by Thomas Hardy
Gaily his spirit ranges
With his comrades,
With his comrades all around.
1916.
PARADOX
(M. H.)
Though out of sight now, and as ‘twere not the least to us;
Comes she in sorrows, as one bringing peace to us?
Lost to each meadow, each hill-top, each tree around,
Yet the whole truth may her largened sight see around?
Always away from us
She may not stray from us!
Can she, then, know how men’s fatings befall?
Yea indeed, may know well; even know thereof all.
THE ROVER COME HOME
He’s journeyed through America
From Canso Cape to Horn,
And from East Indian Comorin
To Behring’s Strait forlorn;
He’s felled trees in the backwoods,
In swamps has gasped for breath;
In Tropic heats, in Polar ice,
Has often prayed for death.
He has fought and bled in civil wars
Of no concern to him,
Has shot his fellows — beasts and men —
At risk of life and limb.
He has suffered fluxes, fevers.
Agues, and ills allied,
And now he’s home. You look at him
As he talks by your fireside.
And what is written in his glance
Stressed by such foreign wear,
After such alien circumstance
What does his face declare?
His mother’s; she who saw him not
After his starting year,
Who never left her native spot,
And lies in the churchyard near.
KNOWN HAD I
(SONG)
Known had I what I knew not
When we met eye to eye,
That thenceforth I should view not
Again beneath the sky
So truefooted a farer
As you who faced me then,
My path had been a rarer
Than it figures among men!
I would have trod beside you
To guard your feet all day,
And borne at night to guide you
A lantern on your way:
Would not have left you lonely
With wringing doubt, to cow
Old hope, if I could only
Have known what I know now.
THE PAT OF BUTTER
Once, at the Agricultural Show,
We tasted — all so yellow —
Those butter-pats, cool and mellow!
Each taste I still remember, though
It was so long ago.
This spoke of the grass of Netherhay,
And this of Kingcomb Hill,
And this of Coker Rill:
Which was the prime I could not say
Of all those tried that day,
Till she, the fair and wicked-eyed,
Held out a pat to me:
Then felt I all Yeo-Lea
Was by her sample sheer outvied;
And, “This is the best,” I cried.
BAGS OF MEAT
“Here’s a fine bag of meat,”
Says the master-auctioneer,
As the timid, quivering steer,
Starting a couple of feet
At the prod of a drover’s stick,
And trotting lightly and quick,
A ticket stuck on his rump,
Enters with a bewildered jump.
“Where he’s lived lately, friends,
I’d live till lifetime ends:
They’ve a whole life everyday
Down there in the Vale, have they!
He’d be worth the money to kill
And give away Christmas for good-will.”
“Now here’s a heifer — worth more
Than bid, were she bone-poor;
Yet she’s round as a barrel of beer”;
“She’s a plum,” said the second auctioneer.
“Now this young bull — for thirty pound?
Worth that to manure your ground!”
“Or to stand,” chimed the second one,
“And have his picter done!”
The beast was rapped on the horns and snout
To make him turn about.
“Well,” cried a buyer, “another crown —
Since I’ve dragged here from Taunton Town!”
“That calf, she sucked three cows,
Which is not matched for bouse
In the nurseries of high life
By the first-born of a nobleman’s wife!”
The stick falls, meaning, “A true tale’s told,”
On the buttock of the creature sold,
And the buyer leans over and snips
His mark on one of the animal’s hips.
Each beast, when driven in,
Looks round at the ring of bidders there
With a much-amazed reproachful stare,
As at unnatural kin,
For bringing him to a sinister scene
So strange, unhomelike, hungry, mean;
His fate the while suspended between
A butcher, to kill out of hand,
And a farmer, to keep on the land;
One can fancy a tear runs down his face
When the butcher wins, and he’s driven from the place.
THE SUNDIAL ON A WET DAY
I drip, drip here
In Atlantic rain,
Falling like handfuls
Of winnowed grain,
Which, tear-like, down
My gnomon drain,
And dim my numerals
With their stain, —
Till I feel useless,
And wrought in vain!
And then I think
In my despair
That, though unseen,
He is still up there,
And may gaze out
Anywhen, anywhere;
Not to help clockmen
Quiz and compare,
But in kindness to let me
My trade declare.
St. Juliot.
HER HAUNTING-GROUND
Can it be so? It must be so,
That visions have not ceased to be
In this the chiefest sanctuary
Of her whose form we used to know.
— Nay, but her dust is far away,
And “where her dust is, shapes her shade,
If spirit clings to flesh,” they say:
Yet here her life-parts most were played!
Her voice explored this atmosphere,
Her foot impressed this turf around,
Her shadow swept this slope and mound,
Her fingers fondled blossoms here;
And so, I ask, why, why should she
Haunt elsewhere, by a slighted tomb,
When here she flourished sorrow-free,
And, save for others, knew no gloom?
A PARTING-SCENE
The two pale women cried,
But the man seemed to suffer more,
Which he strove hard to hide.
They stayed in the waiting-room, behind the door,
Till startled by the entering engine-roar,
As if they could not bear to have unfurled
Their misery to the eyes of all the world.
A soldier and his young wife
Were the couple; his mother the third,
Who had seen the seams of life.
He was sailing for the East I later heard.
— They kissed long, but they did not speak a word;
Then, strained, he went. To the elder the wife in tears
“Too long; too long!” burst out. (‘Twas for five years.)
SHORTENING DAYS AT THE HOMESTEAD
The first fire since the summer is lit, and is smoking into the room:
The sun-rays thread it through, like woof-lines in a loom.
Sparr
ows spurt from the hedge, whom misgivings appal
That winter did not leave last year for ever, after all.
Like shock-headed urchins, spiny-haired,
Stand pollard willows, their twigs just bared.
Who is this coming with pondering pace,
Black and ruddy, with white embossed,
His eyes being black, and ruddy his face
And the marge of his hair like morning frost?
It’s the cider-maker,
And appletree-shaker,
And behind him on wheels, in readiness,
His mill, and tubs, and vat, and press.
DAYS TO RECOLLECT
Do you recall
That day in Fall
When we walked towards Saint Alban’s Head,
On thistledown that summer had shed,
Or must I remind you?
Winged thistle-seeds which hitherto
Had lain as none were there, or few,
But rose at the brush of your petticoat-seam
(As ghosts might rise of the recent dead),
And sailed on the breeze in a nebulous stream
Like a comet’s tail behind you:
You don’t recall
That day in Fall?
Then do you remember
That sad November
When you left me never to see me more,
And looked quite other than theretofore,
As if it could not be you?
And lay by the window whence you had gazed
So many times when blamed or praised,
Morning or noon, through years and years,
Accepting the gifts that Fortune bore,
Sharing, enduring, joys, hopes, fears!
Well: I never more did see you. —
Say you remember
That sad November!
TO C. F. H.
ON HER CHRISTENING-DAY
Fair Caroline, I wonder what
You think of earth as a dwelling-spot,
And if you’d rather have come, or not?
To-day has laid on you a name
That, though unasked for, you will claim
Lifelong, for love or praise or blame.
May chance and change impose on you
No heavier burthen than this new
Care-chosen one your future through!
Dear stranger here, the prayer is mine
That your experience may combine
Good things with glad. . . . Yes, Caroline!
THE HIGH-SCHOOL LAWN
Gray prinked with rose,
White tipped with blue,
Shoes with gay hose,
Sleeves of chrome hue;
Fluffed frills of white,
Dark bordered light;
Such shimmerings through
Trees of emerald green are eyed
This afternoon, from the road outside.
They whirl around:
Many laughters run
With a cascade’s sound;
Then a mere one.
A bell: they flee:
Silence then: —
So it will be
Some day again
With them, — with me.
THE FORBIDDEN BANNS
A BALLAD OF THE EIGHTEEN-THIRTIES
I
“O what’s the gain, my worthy Sir,
In stopping the banns to-day!
Your son declares he’ll marry her
If a thousand folk say Nay.”
“I’ll do’t; I’ll do’t; whether or no!
And, if I drop down dead,
To church this morning I will go,
And say they shall not wed!”
That day the parson clear outspoke
The maid’s name and the man’s:
His father, mid the assembled folk,
Said, “I forbid the banns!”
Then, white in face, lips pale and cold,
He turned him to sit down,
When he fell forward; and behold,
They found his life had flown.
II
‘Twas night-time, towards the middle part,
When low her husband said,
“I would from the bottom of my heart
That father was not dead!”
She turned from one to the other side,
And a sad woman was she
As he went on: “He’d not have died
Had it not been for me!”
She brought him soon an idiot child,
And then she brought another:
His face waned wan, his manner wild
With hatred of their mother.
“Hearken to me, my son. No: no:
There’s madness in her blood!”
Those were his father’s words; and lo,
Now, now he understood.
What noise is that? One noise, and two
Resound from a near gun.
Two corpses found: and neighbours knew
By whom the deed was done.
THE PAPHIAN BALL
ANOTHER CHRISTMAS EXPERIENCE OF THE MELLSTOCK QUIRE
We went our Christmas rounds once more,
With quire and viols as therefore.
Our path was near by Rushy-Pond,
Where Egdon-Heath outstretched beyond.
There stood a figure against the moon,
Tall, spare, and humming a weirdsome tune.
“You tire of Christian carols,” he said:
“Come and lute at a ball instead.
“‘Tis to your gain, for it ensures
That many guineas will be yours.
“A slight condition hangs on’t, true,
But you will scarce say nay thereto:
“That you go blindfold; that anon
The place may not be gossiped on.”
They stood and argued with each other:
“Why sing from one house to another
“These ancient hymns in the freezing night,
And all for nought? ‘Tis foolish, quite!”
“ — ’Tis serving God, and shunning evil:
Might not elsedoing serve the devil?”
“But grand pay!” . . . They were lured by his call,
Agreeing to go blindfold all.
They walked, he guiding, some new track,
Doubting to find the pathway back.
In a strange hall they found them when
They were unblinded all again.
Gilded alcoves, great chandeliers,
Voluptuous paintings ranged in tiers,
In brief, a mansion large and rare,
With rows of dancers waiting there.
They tuned and played; the couples danced;
Half-naked women tripped, advanced,
With handsome partners footing fast,
Who swore strange oaths, and whirled them past.
And thus and thus the slow hours wore them:
While shone their guineas heaped before them.
Drowsy at length, in lieu of the dance
“While Shepherds watched . . .” they bowed by chance;
And in a moment, at a blink,
There flashed a change; ere they could think
The ball-room vanished and all its crew:
Only the well-known heath they view —
The spot of their crossing overnight,
When wheedled by the stranger’s sleight.
There, east, the Christmas dawn hung red,
And dark Rainbarrow with its dead
Bulged like a supine negress’ breast
Against Clyffe-Clump’s faint far-off crest.
Yea; the rare mansion, gorgeous, bright,
The ladies, gallants, gone were quite.
The heaped-up guineas, too, were gone
With the gold table they were on.
“Why did not grasp we what was owed!”
Cried some, as homeward, shamed, they strode.
Now comes the marvel and the warning:
When they had dragged
to church next morning,
With downcast heads and scarce a word,
They were astound at what they heard.
Praises from all came forth in showers
For how they’d cheered the midnight hours.
“We’ve heard you many times,” friends said,
“But like that never have you played!
“Rejoice, ye tenants of the earth,
And celebrate your Saviour’s birth
“Never so thrilled the darkness through,
Or more inspired us so to do!” . . .
— The man who used to tell this tale
Was the tenor-viol, Michael Mail;
Yes; Mail the tenor, now but earth! —
I give it for what it may be worth.
ON MARTOCK MOOR
I
My deep-dyed husband trusts me,
He feels his mastery sure,
Although I leave his evening hearth
To walk upon the moor.
II
— I had what wealth I needed,
And of gay gowns a score,
And yet I left my husband’s house
To muse upon the moor.
III
O how I loved a dear one
Who, save in soul, was poor!
O how I loved the man who met
Me nightly on the moor.
IV
I’d feather-beds and couches,
And carpets for the floor,
Yet brighter to me was, at eves,
The bareness of the moor.
V
