Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (974 page)

   And so, the rough highway forgetting,
      I pace hill and dale
      Regarding the sky,
   Regarding the vision on high,
And thus re-illumed have no humour for letting
      My pilgrimage fail.

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,
Leaving all that here 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,
Leaving all that here can win us;
Hence the faith and fire within us
   Men who march away.

September 5, 1914.

HIS COUNTRY

[He travels southward, and looks around;]
I journeyed from my native spot
   Across the south sea shine,
And found that people in hall and cot
Laboured and suffered each his lot
   Even as I did mine.

[and cannot discern the boundary]
Thus noting them in meads and marts
   It did not seem to me
That my dear country with its hearts,
Minds, yearnings, worse and better parts
   Had ended with the sea.

[of his native country;]
I further and further went anon,
   As such I still surveyed,
And further yet — yea, on and on,
And all the men I looked upon
   Had heart-strings fellow-made.

[or where his duties to his fellow-creatures end;]
I traced the whole terrestrial round,
   Homing the other side;
Then said I, “What is there to bound
My denizenship? It seems I have found
   Its scope to be world-wide.”

[nor who are his enemies]
I asked me: “Whom have I to fight,
   And whom have I to dare,
And whom to weaken, crush, and blight?
My country seems to have kept in sight
   On my way everywhere.”

1913.

ENGLAND TO GERMANY IN 1914

“O England, may God punish thee!”
- Is it that Teuton genius flowers
Only to breathe malignity
Upon its friend of earlier hours?
- We have eaten your bread, you have eaten ours,
We have loved your burgs, your pines’ green moan,
Fair Rhine-stream, and its storied towers;
Your shining souls of deathless dowers
Have won us as they were our own:

We have nursed no dreams to shed your blood,
We have matched your might not rancorously,
Save a flushed few whose blatant mood
You heard and marked as well as we
To tongue not in their country’s key;
But yet you cry with face aflame,
“O England, may God punish thee!”
And foul in onward history,
And present sight, your ancient name.

Autumn 1914.

ON THE BELGIAN EXPATRIATION

I dreamt that people from the Land of Chimes
Arrived one autumn morning with their bells,
To hoist them on the towers and citadels
Of my own country, that the musical rhymes

Rung by them into space at meted times
Amid the market’s daily stir and stress,
And the night’s empty star-lit silentness,
Might solace souls of this and kindred climes.

Then I awoke; and lo, before me stood
The visioned ones, but pale and full of fear;
From Bruges they came, and Antwerp, and Ostend,

No carillons in their train. Foes of mad mood
Had shattered these to shards amid the gear
Of ravaged roof, and smouldering gable-end.

October 18, 1914.

AN APPEAL TO AMERICA ON BEHALF OF THE BELGIAN DESTITUTE

   Seven millions stand
Emaciate, in that ancient Delta-land:-
We here, full-charged with our own maimed and dead,
And coiled in throbbing conflicts slow and sore,
Can poorly soothe these ails unmerited
Of souls forlorn upon the facing shore! -
Where naked, gaunt, in endless band on band
   Seven millions stand.

   No man can say
To your great country that, with scant delay,
You must, perforce, ease them in their loud need:
We know that nearer first your duty lies;
But — is it much to ask that you let plead
Your lovingkindness with you — wooing-wise -
Albeit that aught you owe, and must repay,
   No man can say?

December 1914.

THE PITY OF IT

I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar
From rail-track and from highway, and I heard
In field and farmstead many an ancient word
Of local lineage like “Thu bist,” “Er war,”

“Ich woll,” “Er sholl,” and by-talk similar,
Nigh as they speak who in this month’s moon gird
At England’s very loins, thereunto spurred
By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are.

Then seemed a Heart crying: “Whosoever they be
At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame
Between kin folk kin tongued even as are we,

“Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame;
May their familiars grow to shun their name,
And their brood perish everlastingly.”

April 1915.

IN TIME OF WARS AND TUMULTS

“Would that I’d not drawn breath here!” some one said,
“To stalk upon this stage of evil deeds,
Where purposelessly month by month proceeds
A play so sorely shaped and blood-bespread.”

Yet had his spark not quickened, but lain dead
To the gross spectacles of this our day,
And never put on the proffered cloak of clay,
He had but known not things now manifested;

Life would have swirled the same. Morns would have dawned
On the uprooting by the night-gun’s stroke
Of what the yester noonshine brought to flower;

Brown martial brows in dying throes have wanned
Despite his absence; hearts no fewer been broke
By Empery’s insatiate lust of power.

1915.

IN TIME OF “THE BREAKING OF NATIONS”

I

Only a man harrowing clods
   In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
   Half asleep as they stalk.

II

Only thin smoke without flame
   From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onward the same
   Though Dynasties pass.

III

Yonder a maid and her wight
   Come whispering by:
War’s annals will cloud into night
   Ere their story die.

1915.

CRY OF THE HOMELESS AFTER THE PRUSSIAN INVASION OF BELGIUM

“Instigator of the ruin -
   Whichsoever thou mayst be
Of the masterful of Europe
   That contrived our misery -
Hear the wormwood-worded greeting
   From each city, shore, and lea
      Of thy victims:
   ”Conqueror, all hail to thee!”

“Yea: ‘All hail!’ we grimly shout thee
   That wast author, fount, and head
Of these wounds, whoever proven
   When our times are throughly read.
‘May thy loved be slighted, blighted,
   And forsaken,’ be it said
      By thy victims,
   ’And thy children beg their bread!’

“Nay: a richer malediction! -
   Rather let this thing befall
In time’s hurling and unfurling
   On the night when comes thy call;
That compassion dew thy pillow
   And bedrench thy senses all
      For thy victims,
   Till death dark thee with his pall.”

August 1915.

BEFORE MARCHING AND AFTER (in Memoriam F. W. G.)

   Orion swung southward aslant
   Where the starved Egdon pine-trees had thinned,
   The Pleiads aloft seemed to pant
   With the heather that twitched in the wind;
But he looked on indifferent to sights such as these,
Unswayed by love, friendship, home joy or home sorrow,
And wondered to what he would march on the morrow.

   The crazed household-clock with its whirr
   Rang midnight within as he stood,
   He heard the low sighing of her
   Who had striven from his birth for his good;
But he still only asked the spring starlight, the breeze,
What great thing or small thing his history would borrow
From that Game with Death he would play on the morrow.

   When the heath wore the robe of late summer,
   And the fuchsia-bells, hot in the sun,
   Hung red by the door, a quick comer
   Brought tidings that marching was done
For him who had joined in that game overseas
Where Death stood to win, though his name was to borrow
A brightness therefrom not to fade on the morrow.

September 1915.

OFTEN WHEN WARRING

Often when warring for he wist not what,
An enemy-soldier, passing by one weak,
Has tendered water, wiped the burning cheek,
And cooled the lips so black and clammed and hot;

Then gone his way, and maybe quite forgot
The deed of grace amid the roar and reek;
Yet larger vision than loud arms bespeak
He there has reached, although he has known it not.

For natural mindsight, triumphing in the act
Over the throes of artificial rage,
Has thuswise muffled victory’s peal of pride,
Rended to ribands policy’s specious page
That deals but with evasion, code, and pact,
And war’s apology wholly stultified.

1915.

THEN AND NOW

   When battles were fought
With a chivalrous sense of Should and Ought,
   In spirit men said,
   ”End we quick or dead,
   Honour is some reward!
Let us fight fair — for our own best or worst;
   So, Gentlemen of the Guard,
      Fire first!”

   In the open they stood,
Man to man in his knightlihood:
   They would not deign
   To profit by a stain
   On the honourable rules,
Knowing that practise perfidy no man durst
   Who in the heroic schools
      Was nurst.

   But now, behold, what
Is warfare wherein honour is not!
   Rama laments
   Its dead innocents:
   Herod breathes: “Sly slaughter
Shall rule! Let us, by modes once called accurst,
   Overhead, under water,
      Stab first.”

1915.

A CALL TO NATIONAL SERVICE

Up and be doing, all who have a hand
To lift, a back to bend. It must not be
In times like these that vaguely linger we
To air our vaunts and hopes; and leave our land

Untended as a wild of weeds and sand.
- Say, then, “I come!” and go, O women and men
Of palace, ploughshare, easel, counter, pen;
That scareless, scathless, England still may stand.

Would years but let me stir as once I stirred
At many a dawn to take the forward track,
And with a stride plunged on to enterprize,

I now would speed like yester wind that whirred
Through yielding pines; and serve with never a slack,
So loud for promptness all around outcries!

March 1917.

THE DEAD AND THE LIVING ONE

The dead woman lay in her first night’s grave,
And twilight fell from the clouds’ concave,
And those she had asked to forgive forgave.

The woman passing came to a pause
By the heaped white shapes of wreath and cross,
And looked upon where the other was.

And as she mused there thus spoke she:
“Never your countenance did I see,
But you’ve been a good good friend to me!”

Rose a plaintive voice from the sod below:
“O woman whose accents I do not know,
What is it that makes you approve me so?”

“O dead one, ere my soldier went,
I heard him saying, with warm intent,
To his friend, when won by your blandishment:

“‘I would change for that lass here and now!
And if I return I may break my vow
To my present Love, and contrive somehow

“‘To call my own this new-found pearl,
Whose eyes have the light, whose lips the curl,
I always have looked for in a girl!’

“ — And this is why that by ceasing to be -
Though never your countenance did I see -
You prove you a good good friend to me;

“And I pray each hour for your soul’s repose
In gratitude for your joining those
No lover will clasp when his campaigns close.”

Away she turned, when arose to her eye
A martial phantom of gory dye,
That said, with a thin and far-off sigh:

“O sweetheart, neither shall I clasp you,
For the foe this day has pierced me through,
And sent me to where she is. Adieu! -

“And forget not when the night-wind’s whine
Calls over this turf where her limbs recline,
That it travels on to lament by mine.”

There was a cry by the white-flowered mound,
There was a laugh from underground,
There was a deeper gloom around.

1915.

A NEW YEAR’S EVE IN WAR TIME