Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (963 page)
Read Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) Online
Authors: Thomas Hardy
And soon began to lose the fame
That late had gathered round his name . . .
- Time passed, and like a living thing
The pile went on embodying,
And workmen died, and young ones grew,
And the old mason sank from view
And Abbots Wygmore and Staunton went
And Horton sped the embellishment.
But not till years had far progressed
Chanced it that, one day, much impressed,
Standing within the well-graced aisle,
He asked who first conceived the style;
And some decrepit sage detailed
How, when invention nought availed,
The cloud-cast waters in their whim
Came down, and gave the hint to him
Who struck each arc, and made each mould;
And how the abbot would not hold
As sole begetter him who applied
Forms the Almighty sent as guide;
And how the master lost renown,
And wore in death no artist’s crown.
- Then Horton, who in inner thought
Had more perceptions than he taught,
Replied: “Nay; art can but transmute;
Invention is not absolute;
“Things fail to spring from nought at call,
And art-beginnings most of all.
“He did but what all artists do,
Wait upon Nature for his cue.”
- “Had you been here to tell them so
Lord Abbot, sixty years ago,
“The mason, now long underground,
Doubtless a different fate had found.
“He passed into oblivion dim,
And none knew what became of him!
“His name? ‘Twas of some common kind
And now has faded out of mind.”
The Abbot: “It shall not be hid!
I’ll trace it.” . . . But he never did.
- When longer yet dank death had wormed
The brain wherein the style had germed
From Gloucester church it flew afar -
The style called Perpendicular. -
To Winton and to Westminster
It ranged, and grew still beautifuller:
From Solway Frith to Dover Strand
Its fascinations starred the land,
Not only on cathedral walls
But upon courts and castle halls,
Till every edifice in the isle
Was patterned to no other style,
And till, long having played its part,
The curtain fell on Gothic art.
- Well: when in Wessex on your rounds,
Take a brief step beyond its bounds,
And enter Gloucester: seek the quoin
Where choir and transept interjoin,
And, gazing at the forms there flung
Against the sky by one unsung -
The ogee arches transom-topped,
The tracery-stalks by spandrels stopped,
Petrified lacework — lightly lined
On ancient massiveness behind -
Muse that some minds so modest be
As to renounce fame’s fairest fee,
(Like him who crystallized on this spot
His visionings, but lies forgot,
And many a mediaeval one
Whose symmetries salute the sun)
While others boom a baseless claim,
And upon nothing rear a name.
THE JUBILEE OF A MAGAZINE
(To the Editor)
Yes; your up-dated modern page -
All flower-fresh, as it appears -
Can claim a time-tried lineage,
That reaches backward fifty years
(Which, if but short for sleepy squires,
Is much in magazines’ careers).
- Here, on your cover, never tires
The sower, reaper, thresher, while
As through the seasons of our sires
Each wills to work in ancient style
With seedlip, sickle, share and flail,
Though modes have since moved many a mile!
The steel-roped plough now rips the vale,
With cog and tooth the sheaves are won,
Wired wheels drum out the wheat like hail;
But if we ask, what has been done
To unify the mortal lot
Since your bright leaves first saw the sun,
Beyond mechanic furtherance — what
Advance can rightness, candour, claim?
Truth bends abashed, and answers not.
Despite your volumes’ gentle aim
To straighten visions wry and wrong,
Events jar onward much the same!
- Had custom tended to prolong,
As on your golden page engrained,
Old processes of blade and prong,
And best invention been retained
For high crusades to lessen tears
Throughout the race, the world had gained! . . .
But too much, this, for fifty years.
THE SATIN SHOES
“If ever I walk to church to wed,
As other maidens use,
And face the gathered eyes,” she said,
”I’ll go in satin shoes!”
She was as fair as early day
Shining on meads unmown,
And her sweet syllables seemed to play
Like flute-notes softly blown.
The time arrived when it was meet
That she should be a bride;
The satin shoes were on her feet,
Her father was at her side.
They stood within the dairy door,
And gazed across the green;
The church loomed on the distant moor,
But rain was thick between.
“The grass-path hardly can be stepped,
The lane is like a pool!” -
Her dream is shown to be inept,
Her wish they overrule.
“To go forth shod in satin soft
A coach would be required!”
For thickest boots the shoes were doffed -
Those shoes her soul desired . . .
All day the bride, as overborne,
Was seen to brood apart,
And that the shoes had not been worn
Sat heavy on her heart.
From her wrecked dream, as months flew on,
Her thought seemed not to range.
What ails the wife?” they said anon,
”That she should be so strange?” . . .
Ah — what coach comes with furtive glide -
A coach of closed-up kind?
It comes to fetch the last year’s bride,
Who wanders in her mind.
She strove with them, and fearfully ran
Stairward with one low scream:
“Nay — coax her,” said the madhouse man,
”With some old household theme.”
“If you will go, dear, you must fain
Put on those shoes — the pair
Meant for your marriage, which the rain
Forbade you then to wear.”
She clapped her hands, flushed joyous hues;
”O yes — I’ll up and ride
If I am to wear my satin shoes
And be a proper bride!”
Out then her little foot held she,
As to depart with speed;
The madhouse man smiled pleasantly
To see the wile succeed.
She turned to him when all was done,
And gave him her thin hand,
Exclaiming like an enraptured one,
”This time it will be grand!”
She mounted with a face elate,
Shut was the carriage door;
They drove her to the madhouse gate,
And she was seen no more . . .
Yet she was fair as early day
Shining on meads unmown,
And her sweet syllables seemed to play
Like flute-notes softly blown.
EXEUNT OMNES
I
Everybody else, then, going,
And I still left where the fair was? . . .
Much have I seen of neighbour loungers
Making a lusty showing,
Each now past all knowing.
II
There is an air of blankness
In the street and the littered spaces;
Thoroughfare, steeple, bridge and highway
Wizen themselves to lankness;
Kennels dribble dankness.
III
Folk all fade. And whither,
As I wait alone where the fair was?
Into the clammy and numbing night-fog
Whence they entered hither.
Soon do I follow thither!
June 2, 1913.
A POET
Attentive eyes, fantastic heed,
Assessing minds, he does not need,
Nor urgent writs to sup or dine,
Nor pledges in the roseate wine.
For loud acclaim he does not care
By the august or rich or fair,
Nor for smart pilgrims from afar,
Curious on where his hauntings are.
But soon or later, when you hear
That he has doffed this wrinkled gear,
Some evening, at the first star-ray,
Come to his graveside, pause and say:
“Whatever the message his to tell,
Two bright-souled women loved him well.”
Stand and say that amid the dim:
It will be praise enough for him.
July 1914.
POSTSCRIPT “MEN WHO MARCH AWAY” (SONG OF THE SOLDIERS)
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away
Ere the barn-cocks say
Night is growing gray,
To hazards whence no tears can win us;
What of the faith and fire within us
Men who march away?
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye,
Who watch us stepping by
With doubt and dolorous sigh?
Can much pondering so hoodwink you!
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
Friend with the musing eye?
Nay. We well see what we are doing,
Though some may not see -
Dalliers as they be -
England’s need are we;
Her distress would leave us rueing:
Nay. We well see what we are doing,
Though some may not see!
In our heart of hearts believing
Victory crowns the just,
And that braggarts must
Surely bite the dust,
Press we to the field ungrieving,
In our heart of hearts believing
Victory crowns the just.
Hence the faith and fire within us
Men who march away
Ere the barn-cocks say
Night is growing gray,
To hazards whence no tears can win us:
Hence the faith and fire within us
Men who march away.
September 5, 1914.
MOMENTS OF VISION AND MISCELLANEOUS VERSES
CONTENTS
APOSTROPHE TO AN OLD PSALM TUNE
YOU WERE THE SORT THAT MEN FORGET
COPYING ARCHITECTURE IN AN OLD MINSTER
TO SHAKESPEARE AFTER THREE HUNDRED YEARS
LINES TO A MOVEMENT IN MOZART’S E-FLAT SYMPHONY
I SAID AND SANG HER EXCELLENCE
AT MIDDLE-FIELD GATE IN FEBRUARY
