Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated)

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Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) Page 772

by Thomas Hardy


  Themselves at all adept,

  Who more than many laughed and loved,

  Who more than many wept,

  Or were as sprites or elves

  Into blind matter hurled,

  Or ever could have been to themselves

  The centre of the world.

  THE WHITEWASHED WALL

  Why does she turn in that shy soft way

  Whenever she stirs the fire,

  And kiss to the chimney-corner wall,

  As if entranced to admire

  Its whitewashed bareness more than the sight

  Of a rose in richest green?

  I have known her long, but this raptured rite

  I never before have seen.

  - Well, once when her son cast his shadow there,

  A friend took a pencil and drew him

  Upon that flame-lit wall. And the lines

  Had a lifelike semblance to him.

  And there long stayed his familiar look;

  But one day, ere she knew,

  The whitener came to cleanse the nook,

  And covered the face from view.

  “Yes,” he said: “My brush goes on with a rush,

  And the draught is buried under;

  When you have to whiten old cots and brighten,

  What else can you do, I wonder?”

  But she knows he’s there. And when she yearns

  For him, deep in the labouring night,

  She sees him as close at hand, and turns

  To him under his sheet of white.

  JUST THE SAME

  I sat. It all was past;

  Hope never would hail again;

  Fair days had ceased at a blast,

  The world was a darkened den.

  The beauty and dream were gone,

  And the halo in which I had hied

  So gaily gallantly on

  Had suffered blot and died!

  I went forth, heedless whither,

  In a cloud too black for name:

  - People frisked hither and thither;

  The world was just the same.

  THE LAST TIME

  The kiss had been given and taken,

  And gathered to many past:

  It never could reawaken;

  But you heard none say: “It’s the last!”

  The clock showed the hour and the minute,

  But you did not turn and look:

  You read no finis in it,

  As at closing of a book.

  But you read it all too rightly

  When, at a time anon,

  A figure lay stretched out whitely,

  And you stood looking thereon.

  THE SEVEN TIMES

  The dark was thick. A boy he seemed at that time

  Who trotted by me with uncertain air;

  “I’ll tell my tale,” he murmured, “for I fancy

  A friend goes there? . . . “

  Then thus he told. “I reached - ‘twas for the first time -

  A dwelling. Life was clogged in me with care;

  I thought not I should meet an eyesome maiden,

  But found one there.

  “I entered on the precincts for the second time -

  ’Twas an adventure fit and fresh and fair -

  I slackened in my footsteps at the porchway,

  And found her there.

  “I rose and travelled thither for the third time,

  The hope-hues growing gayer and yet gayer

  As I hastened round the boscage of the outskirts,

  And found her there.

  “I journeyed to the place again the fourth time

  (The best and rarest visit of the rare,

  As it seemed to me, engrossed about these goings),

  And found her there.

  “When I bent me to my pilgrimage the fifth time

  (Soft-thinking as I journeyed I would dare

  A certain word at token of good auspice),

  I found her there.

  “That landscape did I traverse for the sixth time,

  And dreamed on what we purposed to prepare;

  I reached a tryst before my journey’s end came,

  And found her there.

  “I went again - long after - aye, the seventh time;

  The look of things was sinister and bare

  As I caught no customed signal, heard no voice call,

  Nor found her there.

  “And now I gad the globe - day, night, and any time,

  To light upon her hiding unaware,

  And, maybe, I shall nigh me to some nymph-niche,

  And find her there!”

  “ But how,” said I, “has your so little lifetime

  Given roomage for such loving, loss, despair?

  A boy so young!” Forthwith I turned my lantern

  Upon him there.

  His head was white. His small form, fine aforetime,

  Was shrunken with old age and battering wear,

  An eighty-years long plodder saw I pacing

  Beside me there.

  THE SUN’S LAST LOOK ON THE COUNTRY GIRL

  (M. H.)

  The sun threw down a radiant spot

  On the face in the winding-sheet -

  The face it had lit when a babe’s in its cot;

  And the sun knew not, and the face knew not

  That soon they would no more meet.

  Now that the grave has shut its door,

  And lets not in one ray,

  Do they wonder that they meet no more -

  That face and its beaming visitor -

  That met so many a day?

  December 1915.

  IN A LONDON FLAT

  I

  “You look like a widower,” she said

  Through the folding-doors with a laugh from the bed,

  As he sat by the fire in the outer room,

  Reading late on a night of gloom,

  And a cab-hack’s wheeze, and the clap of its feet

  In its breathless pace on the smooth wet street,

  Were all that came to them now and then . . .

  “You really do!” she quizzed again.

  II

  And the Spirits behind the curtains heard,

  And also laughed, amused at her word,

  And at her light-hearted view of him.

  “Let’s get him made so - just for a whim!”

  Said the Phantom Ironic. “‘Twould serve her right

  If we coaxed the Will to do it some night.”

  “O pray not!” pleaded the younger one,

  The Sprite of the Pities. “She said it in fun!”

  III

  But so it befell, whatever the cause,

  That what she had called him he next year was;

  And on such a night, when she lay elsewhere,

  He, watched by those Phantoms, again sat there,

  And gazed, as if gazing on far faint shores,

  At the empty bed through the folding-doors

  As he remembered her words; and wept

  That she had forgotten them where she slept.

  DRAWING DETAILS IN AN OLD CHURCH

  I hear the bell-rope sawing,

  And the oil-less axle grind,

  As I sit alone here drawing

  What some Gothic brain designed;

  And I catch the toll that follows

  From the lagging bell,

  Ere it spreads to hills and hollows

  Where the parish people dwell.

  I ask not whom it tolls for,

  Incurious who he be;

  So, some morrow, when those knolls for

  One unguessed, sound out for me,

  A stranger, loitering under

  In nave or choir,

  May think, too, “Whose, I wonder?”

  But care not to inquire.

  RAKE-HELL MUSES

  Yes; since she knows not need,

  Nor walks in blindness,

  I may without unkindness

 
A true thing tell:

  Which would be truth, indeed,

  Though worse in speaking,

  Were her poor footsteps seeking

  A pauper’s cell.

  I judge, then, better far

  She now have sorrow,

  Than gladness that to-morrow

  Might know its knell. -

  It may be men there are

  Could make of union

  A lifelong sweet communion -

  A passioned spell;

  But I, to save her name

  And bring salvation

  By altar-affirmation

  And bridal bell;

  I, by whose rash unshame

  These tears come to her:-

  My faith would more undo her

  Than my farewell!

  Chained to me, year by year

  My moody madness

  Would wither her old gladness

  Like famine fell.

  She’ll take the ill that’s near,

  And bear the blaming.

  ‘Twill pass. Full soon her shaming

  They’ll cease to yell.

  Our unborn, first her moan,

  Will grow her guerdon,

  Until from blot and burden

  A joyance swell;

  In that therein she’ll own

  My good part wholly,

  My evil staining solely

  My own vile vell.

  Of the disgrace, may be

  ”He shunned to share it,

  Being false,” they’ll say. I’ll bear it;

  Time will dispel

  The calumny, and prove

  This much about me,

  That she lives best without me

  Who would live well.

  That, this once, not self-love

  But good intention

  Pleads that against convention

  We two rebel.

  For, is one moonlight dance,

  One midnight passion,

  A rock whereon to fashion

  Life’s citadel?

  Prove they their power to prance

  Life’s miles together

  From upper slope to nether

  Who trip an ell?

  - Years hence, or now apace,

  May tongues be calling

  News of my further falling

  Sinward pell-mell:

  Then this great good will grace

  Our lives’ division,

  She’s saved from more misprision

  Though I plumb hell.

  189-

  THE COLOUR

  (The following lines are partly made up, partly remembered from a Wessex folk-rhyme)

  “What shall I bring you?

  Please will white do

  Best for your wearing

  The long day through?”

  “ - White is for weddings,

  Weddings, weddings,

  White is for weddings,

  And that won’t do.”

  “What shall I bring you?

  Please will red do

  Best for your wearing

  The long day through?”

  “ - Red is for soldiers,

  Soldiers, soldiers,

  Red is for soldiers,

  And that won’t do.”

  “What shall I bring you?

  Please will blue do

  Best for your wearing

  The long day through?”

  “ - Blue is for sailors,

  Sailors, sailors,

  Blue is for sailors,

  And that won’t do.

  “What shall I bring you?

  Please will green do

  Best for your wearing

  The long day through?”

  “ - Green is for mayings,

  Mayings, mayings,

  Green is for mayings,

  And that won’t do.”

  “What shall I bring you

  Then? Will black do

  Best for your wearing

  The long day through?”

  “ - Black is for mourning,

  Mourning, mourning,

  Black is for mourning,

  And black will do.”

  MURMURS IN THE GLOOM

  (NOCTURNE)

  I wayfared at the nadir of the sun

  Where populations meet, though seen of none;

  And millions seemed to sigh around

  As though their haunts were nigh around,

  And unknown throngs to cry around

  Of things late done.

  “O Seers, who well might high ensample show”

  (Came throbbing past in plainsong small and slow),

  ”Leaders who lead us aimlessly,

  Teachers who train us shamelessly,

  Why let ye smoulder flamelessly

  The truths ye trow?

  “Ye scribes, that urge the old medicament,

  Whose fusty vials have long dried impotent,

  Why prop ye meretricious things,

  Denounce the sane as vicious things,

  And call outworn factitious things

  Expedient?

  “O Dynasties that sway and shake us so,

  Why rank your magnanimities so low

  That grace can smooth no waters yet,

  But breathing threats and slaughters yet

  Ye grieve Earth’s sons and daughters yet

  As long ago?

  “Live there no heedful ones of searching sight,

  Whose accents might be oracles that smite

  To hinder those who frowardly

  Conduct us, and untowardly;

  To lead the nations vawardly

  From gloom to light?”

  September 22, 1899.

  EPITAPH

  I never cared for Life: Life cared for me,

  And hence I owed it some fidelity.

  It now says, “Cease; at length thou hast learnt to grind

  Sufficient toll for an unwilling mind,

  And I dismiss thee - not without regard

  That thou didst ask no ill-advised reward,

  Nor sought in me much more than thou couldst find.”

  AN ANCIENT TO ANCIENTS

  Where once we danced, where once sang,

  Gentlemen,

  The floors are sunken, cobwebs hang,

  And cracks creep; worms have fed upon

  The doors. Yea, sprightlier times were then

  Than now, with harps and tabrets gone,

  Gentlemen!

  Where once we rowed, where once we sailed,

  Gentlemen,

  And damsels took the tiller, veiled

  Against too strong a stare (God wot

  Their fancy, then or anywhen!)

  Upon that shore we are clean forgot,

  Gentlemen!

  We have lost somewhat, afar and near,

  Gentlemen,

  The thinning of our ranks each year

  Affords a hint we are nigh undone,

  That we shall not be ever again

  The marked of many, loved of one,

  Gentlemen.

  In dance the polka hit our wish,

  Gentlemen,

  The paced quadrille, the spry schottische,

  “Sir Roger.” - And in opera spheres

  The “Girl” (the famed “Bohemian”),

  And “Trovatore,” held the ears,

  Gentlemen.

  This season’s paintings do not please,

  Gentlemen,

  Like Etty, Mulready, Maclise;

  Throbbing romance has waned and wanned;

  No wizard wields the witching pen

  Of Bulwer, Scott, Dumas, and Sand,

  Gentlemen.

  The bower we shrined to Tennyson,

  Gentlemen,

  Is roof-wrecked; damps there drip upon

  Sagged seats, the creeper-nails are rust,

  The spider is sole denizen;

  Even she who read those rhymes is dust,

  Gentlemen!

  We who met sunrise
sanguine-souled,

  Gentlemen,

  Are wearing weary. We are old;

  These younger press; we feel our rout

  Is imminent to Aïdes’ den, -

  That evening’s shades are stretching out,

  Gentlemen!

  And yet, though ours be failing frames,

  Gentlemen,

  So were some others’ history names,

  Who trode their track light-limbed and fast

  As these youth, and not alien

  From enterprise, to their long last,

  Gentlemen.

  Sophocles, Plato, Socrates,

  Gentlemen,

  Pythagoras, Thucydides,

  Herodotus, and Homer, - yea,

  Clement, Augustin, Origen,

  Burnt brightlier towards their setting-day,

  Gentlemen.

  And ye, red-lipped and smooth-browed; list,

  Gentlemen;

  Much is there waits you we have missed;

  Much lore we leave you worth the knowing,

  Much, much has lain outside our ken:

  Nay, rush not: time serves: we are going,

  Gentlemen.

  AFTER READING PSALMS

  XXXIX., XL., ETC.

  Simple was I and was young;

  Kept no gallant tryst, I;

  Even from good words held my tongue,

  Quoniam Tu fecisti!

  Through my youth I stirred me not,

  High adventure missed I,

  Left the shining shrines unsought;

  Yet - me deduxisti!

  At my start by Helicon

  Love-lore little wist I,

  Worldly less; but footed on;

  Why? Me suscepisti!

  When I failed at fervid rhymes,

  ”Shall,” I said, “persist I?”

  “Dies” (I would add at times)

 

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