Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (927 page)

SHE, TO HIM — I

When you shall see me in the toils of Time,
My lauded beauties carried off from me,
My eyes no longer stars as in their prime,
My name forgot of Maiden Fair and Free;

When in your being heart concedes to mind,
And judgment, though you scarce its process know,
Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined,
And you are irked that they have withered so:

Remembering that with me lies not the blame,
That Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill,
Knowing me in my soul the very same -
One who would die to spare you touch of ill! -
Will you not grant to old affection’s claim
The hand of friendship down Life’s sunless hill?

1866.

SHE, TO HIM — II

Perhaps, long hence, when I have passed away,
Some other’s feature, accent, thought like mine,
Will carry you back to what I used to say,
And bring some memory of your love’s decline.

Then you may pause awhile and think, “Poor jade!”
And yield a sigh to me — as ample due,
Not as the tittle of a debt unpaid
To one who could resign her all to you -

And thus reflecting, you will never see
That your thin thought, in two small words conveyed,
Was no such fleeting phantom-thought to me,
But the Whole Life wherein my part was played;
And you amid its fitful masquerade
A Thought — as I in yours but seem to be.

1866.

SHE, TO HIM — III

I will be faithful to thee; aye, I will!
And Death shall choose me with a wondering eye
That he did not discern and domicile
One his by right ever since that last Good-bye!

I have no care for friends, or kin, or prime
Of manhood who deal gently with me here;
Amid the happy people of my time
Who work their love’s fulfilment, I appear

Numb as a vane that cankers on its point,
True to the wind that kissed ere canker came;
Despised by souls of Now, who would disjoint
The mind from memory, and make Life all aim,

My old dexterities of hue quite gone,
And nothing left for Love to look upon.

1866.

SHE, TO HIM — IV

This love puts all humanity from me;
I can but maledict her, pray her dead,
For giving love and getting love of thee -
Feeding a heart that else mine own had fed!

How much I love I know not, life not known,
Save as some unit I would add love by;
But this I know, my being is but thine own —
Fused from its separateness by ecstasy.

And thus I grasp thy amplitudes, of her
Ungrasped, though helped by nigh-regarding eyes;
Canst thou then hate me as an envier
Who see unrecked what I so dearly prize?
Believe me, Lost One, Love is lovelier
The more it shapes its moan in selfish-wise.

1866.

DITTY (E. L G.)

Beneath a knap where flown
   Nestlings play,
Within walls of weathered stone,
   Far away
From the files of formal houses,
By the bough the firstling browses,
Lives a Sweet: no merchants meet,
No man barters, no man sells
   Where she dwells.

Upon that fabric fair
   ”Here is she!”
Seems written everywhere
   Unto me.
But to friends and nodding neighbours,
Fellow-wights in lot and labours,
Who descry the times as I,
No such lucid legend tells
   Where she dwells.

Should I lapse to what I was
   Ere we met;
(Such can not be, but because
   Some forget
Let me feign it) — none would notice
That where she I know by rote is
Spread a strange and withering change,
Like a drying of the wells
   Where she dwells.

To feel I might have kissed -
   Loved as true -
Otherwhere, nor Mine have missed
   My life through.
Had I never wandered near her,
Is a smart severe — severer
In the thought that she is nought,
Even as I, beyond the dells
   Where she dwells.

And Devotion droops her glance
   To recall
What bond-servants of Chance
   We are all.
I but found her in that, going
On my errant path unknowing,
I did not out-skirt the spot
That no spot on earth excels,
  — Where she dwells!

1870.

THE SERGEANT’S SONG (1803)

When Lawyers strive to heal a breach,
And Parsons practise what they preach;
Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down,
And march his men on London town!
   Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lorum,
   Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay!

When Justices hold equal scales,
And Rogues are only found in jails;
Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down,
And march his men on London town!
   Rollicum-rorum, &c.

When Rich Men find their wealth a curse,
And fill therewith the Poor Man’s purse;
Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down,
And march his men on London town!
   Rollicum-rorum, &c.

When Husbands with their Wives agree,
And Maids won’t wed from modesty;
Then Little Boney he’ll pounce down,
And march his men on London town!
   Rollicum-rorum, tol-tol-lorum,
   Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay!

1878.

Published in “The Trumpet-Major,” 1880.

VALENCIENNES

(1793)
BY CORP’L TULLIDGE: see “The Trumpet-Major”
IN MEMORY OF S. C. (PENSIONER). DIED 184-

   We trenched, we trumpeted and drummed,
And from our mortars tons of iron hummed
   Ath’art the ditch, the month we bombed
      The Town o’ Valencieen.

   ’Twas in the June o’ Ninety-dree
(The Duke o’ Yark our then Commander been)
   The German Legion, Guards, and we
      Laid siege to Valencieen.

   This was the first time in the war
That French and English spilled each other’s gore;
  — Few dreamt how far would roll the roar
      Begun at Valencieen!

   ’Twas said that we’d no business there
A-topperen the French for disagreen;
   However, that’s not my affair -
      We were at Valencieen.

   Such snocks and slats, since war began
Never knew raw recruit or veteran:
   Stone-deaf therence went many a man
      Who served at Valencieen.

   Into the streets, ath’art the sky,
A hundred thousand balls and bombs were fleen;
   And harmless townsfolk fell to die
      Each hour at Valencieen!

   And, sweaten wi’ the bombardiers,
A shell was slent to shards anighst my ears:
  — ’Twas nigh the end of hopes and fears
      For me at Valencieen!

   They bore my wownded frame to camp,
And shut my gapen skull, and washed en clean,
   And jined en wi’ a zilver clamp
      Thik night at Valencieen.

   ”We’ve fetched en back to quick from dead;
But never more on earth while rose is red
   Will drum rouse Corpel!” Doctor said
      O’ me at Valencieen.

   ’Twer true. No voice o’ friend or foe
Can reach me now, or any liven been;
   And little have I power to know
      Since then at Valencieen!

   I never hear the zummer hums
O’ bees; and don’ know when the cuckoo comes;
   But night and day I hear the bombs
      We threw at Valencieen . . .

   As for the Duke o’ Yark in war,
There be some volk whose judgment o’ en is mean;
   But this I say — a was not far
      From great at Valencieen.

   O’ wild wet nights, when all seems sad,
My wownds come back, as though new wownds I’d had;
   But yet — at times I’m sort o’ glad
      I fout at Valencieen.

   Well: Heaven wi’ its jasper halls
Is now the on’y Town I care to be in . . .
   Good Lord, if Nick should bomb the walls
      As we did Valencieen!

1878-1897.

SAN SEBASTIAN

(August 1813)
WITH THOUGHTS OF SERGEANT M- (PENSIONER), WHO DIED 185-.

“Why, Sergeant, stray on the Ivel Way,
As though at home there were spectres rife?
From first to last ‘twas a proud career!
And your sunny years with a gracious wife
   Have brought you a daughter dear.

“I watched her to-day; a more comely maid,
As she danced in her muslin bowed with blue,
Round a Hintock maypole never gayed.”
- “Aye, aye; I watched her this day, too,
   As it happens,” the Sergeant said.

“My daughter is now,” he again began,
“Of just such an age as one I knew
When we of the Line and Forlorn-hope van,
On an August morning — a chosen few -
   Stormed San Sebastian.

“She’s a score less three; so about was SHE -
The maiden I wronged in Peninsular days . . .
You may prate of your prowess in lusty times,
But as years gnaw inward you blink your bays,
   And see too well your crimes!

“We’d stormed it at night, by the vlanker-light
Of burning towers, and the mortar’s boom:
We’d topped the breach; but had failed to stay,
For our files were misled by the baffling gloom;
   And we said we’d storm by day.

“So, out of the trenches, with features set,
On that hot, still morning, in measured pace,
Our column climbed; climbed higher yet,
Past the fauss’bray, scarp, up the curtain-face,
   And along the parapet.

“From the battened hornwork the cannoneers
Hove crashing balls of iron fire;
On the shaking gap mount the volunteers
In files, and as they mount expire
   Amid curses, groans, and cheers.

“Five hours did we storm, five hours re-form,
As Death cooled those hot blood pricked on;
Till our cause was helped by a woe within:
They swayed from the summit we’d leapt upon,
   And madly we entered in.

“On end for plunder, ‘mid rain and thunder
That burst with the lull of our cannonade,
We vamped the streets in the stifling air -
Our hunger unsoothed, our thirst unstayed -
   And ransacked the buildings there.

“Down the stony steps of the house-fronts white
We rolled rich puncheons of Spanish grape,
Till at length, with the fire of the wine alight,
I saw at a doorway a fair fresh shape -
   A woman, a sylph, or sprite.

“Afeard she fled, and with heated head
I pursued to the chamber she called her own;
- When might is right no qualms deter,
And having her helpless and alone
   I wreaked my will on her.

“She raised her beseeching eyes to me,
And I heard the words of prayer she sent
In her own soft language . . . Seemingly
I copied those eyes for my punishment
   In begetting the girl you see!

“So, to-day I stand with a God-set brand
Like Cain’s, when he wandered from kindred’s ken . . .
I served through the war that made Europe free;
I wived me in peace-year. But, hid from men,
   I bear that mark on me.

“And I nightly stray on the Ivel Way
As though at home there were spectres rife;
I delight me not in my proud career;
And ‘tis coals of fire that a gracious wife
   Should have brought me a daughter dear!”

THE STRANGER’S SONG

(As sung by MR. CHARLES CHARRINGTON in the play of “The Three
Wayfarers”)

            O my trade it is the rarest one,
Simple shepherds all -
      My trade is a sight to see;
For my customers I tie, and take ‘em up on high,
   And waft ‘em to a far countree!

My tools are but common ones,
            Simple shepherds all -
      My tools are no sight to see:
A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing,
   Are implements enough for me!

To-morrow is my working day,
         Simple shepherds all -
      To-morrow is a working day for me:
For the farmer’s sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta’en,
   And on his soul may God ha’ mer-cy!

Printed in “The Three Strangers,” 1883.

THE BURGHERS (17-)

The sun had wheeled from Grey’s to Dammer’s Crest,
And still I mused on that Thing imminent:
At length I sought the High-street to the West.

The level flare raked pane and pediment
And my wrecked face, and shaped my nearing friend
Like one of those the Furnace held unshent.

“I’ve news concerning her,” he said. “Attend.
They fly to-night at the late moon’s first gleam:
Watch with thy steel: two righteous thrusts will end

Her shameless visions and his passioned dream.
I’ll watch with thee, to testify thy wrong -
To aid, maybe. — Law consecrates the scheme.”

I started, and we paced the flags along
Till I replied: “Since it has come to this
I’ll do it! But alone. I can be strong.”

Three hours past Curfew, when the Froom’s mild hiss
Reigned sole, undulled by whirr of merchandize,
From Pummery-Tout to where the Gibbet is,

I crossed my pleasaunce hard by Glyd’path Rise,
And stood beneath the wall. Eleven strokes went,
And to the door they came, contrariwise,

And met in clasp so close I had but bent
My lifted blade upon them to have let
Their two souls loose upon the firmament.

But something held my arm. “A moment yet
As pray-time ere you wantons die!” I said;
And then they saw me. Swift her gaze was set

With eye and cry of love illimited
Upon her Heart-king. Never upon me
Had she thrown look of love so thorough-sped! . . .

At once she flung her faint form shieldingly
On his, against the vengeance of my vows;
The which o’erruling, her shape shielded he.