by Thomas Hardy
Since first in youthtime those
Disquietings
That heart-enslavement brings
To hale and hoary,
Became my housefellows,
And, fool and blind,
I turned from kith and kind
To give him glory.
I was as children be
Who have no care;
I did not shrink or sigh,
I did not sicken;
But lo, Love beckoned me,
And I was bare,
And poor, and starved, and dry,
And fever-stricken.
Too many times ablaze
With fatuous fires,
Enkindled by his wiles
To new embraces,
Did I, by wilful ways
And baseless ires,
Return the anxious smiles
Of friendly faces.
No more will now rate I
The common rare,
The midnight drizzle dew,
The gray hour golden,
The wind a yearning cry,
The faulty fair,
Things dreamt, of comelier hue
Than things beholden! . . .
— I speak as one who plumbs
Life’s dim profound,
One who at length can sound
Clear views and certain.
But — after love what comes?
A scene that lours,
A few sad vacant hours,
And then, the Curtain.
1883.
A SET OF COUNTRY SONGS
LET ME ENJOY (MINOR KEY)
I
Let me enjoy the earth no less
Because the all-enacting Might
That fashioned forth its loveliness
Had other aims than my delight.
II
About my path there flits a Fair,
Who throws me not a word or sign;
I’ll charm me with her ignoring air,
And laud the lips not meant for mine.
III
From manuscripts of moving song
Inspired by scenes and dreams unknown
I’ll pour out raptures that belong
To others, as they were my own.
IV
And some day hence, towards Paradise,
And all its blest — if such should be -
I will lift glad, afar-off eyes,
Though it contain no place for me.
AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR
I
THE BALLAD-SINGER
Sing, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune;
Make me forget that there was ever a one
I walked with in the meek light of the moon
When the day’s work was done.
Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song;
Make me forget that she whom I loved well
Swore she would love me dearly, love me long,
Then — what I cannot tell!
Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book;
Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears;
Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look -
Make me forget her tears.
II
FORMER BEAUTIES
These market-dames, mid-aged, with lips thin-drawn,
And tissues sere,
Are they the ones we loved in years agone,
And courted here?
Are these the muslined pink young things to whom
We vowed and swore
In nooks on summer Sundays by the Froom,
Or Budmouth shore?
Do they remember those gay tunes we trod
Clasped on the green;
Aye; trod till moonlight set on the beaten sod
A satin sheen?
They must forget, forget! They cannot know
What once they were,
Or memory would transfigure them, and show
Them always fair.
III
AFTER THE CLUB-DANCE
Black’on frowns east on Maidon,
And westward to the sea,
But on neither is his frown laden
With scorn, as his frown on me!
At dawn my heart grew heavy,
I could not sip the wine,
I left the jocund bevy
And that young man o’ mine.
The roadside elms pass by me, -
Why do I sink with shame
When the birds a-perch there eye me?
They, too, have done the same!
IV
THE MARKET-GIRL
Nobody took any notice of her as she stood on the causey kerb,
All eager to sell her honey and apples and bunches of garden herb;
And if she had offered to give her wares and herself with them too that day,
I doubt if a soul would have cared to take a bargain so choice away.
But chancing to trace her sunburnt grace that morning as I passed nigh,
I went and I said “Poor maidy dear! — and will none of the people buy?”
And so it began; and soon we knew what the end of it all must be,
And I found that though no others had bid, a prize had been won by me.
V
THE INQUIRY
And are ye one of Hermitage -
Of Hermitage, by Ivel Road,
And do ye know, in Hermitage
A thatch-roofed house where sengreens grow?
And does John Waywood live there still -
He of the name that there abode
When father hurdled on the hill
Some fifteen years ago?
Does he now speak o’ Patty Beech,
The Patty Beech he used to — see,
Or ask at all if Patty Beech
Is known or heard of out this way?
- Ask ever if she’s living yet,
And where her present home may be,
And how she bears life’s fag and fret
After so long a day?
In years agone at Hermitage
This faded face was counted fair,
None fairer; and at Hermitage
We swore to wed when he should thrive.
But never a chance had he or I,
And waiting made his wish outwear,
And Time, that dooms man’s love to die,
Preserves a maid’s alive.
VI
A WIFE WAITS
Will’s at the dance in the Club-room below,
Where the tall liquor-cups foam;
I on the pavement up here by the Bow,
Wait, wait, to steady him home.
Will and his partner are treading a tune,
Loving companions they be;
Willy, before we were married in June,
Said he loved no one but me;
Said he would let his old pleasures all go
Ever to live with his Dear.
Will’s at the dance in the Club-room below,
Shivering I wait for him here.
NOTE. — ”The Bow” (line 3). The old name for the curved corner by the cross- streets in the middle of Casterbridge.
VII
AFTER THE FAIR
The singers are gone from the Cornmarket-place
With their broadsheets of rhymes,
The street rings no longer in treble and bass
With their skits on the times,
And the Cross, lately thronged, is a dim naked space
That but echoes the stammering chimes.
From Clock-corner steps, as each quarter ding-dongs,
Away the folk roam
By the “Hart” and Grey’s Bridge into byways and “drongs,”
Or across the ridged loam;
The younger ones shrilling the lately heard songs,
The old saying, “Would we were home.”
The shy-seeming maiden so mute in the fair
Now rattles and talks,
And that one who looked the most swaggering there
; Grows sad as she walks,
And she who seemed eaten by cankering care
In statuesque sturdiness stalks.
And midnight clears High Street of all but the ghosts
Of its buried burghees,
From the latest far back to those old Roman hosts
Whose remains one yet sees,
Who loved, laughed, and fought, hailed their friends, drank their toasts
At their meeting-times here, just as these!
1902.
NOTE. — ”The Chimes” (line 6) will be listened for in vain here at midnight now, having been abolished some years ago.
THE DARK-EYED GENTLEMAN
I
I pitched my day’s leazings in Crimmercrock Lane,
To tie up my garter and jog on again,
When a dear dark-eyed gentleman passed there and said,
In a way that made all o’ me colour rose-red,
”What do I see -
O pretty knee!”
And he came and he tied up my garter for me.
II
‘Twixt sunset and moonrise it was, I can mind:
Ah, ‘tis easy to lose what we nevermore find! -
Of the dear stranger’s home, of his name, I knew nought,
But I soon knew his nature and all that it brought.
Then bitterly
Sobbed I that he
Should ever have tied up my garter for me!
III
Yet now I’ve beside me a fine lissom lad,
And my slip’s nigh forgot, and my days are not sad;
My own dearest joy is he, comrade, and friend,
He it is who safe-guards me, on him I depend;
No sorrow brings he,
And thankful I be
That his daddy once tied up my garter for me!
NOTE. — ”Leazings” (line 1). — Bundle of gleaned corn.
TO CARREY CLAVEL
You turn your back, you turn your back,
And never your face to me,
Alone you take your homeward track,
And scorn my company.
What will you do when Charley’s seen
Dewbeating down this way?
- You’ll turn your back as now, you mean?
Nay, Carrey Clavel, nay!
You’ll see none’s looking; put your lip
Up like a tulip, so;
And he will coll you, bend, and sip:
Yes, Carrey, yes; I know!
THE ORPHANED OLD MAID
I wanted to marry, but father said, “No -
‘Tis weakness in women to give themselves so;
If you care for your freedom you’ll listen to me,
Make a spouse in your pocket, and let the men be.”
I spake on’t again and again: father cried,
“Why — if you go husbanding, where shall I bide?
For never a home’s for me elsewhere than here!”
And I yielded; for father had ever been dear.
But now father’s gone, and I feel growing old,
And I’m lonely and poor in this house on the wold,
And my sweetheart that was found a partner elsewhere,
And nobody flings me a thought or a care.
THE SPRING CALL
Down Wessex way, when spring’s a-shine,
The blackbird’s “pret-ty de-urr!”
In Wessex accents marked as mine
Is heard afar and near.
He flutes it strong, as if in song
No R’s of feebler tone
Than his appear in “pretty dear,”
Have blackbirds ever known.
Yet they pipe “prattie deerh!” I glean,
Beneath a Scottish sky,
And “pehty de-aw!” amid the treen
Of Middlesex or nigh.
While some folk say — perhaps in play -
Who know the Irish isle,
‘Tis “purrity dare!” in treeland there
When songsters would beguile.
Well: I’ll say what the listening birds
Say, hearing “pret-ty de-urr!” -
However strangers sound such words,
That’s how we sound them here.
Yes, in this clime at pairing time,
As soon as eyes can see her
At dawn of day, the proper way
To call is “pret-ty de-urr!”
JULIE-JANE
Sing; how ‘a would sing!
How ‘a would raise the tune
When we rode in the waggon from harvesting
By the light o’ the moon!
Dance; how ‘a would dance!
If a fiddlestring did but sound
She would hold out her coats, give a slanting glance,
And go round and round.
Laugh; how ‘a would laugh!
Her peony lips would part
As if none such a place for a lover to quaff
At the deeps of a heart.
Julie, O girl of joy,
Soon, soon that lover he came.
Ah, yes; and gave thee a baby-boy,
But never his name . . .
— Tolling for her, as you guess;
And the baby too . . . ‘Tis well.
You knew her in maidhood likewise? — Yes,
That’s her burial bell.
”I suppose,” with a laugh, she said,
”I should blush that I’m not a wife;
But how can it matter, so soon to be dead,
What one does in life!”
When we sat making the mourning
By her death-bed side, said she,
“Dears, how can you keep from your lovers, adorning
In honour of me!”
Bubbling and brightsome eyed!
But now — O never again.
She chose her bearers before she died
From her fancy-men.
NOTE. — It is, or was, a common custom in Wessex, and probably other country places, to prepare the mourning beside the death-bed, the dying person sometimes assisting, who also selects his or her bearers on such occasions.
“Coats” (line 7). — Old name for petticoats.
NEWS FOR HER MOTHER
I
One mile more is
Where your door is
Mother mine! -
Harvest’s coming,
Mills are strumming,
Apples fine,
And the cider made to-year will be as wine.
II
Yet, not viewing
What’s a-doing
Here around
Is it thrills me,
And so fills me
That I bound
Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground.
III
Tremble not now
At your lot now,
Silly soul!
Hosts have sped them
Quick to wed them,
Great and small,
Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole.
IV
Yet I wonder,
Will it sunder
Her from me?
Will she guess that
I said “Yes,” — that
His I’d be,
Ere I thought she might not see him as I see!
V
Old brown gable,
Granary, stable,
Here you are!
O my mother,
Can another
Ever bar
Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar?
THE FIDDLER
The fiddler knows what’s brewing
To the lilt of his lyric wiles:
The fiddler knows what rueing
Will come of this night’s smiles!
He sees couples join them for dancing,
And afterwards joining for life,
He sees them pay high for their prancing
By a welter of wedded strife.
He twangs: “Music hails from the devil,
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Though vaunted to come from heaven,
For it makes people do at a revel
What multiplies sins by seven.
“There’s many a heart now mangled,
And waiting its time to go,
Whose tendrils were first entangled
By my sweet viol and bow!”
THE HUSBAND’S VIEW
“Can anything avail
Beldame, for my hid grief? -
Listen: I’ll tell the tale,
It may bring faint relief! -
“I came where I was not known,
In hope to flee my sin;
And walking forth alone
A young man said, ‘Good e’en.’
“In gentle voice and true
He asked to marry me;
‘You only — only you
Fulfil my dream!’ said he.
“We married o’ Monday morn,
In the month of hay and flowers;
My cares were nigh forsworn,
And perfect love was ours.
“But ere the days are long
Untimely fruit will show;
My Love keeps up his song,
Undreaming it is so.
“And I awake in the night,
And think of months gone by,
And of that cause of flight
Hidden from my Love’s eye.
“Discovery borders near,
And then! . . . But something stirred? -
My husband — he is here!
Heaven — has he overheard?” -
