where, toil-weary, as he had lain + Beneath the patchwork pied + When yestereve she’d forthward crept, + And as unwitting, still he slept + Who did in her confide. + + A tear sprang as she turned and viewed + His features free from guile; + She kissed him long, as when, just wooed, + She chose his domicile. + She felt she could have given her life + To be the single-hearted wife + That she had been erstwhile. + + Time wore to six. Her husband rose + And struck the steel and stone; + He glanced at Jenny, whose repose + Seemed deeper than his own. + With dumb dismay, on closer sight, + He gathered sense that in the night, + Or morn, her soul had flown. + + When told that some too mighty strain + For one so many-yeared + Had burst her bosom’s master-vein, + His doubts remained unstirred. + His Jenny had not left his side + Betwixt the eve and morning-tide: + —The King’s said not a word. + + Well! times are not as times were then, + Nor fair ones half so free; + And truly they were martial men, + The King’s-Own Cavalry. + And when they went from Casterbridge + And vanished over Mellstock Ridge, + ’Twas saddest morn to see. + + [Picture: Two lines of military men on horses] + + * * * * * + + [Picture: Sketch of wooden panel] + + + + +THE CASTERBRIDGE CAPTAINS +(KHYBER PASS, 1842) + + + A TRADITION OF J. B. L—, T. G. B—, AND J. L—. + + THREE captains went to Indian wars, + And only one returned: + Their mate of yore, he singly wore + The laurels all had earned. + + At home he sought the ancient aisle + Wherein, untrumped of fame, + The three had sat in pupilage, + And each had carved his name. + + The names, rough-hewn, of equal size, + Stood on the panel still; + Unequal since.—“’Twas theirs to aim, + Mine was it to fulfil!” + + —“Who saves his life shall lose it, friends!” + Outspake the preacher then, + Unweeting he his listener, who + Looked at the names again. + + That he had come and they’d been stayed, + ’Twas but the chance of war: + Another chance, and they’d sat here, + And he had lain afar. + + Yet saw he something in the lives + Of those who’d ceased to live + That sphered them with a majesty + Which living failed to give. + + Transcendent triumph in return + No longer lit his brain; + Transcendence rayed the distant urn + Where slept the fallen twain. + + [Picture: Sketch of comet] + + + + +A SIGN-SEEKER + + + I MARK the months in liveries dank and dry, + The noontides many-shaped and hued; + I see the nightfall shades subtrude, + And hear the monotonous hours clang negligently by. + + I view the evening bonfires of the sun + On hills where morning rains have hissed; + The eyeless countenance of the mist + Pallidly rising when the summer droughts are done. + + I have seen the lightning-blade, the leaping star, + The cauldrons of the sea in storm, + Have felt the earthquake’s lifting arm, + And trodden where abysmal fires and snow-cones are. + + I learn to prophesy the hid eclipse, + The coming of eccentric orbs; + To mete the dust the sky absorbs, + To weigh the sun, and fix the hour each planet dips. + + I witness fellow earth-men surge and strive; + Assemblies meet, and throb, and part; + Death’s soothing finger, sorrow’s smart; + —All the vast various moils that mean a world alive. + + But that I fain would wot of shuns my sense— + Those sights of which old prophets tell, + Those signs the general word so well, + Vouchsafed to their unheed, denied my long suspense. + + In graveyard green, behind his monument + To glimpse a phantom parent, friend, + Wearing his smile, and “Not the end!” + Outbreathing softly: that were blest enlightenment; + + Or, if a dead Love’s lips, whom dreams reveal + When midnight imps of King Decay + Delve sly to solve me back to clay, + Should leave some print to prove her spirit-kisses real; + + Or, when Earth’s Frail lie bleeding of her Strong, + If some Recorder, as in Writ, + Near to the weary scene should flit + And drop one plume as pledge that Heaven inscrolls the wrong. + + —There are who, rapt to heights of trancéd trust, + These tokens claim to feel and see, + Read radiant hints of times to be— + Of heart to heart returning after dust to dust. + + Such scope is granted not to lives like mine . . . + I have lain in dead men’s beds, have walked + The tombs of those with whom I’d talked, + Called many a gone and goodly one to shape a sign, + + And panted for response. But none replies; + No warnings loom, nor whisperings + To open out my limitings, + And Nescience mutely muses: When a man falls he lies. + + [Picture: Sketch of person on horseback in wide landscape] + + + + +MY CICELY +(17–) + + + “ALIVE?”—And I leapt in my wonder, + Was faint of my joyance, + And grasses and grove shone in garments + Of glory to me. + + “She lives, in a plenteous well-being, + To-day as aforehand; + The dead bore the name—though a rare one— + The name that bore she.” + + She lived . . . I, afar in the city + Of frenzy-led factions, + Had squandered green years and maturer + In bowing the knee + + To Baals illusive and specious, + Till chance had there voiced me + That one I loved vainly in nonage + Had ceased her to be. + + The passion the planets had scowled on, + And change had let dwindle, + Her death-rumour smartly relifted + To full apogee. + + I mounted a steed in the dawning + With acheful remembrance, + And made for the ancient West Highway + To far Exonb’ry. + + Passing heaths, and the House of Long Sieging, + I neared the thin steeple + That tops the fair fane of Poore’s olden + Episcopal see; + + And, changing anew my onbearer, + I traversed the downland + Whereon the bleak hill-graves of Chieftains + Bulge barren of tree; + + And still sadly onward I followed + That Highway the Icen, + Which trails its pale riband down Wessex + O’er lynchet and lea. + + Along through the Stour-bordered Forum, + Where Legions had wayfared, + And where the slow river upglasses + Its green canopy, + + And by Weatherbury Castle, and thencefrom + Through Casterbridge held I + Still on, to entomb her my vision + Saw stretched pallidly. + + No highwayman’s trot blew the night-wind + To me so life-weary, + But only the creak of the gibbets + Or waggoners’ jee. + + Triple-ramparted Maidon gloomed grayly + Above me from southward, + And north the hill-fortress of Eggar, + And square Pummerie. + + The Nine-Pillared Cromlech, the Bride-streams, + The Axe, and the Otter + I passed, to the gate of the city + Where Exe scents the sea; + + Till, spent, in the graveacre pausing, + I learnt ’twas not my Love + To whom Mother Church had just murmured + A last lullaby. + + —“Then, where dwells the Canon’s kinswoman, + My friend of aforetime?”— + (’Twas hard to repress my heart-heavings + And new ecstasy.) + + “She wedded.”—“Ah!”—“Wedded beneath her— + She keeps the stage-hostel + Ten miles hence, beside the great Highway— + The famed Lions-Three. + + “Her spouse was her lackey—no option + ’Twixt wedlock and worse things; + A lapse over-sad for a lady + Of her pedigree!” + + I shuddered, said nothing, and wandered + To shades of green laurel: + Too ghastly had grown those first tidings + So brightsome of blee! + + For, on my ride hither, I’d halted + Awhile at the Lions, + And her—her whose name had once opened + My heart as a key— + + I’d looked on, unknowing, and witnessed + Her jests with the tapsters, + Her liquor-fired face, her thick accents + In naming her fee. + + “O God, why this seeming derision!” + I cried in my anguish: + “O once Loved, O fair Unforgotten— + That Thing—meant it thee! + + “Inurned and at peace, lost but sainted, + Were grief I could compass; + Depraved—’tis for Christ’s poor dependent + A cruel decree!” + + I backed on the Highway; but passed not + The hostel. Within there + Too mocking to Love’s re-expression + Was Time’s repartee! + + Uptracking where Legions had wayfared, + By cromlechs unstoried, + And lynchets, and sepultured Chieftains, + In self-colloquy, + + A feeling stirred in me and strengthened + That _she_ was not my Love, + But she of the garth, who lay rapt in + Her long reverie. + + And thence till to-day I persuade me + That this was the true one; + That Death stole intact her young dearness + And innocency. + + Frail-witted, illuded they call me; + I may be. ’Tis better + To dream than to own the debasement + Of sweet Cicely. + + Moreover I rate it unseemly + To hold that kind Heaven + Could work such device—to her ruin + And my misery. + + So, lest I disturb my choice vision, + I shun the West Highway, + Even now, when the knaps ring with rhythms + From blackbird and bee; + + And feel that with slumber half-conscious + She rests in the church-hay, + Her spirit unsoiled as in youth-time + When lovers were we. + + [Picture: Sketch of top of church tower] + + * * * * * + + [Picture: Sketch of fields with trees] + + + + +HER IMMORTALITY + + + UPON a noon I pilgrimed through + A pasture, mile by mile, + Unto the place where I last saw + My dead Love’s living smile. + + And sorrowing I lay me down + Upon the heated sod: + It seemed as if my body pressed + The very ground she trod. + + I lay, and thought; and in a trance + She came and stood me by— + The same, even to the marvellous ray + That used to light her eye. + + “You draw me, and I come to you, + My faithful one,” she said, + In voice that had the moving tone + It bore ere breath had fled. + + She said: “’Tis seven years since I died: + Few now remember me; + My husband clasps another bride; + My children’s love has she. + + “My brethren, sisters, and my friends + Care not to meet my sprite: + Who prized me most I did not know + Till I passed down from sight.” + + I said: “My days are lonely here; + I need thy smile alway: + I’ll use this night my ball or blade, + And join thee ere the day.” + + A tremor stirred her tender lips, + Which parted to dissuade: + “That cannot be, O friend,” she cried; + “Think, I am but a Shade! + + “A Shade but in its mindful ones + Has immortality; + By living, me you keep alive, + By dying you slay me. + + “In you resides my single power + Of sweet continuance here; + On your fidelity I count + Through many a coming year.” + + —I started through me at her plight, + So suddenly confessed: + Dismissing late distaste for life, + I craved its bleak unrest. + + “I will not die, my One of all!— + To lengthen out thy days + I’ll guard me from minutest harms + That may invest my ways!” + + She smiled and went. Since then she comes + Oft when her birth-moon climbs, + Or at the seasons’ ingresses + Or anniversary times; + + But grows my grief. When I surcease, + Through whom alone lives she, + Ceases my Love, her words, her ways, + Never again to be! + + + + +THE IVY-WIFE + + + I LONGED to love a full-boughed beech + And be as high as he: + I stretched an arm within his reach, + And signalled unity. + But with his drip he forced a breach, + And tried to poison me. + + I gave the grasp of partnership + To one of other race— + A plane: he barked him strip by strip + From upper bough to base; + And me therewith; for gone my grip, + My arms could not enlace. + + In new affection next I strove + To coll an ash I saw, + And he in trust received my love; + Till with my soft green claw + I cramped and bound him as I wove . . . + Such was my love: ha-ha! + + By this I gained his strength and height + Without his rivalry. + But in my triumph I lost sight + Of afterhaps. Soon he, + Being bark-bound, flagged, snapped, fell outright, + And in his fall felled me! + + + + +A MEETING WITH DESPAIR + + + AS evening shaped I found me on a moor + Which sight could scarce sustain: + The black lean land, of featureless contour, + Was like a tract in pain. + + “This scene, like my own life,” I said, “is one + Where many glooms abide; + Toned by its fortune to a deadly dun— + Lightless on every side. + + I glanced aloft and halted, pleasure-caught + To see the contrast there: + The ray-lit clouds gleamed glory; and I thought, + “There’s solace everywhere!” + + Then bitter self-reproaches as I stood + I dealt me silently + As one perverse—misrepresenting Good + In graceless mutiny. + + Against the horizon’s dim-discernèd wheel + A form rose, strange of mould: + That he was hideous, hopeless, I could feel + Rather than could behold. + + “’Tis a dead spot, where even the light lies spent + To darkness!” croaked the Thing. + “Not if you look aloft!” said I, intent + On my new reasoning. + + “Yea—but await awhile!” he cried. “Ho-ho!— + Look now aloft and see!” + I looked. There, too, sat night: Heaven’s radiant show + Had gone. Then chuckled he. + + + + +UNKNOWING + + + WHEN, soul in soul reflected, + We breathed an æthered air, + When we neglected + All things elsewhere, + And left the friendly friendless + To keep our love aglow, + We deemed it endless . . . + —We did not know! + + When, by mad passion goaded, + We planned to hie away, + But, unforeboded, + The storm-shafts gray + So heavily down-pattered + That none could forthward go, + Our lives seemed shattered . . . + —We did not know! + + When I found you, helpless lying, + And you waived my deep misprise, + And swore me, dying, + In phantom-guise + To wing to me when grieving, + And touch away my woe, + We kissed, believing . . . + —We did not know! + + But though, your powers outreckoning, + You hold you dead and dumb, + Or scorn my beckoning, + And will not come; + And I say, “’Twere mood ungainly + To store her memory so:” + I say it vainly— + I feel and know! + + + + +FRIENDS BEYOND + + + WILLIAM DEWY, Tranter Reuben, Farmer Ledlow late at plough, + Robert’s kin, and John’s, and Ned’s, + And the Squire, and Lady Susan, lie in Mellstock churchyard now! + + “Gone,” I call them, gone for good, that group of local hearts and + heads; + Yet at mothy curfew-tide, + And at midnight when the noon-heat breathes it back from walls and + leads, + + They’ve a way of whispering to me—fellow-wight who yet abide— + In the muted, measured note + Of a ripple under archways, or a lone cave’s stillicide: + + “We have triumphed: this achievement turns the bane to antidote, + Unsuccesses to success, + —Many thought-worn eves and morrows to a morrow free of thought. + + “No more need we corn and clothing, feel of old terrestrial stress; + Chill detraction stirs no sigh; + Fear of death has even bygone us: death gave all that we possess.” + + _W. D._—“Ye mid burn the wold bass-viol that I set such vallie by.” + _Squire_.—“You may hold the manse in fee, + You may wed my spouse, my children’s memory of me may decry.” + + _Lady_.—“You may have my rich brocades, my laces; take each household + key; + Ransack coffer, desk, bureau; + Quiz the few poor treasures hid there, con the letters kept by me.” + + _Far._—“Ye mid zell my favourite heifer, ye mid let the charlock grow, + Foul the grinterns, give up thrift.” + _Wife_.—“If ye break my best blue china, children, I shan’t care or + ho.” + + _All_. —“We’ve no wish to hear the tidings, how the people’s fortunes + shift; + What your daily doings are; + Who are wedded, born, divided; if your lives beat slow or swift. + + “Curious not the least are we if our intents you make or mar, + If you quire to our old tune, + If the City stage still passes, if the weirs still roar afar.” + + —Thus, with very gods’ composure, freed those crosses late and soon + Which, in life, the Trine allow + (Why, none witteth), and ignoring all that haps beneath the moon, + + William Dewy, Tranter Reuben, Farmer Ledlow late at plough, + Robert’s kin, and John’s, and Ned’s, + And the Squire, and Lady Susan, murmur mildly to me now. + + [Picture: Sketch of vase with dead flowers] + + + + +TO OUTER NATURE + + + SHOW thee as I thought thee + When I early sought thee, + Omen-scouting, + All undoubting + Love alone had wrought thee— + + Wrought thee for my pleasure, + Planned thee as a measure + For expounding + And resounding + Glad things that men treasure. + + O for but a moment + Of that old endowment— + Light to gaily + See thy daily + Irisèd embowment! + + But such re-adorning + Time forbids with scorning— + Makes me see things + Cease to be things + They were in my morning. + + Fad’st thou, glow-forsaken, + Darkness-overtaken! + Thy first sweetness, + Radiance, meetness, + None shall re-awaken. + + Why not sempiternal + Thou and I? Our vernal + Brightness keeping, + Time outleaping; + Passed the hodiernal! + + + + +THOUGHTS OF PHENA +AT NEWS OF HER DEATH + + + NOT a line of her writing have I, + Not a thread of her hair, + No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby + I may picture her there; + And in vain do I urge my unsight + To conceive my lost prize + At her close, whom I knew when her dreams were upbrimming with light, + And with laughter her eyes. + + What scenes spread around her last days, + Sad, shining, or dim? + Did her gifts and compassions enray and enarch her sweet ways + With an aureate nimb? + Or did life-light decline from her years, + And mischances control + Her full day-star; unease, or regret, or forebodings, or fears + Disennoble her soul? + + Thus I do but the phantom retain + Of the maiden of yore + As my relic; yet haply the best of her—fined in my brain + It maybe the more + That no line of her writing have I, + Nor a thread of her hair, + No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby + I may picture her there. + +_March_ 1890. + + [Picture: Sketch of woman cover in sheet lying on couch] + + + + +MIDDLE-AGE ENTHUSIASMS +To M. H. + + + WE passed where flag and flower + Signalled a jocund throng; + We said: “Go to, the hour + Is apt!”—and joined the song; + And, kindling, laughed at life and care, + Although we knew no laugh lay there. + + We walked where shy birds stood + Watching us, wonder-dumb; + Their friendship met our mood; + We cried: “We’ll often come: + We’ll come morn, noon, eve, everywhen!” + —We doubted we should come again. + + We joyed to see strange sheens + Leap from quaint leaves in shade; + A secret light of greens + They’d for their pleasure made. + We said: “We’ll set such sorts as these!” + —We knew with night the wish would cease. + + “So sweet the place,” we said, + “Its tacit tales so dear, + Our thoughts, when breath has sped, + Will meet and mingle here!” . . . + “Words!” mused we. “Passed the mortal door, + Our thoughts will reach this nook no more.” + + + + +IN A WOOD +See “THE WOODLANDERS” + + + PALE beech and pine-tree blue, + Set in one clay, + Bough to bough cannot you + Bide out your day? + When the rains skim and skip, + Why mar sweet comradeship, + Blighting with poison-drip + Neighbourly spray? + + Heart-halt and spirit-lame, + City-opprest, + Unto this wood I came + As to a nest; + Dreaming that sylvan peace + Offered the harrowed ease— + Nature a soft release + From men’s unrest. + + But, having entered in, + Great growths and small + Show them to men akin— + Combatants all! + Sycamore shoulders oak, + Bines the slim sapling yoke, + Ivy-spun halters choke + Elms stout and tall. + + Touches from ash, O wych, + Sting you like scorn! + You, too, brave hollies, twitch + Sidelong from thorn. + Even the rank poplars bear + Illy a rival’s air, + Cankering in black despair + If overborne. + + Since, then, no grace I find + Taught me of trees, + Turn I back to my kind, + Worthy as these. + There at least smiles abound, + There discourse trills around, + There, now and then, are found + Life-loyalties. + +1887: 1896. + + + + +TO A LADY +OFFENDED BY A BOOK OF THE WRITER’S + + + NOW that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe, + Never to press thy cosy cushions more, + Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore, + Or stir thy gentle vows of faith in me: + + Knowing thy natural receptivity, + I figure that, as flambeaux banish eve, + My sombre image, warped by insidious heave + Of those less forthright, must lose place in thee. + + So be it. I have borne such. Let thy dreams + Of me and mine diminish day by day, + And yield their space to shine of smugger things; + Till I shape to thee but in fitful gleams, + And then in far and feeble visitings, + And then surcease. Truth will be truth alway. + + + + +TO AN ORPHAN CHILD +A WHIMSEY + + + AH, child, thou art but half thy darling mother’s; + Hers couldst thou wholly be, + My light in thee would outglow all in others; + She would relive to me. + But niggard Nature’s trick of birth + Bars, lest she overjoy, + Renewal of the loved on earth + Save with alloy. + + The Dame has no regard, alas, my maiden, + For love and loss like mine— + No sympathy with mind-sight memory-laden; + Only with fickle eyne. + To her mechanic artistry + My dreams are all unknown, + And why I wish that thou couldst be + But One’s alone! + + [Picture: Sketch of broken key?] + + + + +NATURE’S QUESTIONING + + + WHEN I look forth at dawning, pool, + Field, flock, and lonely tree, + All seem to gaze at me + Like chastened children sitting silent in a school; + + Their faces dulled, constrained, and worn, + As though the master’s ways + Through the long teaching days + Their first terrestrial zest had chilled and overborne. + + And on them stirs, in lippings mere + (As if once clear in call, + But now scarce breathed at all)— + “We wonder, ever wonder, why we find us here! + + “Has some Vast Imbecility, + Mighty to build and blend, + But impotent to tend, + Framed us in jest, and left us now to hazardry? + + “Or come we of an Automaton + Unconscious of our pains? . . . + Or are we live remains + Of Godhead dying downwards, brain and eye now gone? + + “Or is it that some high Plan betides, + As yet not understood, + Of Evil stormed by Good, + We the Forlorn Hope over which Achievement strides?” + + Thus things around. No answerer I . . . + Meanwhile the winds, and rains, + And Earth’s old glooms and pains + Are still the same, and gladdest Life Death neighbours nigh. + + + + +THE IMPERCIPIENT +(AT A CATHEDRAL SERVICE) + + + THAT from this bright believing band + An outcast I should be, + That faiths by which my comrades stand + Seem fantasies to me, + And mirage-mists their Shining Land, + Is a drear destiny. + + Why thus my soul should be consigned + To infelicity, + Why always I must feel as blind + To sights my brethren see, + Why joys they’ve found I cannot find, + Abides a mystery. + + Since heart of mine knows not that ease + Which they know; since it be + That He who breathes All’s Well to these + Breathes no All’s-Well to me, + My lack might move their sympathies + And Christian charity! + + I am like a gazer who should mark + An inland company + Standing upfingered, with, “Hark! hark! + The glorious distant sea!” + And feel, “Alas, ’tis but yon dark + And wind-swept pine to me!” + + Yet I would bear my shortcomings + With meet tranquillity, + But for the charge that blessed things + I’d liefer have unbe. + O, doth a bird deprived of wings + Go earth-bound wilfully! + + * * * * * + + Enough. As yet disquiet clings + About us. Rest shall we. + + [Picture: Sketch of inside of church] + + + + +AT AN INN + + + WHEN we as strangers sought + Their catering care, + Veiled smiles bespoke their thought + Of what we were. + They warmed as they opined + Us more than friends— + That we had all resigned + For love’s dear ends. + + And that swift sympathy + With living love + Which quicks the world—maybe + The spheres above, + Made them our ministers, + Moved them to say, + “Ah, God, that bliss like theirs + Would flush our day!” + + And we were left alone + As Love’s own pair; + Yet never the love-light shone + Between us there! + But that which chilled the breath + Of afternoon, + And palsied unto death + The pane-fly’s tune. + + The kiss their zeal foretold, + And now deemed come, + Came not: within his hold + Love lingered-numb. + Why cast he on our port + A bloom not ours? + Why shaped us for his sport + In after-hours? + + As we seemed we were not + That day afar, + And now we seem not what + We aching are. + O severing sea and land, + O laws of men, + Ere death, once let us stand + As we stood then! + + + + +THE SLOW NATURE +(AN INCIDENT OF FROOM VALLEY) + + + “THY husband—poor, poor Heart!—is dead— + Dead, out by Moreford Rise; + A bull escaped the barton-shed, + Gored him, and there he lies!” + + —“Ha, ha—go away! ’Tis a tale, methink, + Thou joker Kit!” laughed she. + “I’ve known thee many a year, Kit Twink, + And ever hast thou fooled me!” + + —“But, Mistress Damon—I can swear + Thy goodman John is dead! + And soon th’lt hear their feet who bear + His body to his bed.” + + So unwontedly sad was the merry man’s face— + That face which had long deceived— + That she gazed and gazed; and then could trace + The truth there; and she believed. + + She laid a hand on the dresser-ledge, + And scanned far Egdon-side; + And stood; and you heard the wind-swept sedge + And the rippling Froom; till she cried: + + “O my chamber’s untidied, unmade my bed + Though the day has begun to wear! + ‘What a slovenly hussif!’ it will be said, + When they all go up my stair!” + + She disappeared; and the joker stood + Depressed by his neighbour’s doom, + And amazed that a wife struck to widowhood + Thought first of her unkempt room. + + But a fortnight thence she could take no food, + And she pined in a slow decay; + While Kit soon lost his mournful mood + And laughed in his ancient way. + +1894. + + + + +IN A EWELEAZE NEAR WEATHERBURY + + + THE years have gathered grayly + Since I danced upon this leaze + With one who kindled gaily + Love’s fitful ecstasies! + But despite the term as teacher, + I remain what I was then + In each essential feature + Of the fantasies of men. + + Yet I note the little chisel + Of never-napping Time, + Defacing ghast and grizzel + The blazon of my prime. + When at night he thinks me sleeping, + I feel him boring sly + Within my bones, and heaping + Quaintest pains for by-and-by. + + Still, I’d go the world with Beauty, + I would laugh with her and sing, + I would shun divinest duty + To resume her worshipping. + But she’d scorn my brave endeavour, + She would not balm the breeze + By murmuring “Thine for ever!” + As she did upon this leaze. + +1890. + + [Picture: Sketch of pair of glasses on sketch of landscape] + + + + +ADDITIONS + + +THE FIRE AT TRANTER SWEATLEY’S + + + THEY had long met o’ Zundays—her true love and she— + And at junketings, maypoles, and flings; + But she bode wi’ a thirtover uncle, and he + Swore by noon and by night that her goodman should be + Naibour Sweatley—a gaffer oft weak at the knee + From taking o’ sommat more cheerful than tea— + Who tranted, and moved people’s things. + + She cried, “O pray pity me!” Nought would he hear; + Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed. + She chid when her Love was for clinking off wi’ her. + The pa’son was told, as the season drew near + To throw over pu’pit the names of the peäir + As fitting one flesh to be made. + + The wedding-day dawned and the morning drew on; + The couple stood bridegroom and bride; + The evening was passed, and when midnight had gone + The folks horned out, “God save the King,” and anon + The two home-along gloomily hied. + + The lover Tim Tankens mourned heart-sick and drear + To be thus of his darling deprived: + He roamed in the dark ath’art field, mound, and mere, + And, a’most without knowing it, found himself near + The house of the tranter, and now of his Dear, + Where the lantern-light showed ’em arrived. + + The bride sought her cham’er so calm and so pale + That a Northern had thought her resigned; + But to eyes that had seen her in tide-times of weal, + Like the white cloud o’ smoke, the red battle-field’s vail, + That look spak’ of havoc behind. + + The bridegroom yet laitered a beaker to drain, + Then reeled to the linhay for more, + When the candle-snoff kindled some chaff from his grain— + Flames spread, and red vlankers, wi’ might and wi’ main, + And round beams, thatch, and chimley-tun roar. + + Young Tim away yond, rafted up by the light, + Through brimble and underwood tears, + Till he comes to the orchet, when crooping thereright + In the lewth of a codlin-tree, bivering wi’ fright, + Wi’ on’y her night-rail to screen her from sight, + His lonesome young Barbree appears. + + Her cwold little figure half-naked he views + Played about by the frolicsome breeze, + Her light-tripping totties, her ten little tooes, + All bare and besprinkled wi’ Fall’s chilly dews, + While her great gallied eyes, through her hair hanging loose, + Sheened as stars through a tardle o’ trees. + + She eyed en; and, as when a weir-hatch is drawn, + Her tears, penned by terror afore, + With a rushing of sobs in a shower were strawn, + Till her power to pour ’em seemed wasted and gone + From the heft o’ misfortune she bore. + + “O Tim, my _own_ Tim I must call ’ee—I will! + All the world ha’ turned round on me so! + Can you help her who loved ’ee, though acting so ill? + Can you pity her misery—feel for her still? + When worse than her body so quivering and chill + Is her heart in its winter o’ woe! + + “I think I mid almost ha’ borne it,” she said, + “Had my griefs one by one come to hand; + But O, to be slave to thik husbird for bread, + And then, upon top o’ that, driven to wed, + And then, upon top o’ that, burnt out o’ bed, + Is more than my nater can stand!” + + Tim’s soul like a lion ’ithin en outsprung— + (Tim had a great soul when his feelings were wrung)— + “Feel for ’ee, dear Barbree?” he cried; + And his warm working-jacket about her he flung, + Made a back, horsed her up, till behind him she clung + Like a chiel on a gipsy, her figure uphung + By the sleeves that around her he tied. + + Over piggeries, and mixens, and apples, and hay, + They lumpered straight into the night; + And finding bylong where a halter-path lay, + At dawn reached Tim’s house, on’y seen on their way + By a naibour or two who were up wi’ the day; + But they gathered no clue to the sight. + + Then tender Tim Tankens he searched here and there + For some garment to clothe her fair skin; + But though he had breeches and waistcoats to spare, + He had nothing quite seemly for Barbree to wear, + Who, half shrammed to death, stood and cried on a chair + At the caddle she found herself in. + + There was one thing to do, and that one thing he did, + He lent her some clouts of his own, + And she took ’em perforce; and while in ’em she slid, + Tim turned to the winder, as modesty bid, + Thinking, “O that the picter my duty keeps hid + To the sight o’ my eyes mid be shown!” + + In the tallet he stowed her; there huddied she lay, + Shortening sleeves, legs, and tails to her limbs; + But most o’ the time in a mortal bad way, + Well knowing that there’d be the divel to pay + If ’twere found that, instead o’ the elements’ prey, + She was living in lodgings at Tim’s. + + “Where’s the tranter?” said men and boys; “where can er be?” + “Where’s the tranter?” said Barbree alone. + “Where on e’th is the tranter?” said everybod-y: + They sifted the dust of his perished roof-tree, + And all they could find was a bone. + + Then the uncle cried, “Lord, pray have mercy on me!” + And in terror began to repent. + But before ’twas complete, and till sure she was free, + Barbree drew up her loft-ladder, tight turned her key— + Tim bringing up breakfast and dinner and tea— + Till the news of her hiding got vent. + + Then followed the custom-kept rout, shout, and flare + Of a skimmington-ride through the naibourhood, ere + Folk had proof o’ wold Sweatley’s decay. + Whereupon decent people all stood in a stare, + Saying Tim and his lodger should risk it, and pair: + So he took her to church. An’ some laughing lads there + Cried to Tim, “After Sweatley!” She said, “I declare + I stand as a maiden to-day!” + + _Written_ 1866; _printed_ 1875. + + + +HEIRESS AND ARCHITECT +FOR A. W. B. + + + SHE sought the Studios, beckoning to her side + An arch-designer, for she planned to build. + He was of wise contrivance, deeply skilled + In every intervolve of high and wide— + Well fit to be her guide. + + “Whatever it be,” + Responded he, + With cold, clear voice, and cold, clear view, + “In true accord with prudent fashionings + For such vicissitudes as living brings, + And thwarting not the law of stable things, + That will I do.” + + “Shape me,” she said, “high halls with tracery + And open ogive-work, that scent and hue + Of buds, and travelling bees, may come in through, + The note of birds, and singings of the sea, + For these are much to me.” + + “An idle whim!” + Broke forth from him + Whom nought could warm to gallantries: + “Cede all these buds and birds, the zephyr’s call, + And scents, and hues, and things that falter all, + And choose as best the close and surly wall, + For winters freeze.” + + [Picture: Sketch of people carrying a large object up stairs] + + “Then frame,” she cried, “wide fronts of crystal glass, + That I may show my laughter and my light— + Light like the sun’s by day, the stars’ by night— + Till rival heart-queens, envying, wail, ‘Alas, + Her glory!’ as they pass.” + + “O maid misled!” + He sternly said, + Whose facile foresight pierced her dire; + “Where shall abide the soul when, sick of glee, + It shrinks, and hides, and prays no eye may see? + Those house them best who house for secrecy, + For you will tire.” + + “A little chamber, then, with swan and dove + Ranged thickly, and engrailed with rare device + Of reds and purples, for a Paradise + Wherein my Love may greet me, I my Love, + When he shall know thereof?” + + “This, too, is ill,” + He answered still, + The man who swayed her like a shade. + “An hour will come when sight of such sweet nook + Would bring a bitterness too sharp to brook, + When brighter eyes have won away his look; + For you will fade.” + + Then said she faintly: “O, contrive some way— + Some narrow winding turret, quite mine own, + To reach a loft where I may grieve alone! + It is a slight thing; hence do not, I pray, + This last dear fancy slay!” + + “Such winding ways + Fit not your days,” + Said he, the man of measuring eye; + “I must even fashion as my rule declares, + To wit: Give space (since life ends unawares) + To hale a coffined corpse adown the stairs; + For you will die.” + +1867. + + + +THE TWO MEN + + + THERE were two youths of equal age, + Wit, station, strength, and parentage; + They studied at the selfsame schools, + And shaped their thoughts by common rules. + + One pondered on the life of man, + His hopes, his ending, and began + To rate the Market’s sordid war + As something scarce worth living for. + + “I’ll brace to higher aims,” said he, + “I’ll further Truth and Purity; + Thereby to mend the mortal lot + And sweeten sorrow. Thrive I not, + + “Winning their hearts, my kind will give + Enough that I may lowly live, + And house my Love in some dim dell, + For pleasing them and theirs so well.” + + Idly attired, with features wan, + In secret swift he laboured on: + Such press of power had brought much gold + Applied to things of meaner mould. + + Sometimes he wished his aims had been + To gather gains like other men; + Then thanked his God he’d traced his track + Too far for wish to drag him back. + + He lookèd from his loft one day + To where his slighted garden lay; + Nettles and hemlock hid each lawn, + And every flower was starved and gone. + + He fainted in his heart, whereon + He rose, and sought his plighted one, + Resolved to loose her bond withal, + Lest she should perish in his fall. + + He met her with a careless air, + As though he’d ceased to find her fair, + And said: “True love is dust to me; + I cannot kiss: I tire of thee!” + + (That she might scorn him was he fain, + To put her sooner out of pain; + For incensed love breathes quick and dies, + When famished love a-lingering lies.) + + Once done, his soul was so betossed, + It found no more the force it lost: + Hope was his only drink and food, + And hope extinct, decay ensued. + + And, living long so closely penned, + He had not kept a single friend; + He dwindled thin as phantoms be, + And drooped to death in poverty . . . + + Meantime his schoolmate had gone out + To join the fortune-finding rout; + He liked the winnings of the mart, + But wearied of the working part. + + He turned to seek a privy lair, + Neglecting note of garb and hair, + And day by day reclined and thought + How he might live by doing nought. + + “I plan a valued scheme,” he said + To some. “But lend me of your bread, + And when the vast result looms nigh, + In profit you shall stand as I.” + + Yet they took counsel to restrain + Their kindness till they saw the gain; + And, since his substance now had run, + He rose to do what might be done. + + He went unto his Love by night, + And said: “My Love, I faint in fight: + Deserving as thou dost a crown, + My cares shall never drag thee down.” + + (He had descried a maid whose line + Would hand her on much corn and wine, + And held her far in worth above + One who could only pray and love.) + + But this Fair read him; whence he failed + To do the deed so blithely hailed; + He saw his projects wholly marred, + And gloom and want oppressed him hard; + + Till, living to so mean an end, + Whereby he’d lost his every friend, + He perished in a pauper sty, + His mate the dying pauper nigh. + + And moralists, reflecting, said, + As “dust to dust” in burial read + Was echoed from each coffin-lid, + “These men were like in all they did.” + +1866. + + + +LINES + + +_Spoken by Miss_ ADA REHAN _at the Lyceum Theatre_, _July_ 23, 1890, _at +a performance on behalf of Lady Jeune’s Holiday Fund for City Children_. + + BEFORE we part to alien thoughts and aims, + Permit the one brief word the occasion claims: + —When mumming and grave projects are allied, + Perhaps an Epilogue is justified. + + Our under-purpose has, in truth, to-day + Commanded most our musings; least the play: + A purpose futile but for your good-will + Swiftly responsive to the cry of ill: + A purpose all too limited!—to aid + Frail human flowerets, sicklied by the shade, + In winning some short spell of upland breeze, + Or strengthening sunlight on the level leas. + + Who has not marked, where the full cheek should be, + Incipient lines of lank flaccidity, + Lymphatic pallor where the pink should glow, + And where the throb of transport, pulses low?— + Most tragical of shapes from Pole to Line, + O wondering child, unwitting Time’s design, + Why should Art add to Nature’s quandary, + And worsen ill by thus immuring thee? + —That races do despite unto their own, + That Might supernal do indeed condone + Wrongs individual for the general ease, + Instance the proof in victims such as these. + + Launched into thoroughfares too thronged before, + Mothered by those whose protest is “No more!” + Vitalized without option: who shall say + That did Life hang on choosing—Yea or Nay— + They had not scorned it with such penalty, + And nothingness implored of Destiny? + + And yet behind the horizon smile serene + The down, the cornland, and the stretching green— + Space—the child’s heaven: scenes which at least ensure + Some palliative for ill they cannot cure. + + Dear friends—now moved by this poor show of ours + To make your own long joy in buds and bowers + For one brief while the joy of infant eyes, + Changing their urban murk to paradise— + You have our thanks!—may your reward include + More than our thanks, far more: their gratitude. + + + +“I LOOK INTO MY GLASS” + + + I LOOK into my glass, + And view my wasting skin, + And say, “Would God it came to pass + My heart had shrunk as thin!” + + For then, I, undistrest + By hearts grown cold to me, + Could lonely wait my endless rest + With equanimity. + + But Time, to make me grieve; + Part steals, lets part abide; + And shakes this fragile frame at eve + With throbbings of noontide. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WESSEX POEMS AND OTHER VERSES*** + + +******* This file should be named 3167-0.txt or 3167-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/1/6/3167 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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