Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (939 page)

(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.

W
ESTBOURNE 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.