Still, Lizbie Browne,
You won, they said,
The best of men
When you were wed . . .
Where went you then,
O Lizbie Browne?
VII
Dear Lizbie Browne,
I should have thought,
“Girls ripen fast,”
And coaxed and caught
You ere you passed,
Dear Lizbie Browne!
VIII
But, Lizbie Browne,
I let you slip;
Shaped not a sign;
Touched never your lip
With lip of mine,
Lost Lizbie Browne!
IX
So, Lizbie Browne,
When on a day
Men speak of me
As not, you’ll say,
“And who was he?” –
Yes, Lizbie Browne!
SONG OF HOPE
O sweet To-morrow! –
After to-day
There will away
This sense of sorrow.
Then let us borrow
Hope, for a gleaming
Soon will be streaming,
Dimmed by no gray –
No gray!
While the winds wing us
Sighs from The Gone,
Nearer to dawn
Minute-beats bring us;
When there will sing us
Larks of a glory
Waiting our story
Further anon –
Anon!
Doff the black token,
Don the red shoon,
Right and retune
Viol-strings broken;
Null the words spoken
In speeches of rueing,
The night cloud is hueing,
To-morrow shines soon –
Shines soon!
THE WELL-BELOVED
I wayed by star and planet shine
Towards the dear one’s home
At Kingsbere, there to make her mine When the next sun upclomb.
I edged the ancient hill and wood
Beside the Ikling Way,
Nigh where the Pagan temple stood
In the world’s earlier day.
And as I quick and quicker walked
On gravel and on green,
I sang to sky, and tree, or talked
Of her I called my queen.
– “O faultless is her dainty form,
And luminous her mind;
She is the God-created norm
Of perfect womankind!”
A shape whereon one star-blink gleamed Glode softly by my side,
A woman’s; and her motion seemed
The motion of my bride.
And yet methought she’d drawn erstwhile Adown the ancient leaze,
Where once were pile and peristyle
For men’s idolatries.
– “O maiden lithe and lone, what may
Thy name and lineage be,
Who so resemblest by this ray
My darling?–Art thou she?”
The Shape: “Thy bride remains within
Her father’s grange and grove.”
– “Thou speakest rightly,” I broke in, “Thou art not she I love.”
– “Nay: though thy bride remains inside Her father’s walls,” said she,
“The one most dear is with thee here, For thou dost love but me.”
Then I: “But she, my only choice,
Is now at Kingsbere Grove?”
Again her soft mysterious voice:
“I am thy only Love.”
Thus still she vouched, and still I said, “O sprite, that cannot be!” . . .
It was as if my bosom bled,
So much she troubled me.
The sprite resumed: “Thou hast transferred To her dull form awhile
My beauty, fame, and deed, and word, My gestures and my smile.
“O fatuous man, this truth infer,
Brides are not what they seem;
Thou lovest what thou dreamest her; I am thy very dream!”
– “O then,” I answered miserably,
Speaking as scarce I knew,
“My loved one, I must wed with thee If what thou say’st be true!”
She, proudly, thinning in the gloom:
“Though, since troth-plight began, I’ve ever stood as bride to groom,
I wed no mortal man!”
Thereat she vanished by the Cross
That, entering Kingsbere town,
The two long lanes form, near the fosse Below the faneless Down.
– When I arrived and met my bride,
Her look was pinched and thin,
As if her soul had shrunk and died, And left a waste within.
HER REPROACH
Con the dead page as ’twere live love: press on! Cold wisdom’s words will ease thy track for thee; Aye, go; cast off sweet ways, and leave me wan To biting blasts that are intent on me.
But if thy object Fame’s far summits be, Whose inclines many a skeleton o’erlies
That missed both dream and substance, stop and see How absence wears these cheeks and dims these eyes!
It surely is far sweeter and more wise To water love, than toil to leave anon
A name whose glory-gleam will but advise Invidious minds to quench it with their own,
And over which the kindliest will but stay A moment, musing, “He, too, had his day!”
WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS,
1867.
THE INCONSISTENT
I say, “She was as good as fair,”
When standing by her mound;
“Such passing sweetness,” I declare, “No longer treads the ground.”
I say, “What living Love can catch
Her bloom and bonhomie,
And what in newer maidens match
Her olden warmth to me!”
– There stands within yon vestry-nook Where bonded lovers sign,
Her name upon a faded book
With one that is not mine.
To him she breathed the tender vow
She once had breathed to me,
But yet I say, “O love, even now
Would I had died for thee!”
A BROKEN APPOINTMENT
You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb. – Yet less for loss of your dear presence there Than that I thus found lacking in your make That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness’ sake Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum, You did not come.
You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty; – I know and knew it. But, unto the store Of human deeds divine in all but name,
Was it not worth a little hour or more To add yet this: Once, you, a woman, came To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be You love not me?
“BETWEEN US NOW”
Between us now and here –
Two thrown together
Who are not wont to wear
Life’s flushest feather –
Who see the scenes slide past,
The daytimes dimming fast,
Let there be truth at last,
Even if despair.
So thoroughly and long
Have you now known me,
So real in faith and strong
Have I now shown me,
That nothing needs disguise
Further in any wise,
Or asks or justifies
A guarded tongue.
Face unto face, then, say,
Eyes mine own meeting,
Is your heart far away,
Or with mine beating?
When false things are brought low,
And swift things have grown slow,
Feigning like froth shall go,
Faith be for aye.
“HOW GREAT MY GRIEF”
(TRIOLET)
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee! – Have the slow years not brought to view How great my grief, my joys how few,
Nor memory shaped old times anew,
Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee?
“I NEED NOT GO”
I need not go
Through sleet and snow
To where I know
She waits for me;
She will wait me there
Till I find it fair,
And have time to spare
From company.
When I’ve overgot
The world somewhat,
When things cost not
Such stress and strain,
Is soon enough
By cypress sough
To tell my Love
I am come again.
And if some day,
When none cries nay,
I still delay
To seek her side,
(Though ample measure
Of fitting leisure
Await my pleasure)
She will riot chide.
What–not upbraid me
That I delayed me,
Nor ask what stayed me
So long? Ah, no! –
New cares may claim me,
New loves inflame me,
She will not blame me,
But suffer it so.
THE COQUETTE, AND AFTER
(TRIOLETS)
I
For long the cruel wish I knew
That your free heart should ache for me While mine should bear no ache for you;
For, long–the cruel wish!–I knew
How men can feel, and craved to view My triumph–fated not to be
For long! . . . The cruel wish I knew That your free heart should ache for me!
II
At last one pays the penalty –
The woman–women always do.
My farce, I found, was tragedy
At last!–One pays the penalty
With interest when one, fancy-free, Learns love, learns shame . . . Of sinners two At last ONE pays the penalty –
The woman–women always do!
A SPOT
In years defaced and lost,
Two sat here, transport-tossed,
Lit by a living love
The wilted world knew nothing of:
Scared momently
By gaingivings,
Then hoping things
That could not be.
Of love and us no trace
Abides upon the place;
The sun and shadows wheel,
Season and season sereward steal;
Foul days and fair
Here, too, prevail,
And gust and gale
As everywhere.
But lonely shepherd souls
Who bask amid these knolls
May catch a faery sound
On sleepy noontides from the ground: “O not again
Till Earth outwears
Shall love like theirs
Suffuse this glen!”
LONG PLIGHTED
Is it worth while, dear, now,
To call for bells, and sally forth arrayed For marriage-rites — discussed, decried, delayed So many years?
Is it worth while, dear, now,
To stir desire for old fond purposings, By feints that Time still serves for dallyings, Though quittance nears?
Is it worth while, dear, when
The day being so far spent, so low the sun, The undone thing will soon be as the done, And smiles as tears?
Is it worth while, dear, when
Our cheeks are worn, our early brown is gray; When, meet or part we, none says yea or nay, Or heeds, or cares?
Is it worth while, dear, since
We still can climb old Yell’ham’s wooded mounds Together, as each season steals its rounds And disappears?
Is it worth while, dear, since
As mates in Mellstock churchyard we can lie, Till the last crash of all things low and high Shall end the spheres?
THE WIDOW
By Mellstock Lodge and Avenue
Towards her door I went,
And sunset on her window-panes
Reflected our intent.
The creeper on the gable nigh
Was fired to more than red
And when I came to halt thereby
“Bright as my joy!” I said.
Of late days it had been her aim
To meet me in the hall;
Now at my footsteps no one came;
And no one to my call.
Again I knocked; and tardily
An inner step was heard,
And I was shown her presence then
With scarce an answering word.
She met me, and but barely took
My proffered warm embrace;
Preoccupation weighed her look,
And hardened her sweet face.
“To-morrow–could you–would you call? Make brief your present stay?
My child is ill–my one, my all! –
And can’t be left to-day.”
And then she turns, and gives commands As I were out of sound,
Or were no more to her and hers
Than any neighbour round . . .
– As maid I wooed her; but one came
And coaxed her heart away,
And when in time he wedded her
I deemed her gone for aye.
He won, I lost her; and my loss
I bore I know not how;
But I do think I suffered then
Less wretchedness than now.
For Time, in taking him, had oped
An unexpected door
Of bliss for me, which grew to seem Far surer than before . . .
Her word is steadfast, and I know
That plighted firm are we:
But she has caught new love-calls since She smiled as maid on me!
AT A HASTY WEDDING
(TRIOLET)
If hours be years the twain are blest, For now they solace swift desire
By bonds of every bond the best,
If hours be years. The twain are blest Do eastern stars slope never west,
Nor pallid ashes follow fire:
If hours be years the twain are blest, For now they solace swift desire.
THE DREAM-FOLLOWER
A dream of mine flew over the mead
To the halls where my old Love reigns; And it drew me on to follow its lead:
And I stood at her window-panes;
And I saw but a thing of flesh and bone Speeding on to its cleft in the clay;
And my dream was scared, and expired on a moan, And I whitely hastened away.
HIS IMMORTALITY
I
I saw a dead man’s finer part
Shining within each faithful heart
Of those bereft. Then said I: “This must be His immortality.”
II
I looked there as the seasons wore, And still his soul continuously upbore
Its life in theirs. But less its shine excelled Than when I first beheld.
III
His fellow-yearsmen passed, and then In later hearts I looked for him again;
And found him–shrunk, alas! into a thin And spectral mannikin.
IV
Lastly I ask–now old and chill –
If aught of him remain unperished still; And find, in me alone, a feeble spark,
Dying amid the dark.
February 1899.
THE TO-BE-FORGOTTEN
I
I heard a small sad sound,
And stood awhile amid the tombs around: “Wherefore, old friends,” said I, “are ye distrest, Now, screened from life’s unrest?”
II
–“O not at being here;
But that our future second death is drear; When, with the living, memory of us numbs, And blank oblivion comes!
III
“Those who our grandsires be
Lie here embraced by deeper death than we; Nor shape nor thought of theirs canst thou descry With keenest backward eye.
IV
“They bide as quite forgot;
They are as men who have existed not; Theirs is a loss past loss of fitful breath; It is the second death.
V
“We here, as yet, each day
Are blest with dear recall; as yet, alway In some soul hold a loved continuance
Of shape and voice and glance.
VI
“But what has been will be –
First memory, then oblivion’s turbid sea; Like men foregone, shall we merge into those Whose story no one knows.
VII
“For which of us could hope
To show in life that world-awakening scope Granted the few whose memory none lets die, But all men magnify?
VIII
“We were but Fortune’s sport;
Things true, things lovely, things of good report We neither shunned nor sought . . . We see our bourne, And seeing it we mourn.”
WIVES IN THE SERE
I
Never a careworn wife but shows,
If a joy suffuse her,
Something beautiful to those
Patient to peruse her,
Some one charm the world unknows
Precious to a muser,
Haply what, ere years were foes,
Moved her mate to choose her.
II
But, be it a hint of rose
That an instant hues her,
Or some early light or pose
Wherewith thought renews her –
Seen by him at full, ere woes
Practised to abuse her –
Sparely comes it, swiftly goes,
Time again subdues her.
THE SUPERSEDED
I
As newer comers crowd the fore,
We drop behind.
– We who have laboured long and sore Times out of mind,
And keen are yet, must not regret
To drop behind.
II
Yet there are of us some who grieve
To go behind;
Staunch, strenuous souls who scarce believe Their fires declined,
And know none cares, remembers, spares Who go behind.
III
‘Tis not that we have unforetold
The drop behind;
We feel the new must oust the old
In every kind;
But yet we think, must we, must WE, Too, drop behind?
AN AUGUST MIDNIGHT
I
A shaded lamp and a waving blind,
And the beat of a clock from a distant floor: On this scene enter–winged, horned, and spined – A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore;
While ‘mid my page there idly stands A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands . . .
II
Thus meet we five, in this still place, At this point of time, at this point in space. – My guests parade my new-penned ink,
Or bang at the lamp-glass, whirl, and sink. “God’s humblest, they!” I muse. Yet why? They know Earth-secrets that know not I.
MAX GATE, 1899.
THE CAGED THRUSH FREED AND HOME AGAIN (VILLANELLE)
“Men know but little more than we,
Who count us least of things terrene, How happy days are made to be!
“Of such strange tidings what think ye, O birds in brown that peck and preen?
Men know but little more than we!
“When I was borne from yonder tree
In bonds to them, I hoped to glean
How happy days are made to be,
“And want and wailing turned to glee; Alas, despite their mighty mien
Men know but little more than we!
“They cannot change the Frost’s decree, They cannot keep the skies serene;
How happy days are made to be
“Eludes great Man’s sagacity
No less than ours, O tribes in treen! Men know but little more than we
How happy days are made to be.”
BIRDS AT WINTER NIGHTFALL
(TRIOLET)
Around the house the flakes fly faster, And all the berries now are gone
From holly and cotoneaster
Around the house. The flakes fly!–faster Shutting indoors that crumb-outcaster
We used to see upon the lawn
Around the house. The flakes fly faster, And all the berries now are gone!
MAX GATE.
THE PUZZLED GAME-BIRDS
(TRIOLET)
They are not those who used to feed us When we were young–they cannot be –
These shapes that now bereave and bleed us? They are not those who used to feed us, – For would they not fair terms concede us? – If hearts can house such treachery
They are not those who used to feed us When we were young–they cannot be!
WINTER IN DURNOVER FIELD
SCENE.–A wide stretch of fallow ground recently sown with wheat, and frozen to iron hardness. Three large birds walking about thereon, and wistfully eyeing the surface. Wind keen from north-east: sky a dull grey.
(TRIOLET)
Rook.–Throughout the field I find no grain; The cruel frost encrusts the cornland! Starling.–Aye: patient pecking now is vain Throughout the field, I find . . .
Rook.–No grain!
Pigeon.–Nor will be, comrade, till it rain, Or genial thawings loose the lorn land Throughout the field.
Rook.–I find no grain:
The cruel frost encrusts the cornland!
THE LAST CHRYSANTHEMUM
Why should this flower delay so long
To show its tremulous plumes?
Now is the time of plaintive robin-song, When flowers are in their tombs.
Through the slow summer, when the sun Called to each frond and whorl
That all he could for flowers was being done, Why did it not uncurl?
It must have felt that fervid call
Although it took no heed,
Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall, And saps all retrocede.
Too late its beauty, lonely thing,
The season’s shine is spent,
Nothing remains for it but shivering In tempests turbulent.
Had it a reason for delay,
Dreaming in witlessness
That for a bloom so delicately gay
Winter would stay its stress?
– I talk as if the thing were born
With sense to work its mind;
Yet it is but one mask of many worn By the Great Face behind.
THE DARKLING THRUSH
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings from broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land’s sharp features seemed to be The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice outburst among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carollings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
December 1900.
THE COMET AT YALBURY OR YELL’HAM
I
It bends far over Yell’ham Plain,
And we, from Yell’ham Height,
Stand and regard its fiery train,
So soon to swim from sight.
II
It will return long years hence, when As now its strange swift shine
Will fall on Yell’ham; but not then On that sweet form of thine.
MAD JUDY
When the hamlet hailed a birth
Judy used to cry:
When she heard our christening mirth She would kneel and sigh.
She was crazed, we knew, and we
Humoured her infirmity.
When the daughters and the sons
Gathered them to wed,
And we like-intending ones
Danced till dawn was red,
She would rock and mutter, “More
Comers to this stony shore!”
When old Headsman Death laid hands
On a babe or twain,
She would feast, and by her brands
Sing her songs again.
What she liked we let her do,
Judy was insane, we knew.
A WASTED ILLNESS
Through vaults of pain,
Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness, I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain To dire distress.
And hammerings,
And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent With webby waxing things and waning things As on I went.
“Where lies the end
To this foul way?” I asked with weakening breath. Thereon ahead I saw a door extend –
The door to death.
It loomed more clear:
“At last!” I cried. “The all-delivering door!” And then, I knew not how, it grew less near Than theretofore.
And back slid I
Along the galleries by which I came, And tediously the day returned, and sky, And life–the same.
And all was well:
Old circumstance resumed its former show, And on my head the dews of comfort fell
As ere my woe.
I roam anew,
Scarce conscious of my late distress . . . And yet Those backward steps through pain I cannot view Without regret.
For that dire train
Of waxing shapes and waning, passed before, And those grim aisles, must be traversed again To reach that door.
A MAN
(IN MEMORY OF H. OF M.)
I
In Casterbridge there stood a noble pile, Wrought with pilaster, bay, and balustrade In tactful times when shrewd Eliza swayed. – On burgher, squire, and clown
It smiled the long street down for near a mile
II
But evil days beset that domicile;
The stately beauties of its roof and wall Passed into sordid hands. Condemned to fall Were cornice, quoin, and cove,
And all that art had wove in antique style.
III
Among the hired dismantlers entered there One till the moment of his task untold.
When charged therewith he gazed, and answered bold: “Be needy I or no,
I will not help lay low a house so fair!
IV
“Hunger is hard. But since the terms be such – No wage, or labour stained with the disgrace Of wrecking what our age cannot replace
To save its tasteless soul –
I’ll do without your dole. Life is not much!
V
Dismissed with sneers he backed his tools and went, And wandered workless; for it seemed unwise To close with one who dared to criticize And carp on points of taste:
To work where they were placed rude men were meant.
VI
Years whiled. He aged, sank, sickened, and was not: And it was said, “A man intractable
And curst is gone.” None sighed to hear his knell, None sought his churchyard-place;
His name, his rugged face, were soon forgot.
VII
The stones of that fair hall lie far and wide, And but a few recall its ancient mould;
Yet when I pass the spot I long to hold As truth what fancy saith:
“His protest lives where deathless things abide!”
THE DAME OF ATHELHALL
I
“Soul! Shall I see thy face,” she said, “In one brief hour?
And away with thee from a loveless bed To a far-off sun, to a vine-wrapt bower, And be thine own unseparated,
And challenge the world’s white glower?
II
She quickened her feet, and met him where They had predesigned:
And they clasped, and mounted, and cleft the air Upon whirling wheels; till the will to bind Her life with his made the moments there Efface the years behind.
III
Miles slid, and the sight of the port upgrew As they sped on;
When slipping its bond the bracelet flew From her fondled arm. Replaced anon,
Its cameo of the abjured one drew
Her musings thereupon.
IV
The gaud with his image once had been A gift from him:
And so it was that its carving keen Refurbished memories wearing dim,
Which set in her soul a throe of teen, And a tear on her lashes’ brim.
V
“I may not go!” she at length upspake, “Thoughts call me back –
I would still lose all for your dear, dear sake; My heart is thine, friend! But my track
I home to Athelhall must take
To hinder household wrack!”
VI
He appealed. But they parted, weak and wan: And he left the shore;
His ship diminished, was low, was gone; And she heard in the waves as the daytide wore, And read in the leer of the sun that shone, That they parted for evermore.
VII
She homed as she came, at the dip of eve On Athel Coomb
Regaining the Hall she had sworn to leave . . . The house was soundless as a tomb,
And she entered her chamber, there to grieve Lone, kneeling, in the gloom.
VIII
From the lawn without rose her husband’s voice To one his friend:
“Another her Love, another my choice, Her going is good. Our conditions mend;
In a change of mates we shall both rejoice; I hoped that it thus might end!
IX
“A quick divorce; she will make him hers, And I wed mine.
So Time rights all things in long, long years – Or rather she, by her bold design!
I admire a woman no balk deters:
She has blessed my life, in fine.
X
“I shall build new rooms for my new true bride, Let the bygone be:
By now, no doubt, she has crossed the tide With the man to her mind. Far happier she In some warm vineland by his side
Than ever she was with me.”
THE SEASONS OF HER YEAR
I
Winter is white on turf and tree,
And birds are fled;
But summer songsters pipe to me,
And petals spread,
For what I dreamt of secretly
His lips have said!
II
O ’tis a fine May morn, they say,
And blooms have blown;
But wild and wintry is my day,
My birds make moan;
For he who vowed leaves me to pay
Alone–alone!
THE MILKMAID
Under a daisied bank
There stands a rich red ruminating cow, And hard against her flank
A cotton-hooded milkmaid bends her brow.
The flowery river-ooze
Upheaves and falls; the milk purrs in the pail; Few pilgrims but would choose
The peace of such a life in such a vale.
The maid breathes words–to vent,
It seems, her sense of Nature’s scenery, Of whose life, sentiment,
And essence, very part itself is she.
She bends a glance of pain,
And, at a moment, lets escape a tear; Is it that passing train,
Whose alien whirr offends her country ear? –
Nay! Phyllis does not dwell
On visual and familiar things like these; What moves her is the spell
Of inner themes and inner poetries:
Could but by Sunday morn
Her gay new gown come, meads might dry to dun, Trains shriek till ears were torn,
If Fred would not prefer that Other One.
THE LEVELLED CHURCHYARD
“O passenger, pray list and catch
Our sighs and piteous groans,
Half stifled in this jumbled patch
Of wrenched memorial stones!
“We late-lamented, resting here,
Are mixed to human jam,
And each to each exclaims in fear,
‘I know not which I am!’
“The wicked people have annexed
The verses on the good;
A roaring drunkard sports the text
Teetotal Tommy should!
“Where we are huddled none can trace, And if our names remain,
They pave some path or p-ing place
Where we have never lain!
“There’s not a modest maiden elf
But dreads the final Trumpet,
Lest half of her should rise herself, And half some local strumpet!
“From restorations of Thy fane,
From smoothings of Thy sward,
From zealous Churchmen’s pick and plane Deliver us O Lord! Amen!”
1882.
THE RUINED MAID
“O ‘Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?” – “O didn’t you know I’d been ruined?” said she.
– “You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you’ve gay bracelets and bright feathers three!” – “Yes: that’s how we dress when we’re ruined,” said she.
– “At home in the barton you said ‘thee’ and ‘thou,’ And ‘thik oon,’ and ‘theas oon,’ and ‘t’other’; but now Your talking quite fits ‘ee for high compa-ny!” – “Some polish is gained with one’s ruin,” said she.
– “Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak, But now I’m bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!” – “We never do work when we’re ruined,” said she.
– “You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you’d sigh, and you’d sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!” – “True. There’s an advantage in ruin,” said she.
– “I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!” – “My dear–a raw country girl, such as you be, Isn’t equal to that. You ain’t ruined,” said she.
WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS, 1866,
THE RESPECTABLE BURGHER ON “THE HIGHER CRITICISM”
Since Reverend Doctors now declare
That clerks and people must prepare To doubt if Adam ever were;
To hold the flood a local scare;
To argue, though the stolid stare,
That everything had happened ere
The prophets to its happening sware; That David was no giant-slayer,
Nor one to call a God-obeyer
In certain details we could spare,
But rather was a debonair
Shrewd bandit, skilled as banjo-player: That Solomon sang the fleshly Fair,
And gave the Church no thought whate’er; That Esther with her royal wear,
And Mordecai, the son of Jair,
And Joshua’s triumphs, Job’s despair, And Balaam’s ass’s bitter blare;
Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace-flare,
And Daniel and the den affair,
And other stories rich and rare,
Were writ to make old doctrine wear Something of a romantic air:
That the Nain widow’s only heir,
And Lazarus with cadaverous glare
(As done in oils by Piombo’s care)
Did not return from Sheol’s lair:
That Jael set a fiendish snare,
That Pontius Pilate acted square,
That never a sword cut Malchus’ ear And (but for shame I must forbear)
That — — did not reappear! . . .
– Since thus they hint, nor turn a hair, All churchgoing will I forswear,
And sit on Sundays in my chair,
And read that moderate man Voltaire.
ARCHITECTURAL MASKS
I
There is a house with ivied walls,
And mullioned windows worn and old, And the long dwellers in those halls
Have souls that know but sordid calls, And daily dote on gold.
II
In blazing brick and plated show
Not far away a “villa” gleams,
And here a family few may know,
With book and pencil, viol and bow, Lead inner lives of dreams.
III
The philosophic passers say,
“See that old mansion mossed and fair, Poetic souls therein are they:
And O that gaudy box! Away,
You vulgar people there.”
THE TENANT-FOR-LIFE
The sun said, watching my watering-pot “Some morn you’ll pass away;
These flowers and plants I parch up hot – Who’ll water them that day?
“Those banks and beds whose shape your eye Has planned in line so true,
New hands will change, unreasoning why Such shape seemed best to you.
“Within your house will strangers sit, And wonder how first it came;
They’ll talk of their schemes for improving it, And will not mention your name.
“They’ll care not how, or when, or at what You sighed, laughed, suffered here,
Though you feel more in an hour of the spot Than they will feel in a year
“As I look on at you here, now,
Shall I look on at these;
But as to our old times, avow
No knowledge–hold my peace! . . .
“O friend, it matters not, I say;
Bethink ye, I have shined
On nobler ones than you, and they
Are dead men out of mind!”
THE KING’S EXPERIMENT
It was a wet wan hour in spring,
And Nature met King Doom beside a lane, Wherein Hodge trudged, all blithely ballading The Mother’s smiling reign.
“Why warbles he that skies are fair And coombs alight,” she cried, “and fallows gay, When I have placed no sunshine in the air Or glow on earth to-day?”
“‘Tis in the comedy of things
That such should be,” returned the one of Doom; “Charge now the scene with brightest blazonings, And he shall call them gloom.”
She gave the word: the sun outbroke, All Froomside shone, the hedgebirds raised a song; And later Hodge, upon the midday stroke, Returned the lane along,
Low murmuring: “O this bitter scene, And thrice accurst horizon hung with gloom! How deadly like this sky, these fields, these treen, To trappings of the tomb!”
The Beldame then: “The fool and blind! Such mad perverseness who may apprehend?” – “Nay; there’s no madness in it; thou shalt find Thy law there,” said her friend.
“When Hodge went forth ’twas to his Love, To make her, ere this eve, his wedded prize, And Earth, despite the heaviness above,
Was bright as Paradise.
“But I sent on my messenger,
With cunning arrows poisonous and keen, To take forthwith her laughing life from her, And dull her little een,
“And white her cheek, and still her breath, Ere her too buoyant Hodge had reached her side; So, when he came, he clasped her but in death, And never as his bride.
“And there’s the humour, as I said; Thy dreary dawn he saw as gleaming gold, And in thy glistening green and radiant red Funereal gloom and cold.”
THE TREE
AN OLD MAN’S STORY
I
Its roots are bristling in the air
Like some mad Earth-god’s spiny hair; The loud south-wester’s swell and yell
Smote it at midnight, and it fell.
Thus ends the tree
Where Some One sat with me.
II
Its boughs, which none but darers trod, A child may step on from the sod,
And twigs that earliest met the dawn Are lit the last upon the lawn.
Cart off the tree
Beneath whose trunk sat we!
III
Yes, there we sat: she cooed content, And bats ringed round, and daylight went; The gnarl, our seat, is wrenched and sunk, Prone that queer pocket in the trunk
Where lay the key
To her pale mystery.
IV
“Years back, within this pocket-hole
I found, my Love, a hurried scrawl
Meant not for me,” at length said I; “I glanced thereat, and let it lie:
The words were three –
‘Beloved, I agree.’
V
“Who placed it here; to what request
It gave assent, I never guessed.
Some prayer of some hot heart, no doubt, To some coy maiden hereabout,
Just as, maybe,
With you, Sweet Heart, and me.”
VI
She waited, till with quickened breath She spoke, as one who banisheth
Reserves that lovecraft heeds so well, To ease some mighty wish to tell:
“‘Twas I,” said she,
“Who wrote thus clinchingly.
VII
“My lover’s wife–aye, wife!–knew nought Of what we felt, and bore, and thought . . . He’d said: ‘I wed with thee or die:
She stands between, ’tis true. But why? Do thou agree,
And–she shalt cease to be.’
VIII
“How I held back, how love supreme
Involved me madly in his scheme
Why should I say? . . . I wrote assent (You found it hid) to his intent . . .
She–DIED . . . But he
Came not to wed with me.
IX
“O shrink not, Love!–Had these eyes seen But once thine own, such had not been!
But we were strangers . . . Thus the plot Cleared passion’s path.–Why came he not To wed with me? . . .
He wived the gibbet-tree.”
X
– Under that oak of heretofore
Sat Sweetheart mine with me no more: By many a Fiord, and Strom, and Fleuve
Have I since wandered . . . Soon, for love, Distraught went she –
‘Twas said for love of me.
HER LATE HUSBAND
(KING’S-HINTOCK, 182-.)
“No–not where I shall make my own;
But dig his grave just by
The woman’s with the initialed stone – As near as he can lie –
After whose death he seemed to ail, Though none considered why.
“And when I also claim a nook,
And your feet tread me in,
Bestow me, under my old name,
Among my kith and kin,
That strangers gazing may not dream I did a husband win.”
“Widow, your wish shall be obeyed;
Though, thought I, certainly
You’d lay him where your folk are laid, And your grave, too, will be,
As custom hath it; you to right,
And on the left hand he.”
“Aye, sexton; such the Hintock rule,
And none has said it nay;
But now it haps a native here
Eschews that ancient way . . .
And it may be, some Christmas night, When angels walk, they’ll say:
“‘O strange interment! Civilized lands Afford few types thereof;
Here is a man who takes his rest
Beside his very Love,
Beside the one who was his wife
In our sight up above!'”
THE SELF-UNSEEING
Here is the ancient floor,
Footworn and hollowed and thin,
Here was the former door
Where the dead feet walked in.
She sat here in her chair,
Smiling into the fire;
He who played stood there,
Bowing it higher and higher.
Childlike, I danced in a dream;
Blessings emblazoned that day
Everything glowed with a gleam;
Yet we were looking away!
DE PROFUNDIS
I
“Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum.” – Ps. ci
Wintertime nighs;
But my bereavement-pain
It cannot bring again:
Twice no one dies.
Flower-petals flee;
But, since it once hath been,
No more that severing scene
Can harrow me.
Birds faint in dread:
I shall not lose old strength
In the lone frost’s black length:
Strength long since fled!
Leaves freeze to dun;
But friends can not turn cold
This season as of old
For him with none.
Tempests may scath;
But love can not make smart
Again this year his heart
Who no heart hath.
Black is night’s cope;
But death will not appal
One who, past doubtings all,
Waits in unhope.
DE PROFUNDIS
II
“Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam; et non erat qui cognosceret me . . . Non est qui requirat animam meam.”–Ps. cxli.
When the clouds’ swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and strong
That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere long,
And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is so clear,
The blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here.
The stout upstanders say, All’s well with us: ruers have nought to rue!
And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true? Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their career,
Till I think I am one horn out of due time, who has no calling here.
Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their eves exultance sweet; Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet,
And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear; Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why should such an one be here? . . .
Let him to whose ears the low-voiced Best seems stilled by the clash of the First,
Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst,
Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, custom, and fear,
Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here.
1895-96.
DE PROFUNDIS
III
“Heu mihi, quia incolatus meus prolongatus est! Habitavi cum habitantibus Cedar; multum incola fuit aninia mea.”–Ps. cxix.
There have been times when I well might have passed and the ending have come –
Points in my path when the dark might have stolen on me, artless, unrueing –
Ere I had learnt that the world was a welter of futile doing: Such had been times when I well might have passed, and the ending have come!
Say, on the noon when the half-sunny hours told that April was nigh, And I upgathered and cast forth the snow from the crocus-border, Fashioned and furbished the soil into a summer-seeming order, Glowing in gladsome faith that I quickened the year thereby.
Or on that loneliest of eves when afar and benighted we stood, She who upheld me and I, in the midmost of Egdon together, Confident I in her watching and ward through the blackening heather, Deeming her matchless in might and with measureless scope endued.
Or on that winter-wild night when, reclined by the chimney-nook quoin,
Slowly a drowse overgat me, the smallest and feeblest of folk there, Weak from my baptism of pain; when at times and anon I awoke there – Heard of a world wheeling on, with no listing or longing to join.
Even then! while unweeting that vision could vex or that knowledge could numb,
That sweets to the mouth in the belly are bitter, and tart, and untoward,
Then, on some dim-coloured scene should my briefly raised curtain have lowered,
Then might the Voice that is law have said “Cease!” and the ending have come.
1896.
THE CHURCH-BUILDER
I
The church flings forth a battled shade Over the moon-blanched sward;
The church; my gift; whereto I paid My all in hand and hoard:
Lavished my gains
With stintless pains
To glorify the Lord.
II
I squared the broad foundations in
Of ashlared masonry;
I moulded mullions thick and thin,
Hewed fillet and ogee;
I circleted
Each sculptured head
With nimb and canopy.
III
I called in many a craftsmaster
To fix emblazoned glass,
To figure Cross and Sepulchre
On dossal, boss, and brass.
My gold all spent,
My jewels went
To gem the cups of Mass.
IV
I borrowed deep to carve the screen
And raise the ivoried Rood;
I parted with my small demesne
To make my owings good.
Heir-looms unpriced
I sacrificed,
Until debt-free I stood.
V
So closed the task. “Deathless the Creed Here substanced!” said my soul:
“I heard me bidden to this deed,
And straight obeyed the call.
Illume this fane,
That not in vain
I build it, Lord of all!”
VI
But, as it chanced me, then and there Did dire misfortunes burst;
My home went waste for lack of care, My sons rebelled and curst;
Till I confessed
That aims the best
Were looking like the worst.
VII
Enkindled by my votive work
No burning faith I find;
The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk, And give my toil no mind;
From nod and wink
I read they think
That I am fool and blind.
VIII
My gift to God seems futile, quite;
The world moves as erstwhile;
And powerful wrong on feeble right
Tramples in olden style.
My faith burns down,
I see no crown;
But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile.
IX
So now, the remedy? Yea, this:
I gently swing the door
Here, of my fane–no soul to wis –
And cross the patterned floor
To the rood-screen
That stands between
The nave and inner chore.
X
The rich red windows dim the moon,
But little light need I;
I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn
From woods of rarest dye;
Then from below
My garment, so,
I draw this cord, and tie
XI
One end thereof around the beam
Midway ‘twixt Cross and truss:
I noose the nethermost extreme,
And in ten seconds thus
I journey hence –
To that land whence
No rumour reaches us.
XII
Well: Here at morn they’ll light on one Dangling in mockery
Of what he spent his substance on
Blindly and uselessly! . . .
“He might,” they’ll say,
“Have built, some way.
A cheaper gallows-tree!”
THE LOST PYX
A MEDIAEVAL LEGEND {3}
Some say the spot is banned; that the pillar Cross-and-Hand Attests to a deed of hell;
But of else than of bale is the mystic tale That ancient Vale-folk tell.
Ere Cernel’s Abbey ceased hereabout there dwelt a priest, (In later life sub-prior
Of the brotherhood there, whose bones are now bare In the field that was Cernel choir).
One night in his cell at the foot of yon dell The priest heard a frequent cry:
“Go, father, in haste to the cot on the waste, And shrive a man waiting to die.”
Said the priest in a shout to the caller without, “The night howls, the tree-trunks bow; One may barely by day track so rugged a way, And can I then do so now?”
No further word from the dark was heard, And the priest moved never a limb;
And he slept and dreamed; till a Visage seemed To frown from Heaven at him.
In a sweat he arose; and the storm shrieked shrill, And smote as in savage joy;
While High-Stoy trees twanged to Bubb-Down Hill, And Bubb-Down to High-Stoy.
There seemed not a holy thing in hail, Nor shape of light or love,
From the Abbey north of Blackmore Vale To the Abbey south thereof.
Yet he plodded thence through the dark immense, And with many a stumbling stride
Through copse and briar climbed nigh and nigher To the cot and the sick man’s side.
When he would have unslung the Vessels uphung To his arm in the steep ascent,
He made loud moan: the Pyx was gone Of the Blessed Sacrament.
Then in dolorous dread he beat his head: “No earthly prize or pelf
Is the thing I’ve lost in tempest tossed, But the Body of Christ Himself!”
He thought of the Visage his dream revealed, And turned towards whence he came,
Hands groping the ground along foot-track and field, And head in a heat of shame.
Till here on the hill, betwixt vill and vill, He noted a clear straight ray
Stretching down from the sky to a spot hard by, Which shone with the light of day.
And gathered around the illumined ground Were common beasts and rare,
All kneeling at gaze, and in pause profound Attent on an object there.
‘Twas the Pyx, unharmed ‘mid the circling rows Of Blackmore’s hairy throng,
Whereof were oxen, sheep, and does, And hares from the brakes among;
And badgers grey, and conies keen,
And squirrels of the tree,
And many a member seldom seen
Of Nature’s family.
The ireful winds that scoured and swept Through coppice, clump, and dell,
Within that holy circle slept
Calm as in hermit’s cell.
Then the priest bent likewise to the sod And thanked the Lord of Love,
And Blessed Mary, Mother of God,
And all the saints above.
And turning straight with his priceless freight, He reached the dying one,
Whose passing sprite had been stayed for the rite Without which bliss hath none.
And when by grace the priest won place, And served the Abbey well,
He reared this stone to mark where shone That midnight miracle.
TESS’S LAMENT
I
I would that folk forgot me quite,
Forgot me quite!
I would that I could shrink from sight, And no more see the sun.
Would it were time to say farewell, To claim my nook, to need my knell,
Time for them all to stand and tell Of my day’s work as done.
II
Ah! dairy where I lived so long,
I lived so long;
Where I would rise up stanch and strong, And lie down hopefully.
‘Twas there within the chimney-seat He watched me to the clock’s slow beat – Loved me, and learnt to call me sweet,
And whispered words to me.
III
And now he’s gone; and now he’s gone; . . . And now he’s gone!
The flowers we potted p’rhaps are thrown To rot upon the farm.
And where we had our supper-fire
May now grow nettle, dock, and briar, And all the place be mould and mire
So cozy once and warm.
IV
And it was I who did it all,
Who did it all;
‘Twas I who made the blow to fall
On him who thought no guile.
Well, it is finished–past, and he
Has left me to my misery,
And I must take my Cross on me
For wronging him awhile.
V
How gay we looked that day we wed,
That day we wed!
“May joy be with ye!” all o’m said
A standing by the durn.
I wonder what they say o’s now,
And if they know my lot; and how