Wessex Poems and Other Verses
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PREFACE TO WESSEX POEMS
Of the miscellaneous collection of verse that follows, only four pieces have been published, though many were written long ago, and other partly written. In some few cases the verses were turned into prose and printed as such, it having been unanticipated at that time that they might see the light.
Whenever an ancient and legitimate word of the district, for which there was no equivalent in received English, suggested itself as the most natural, nearest, and often only expression of a thought, it has been made use of, on what seemed good grounds.
The pieces are in a large degree dramatic or personative in conception; and this even where they are not obviously so.
The dates attached to some of the poems do not apply to the rough sketches given in illustration, which have been recently made, and, as may be surmised, are inserted for personal and local reasons rather than for their intrinsic qualities.
T. H.September 1898.
THE TEMPORARY THE ALL
Change and chancefulness in my flowering youthtime,Set me sun by sun near to one unchosen;Wrought us fellow-like, and despite divergence,Friends interlinked us.“Cherish him can I while the true one forthcome —Come the rich fulfiller of my prevision;Life is roomy yet, and the odds unbounded.”So self-communed I.Thwart my wistful way did a damsel saunter,Fair, the while unformed to be all-eclipsing;“Maiden meet,” held I, “till arise my forefeltWonder of women.”Long a visioned hermitage deep desiring,Tenements uncouth I was fain to house in;“Let such lodging be for a breath-while,” thought I,“Soon a more seemly.“Then, high handiwork will I make my life-deed,Truth and Light outshow; but the ripe time pending,Intermissive aim at the thing sufficeth.”Thus I.. But lo, me!Mistress, friend, place, aims to be bettered straightway,Bettered not has Fate or my hand’s achieving;Sole the showance those of my onward earth-track —Never transcended!AMABEL
I marked her ruined hues,Her custom-straitened views,And asked, “Can there indwellMy Amabel?”I looked upon her gown,Once rose, now earthen brown;The change was like the knellOf Amabel.Her step’s mechanic waysHad lost the life of May’s;Her laugh, once sweet in swell,Spoilt Amabel.I mused: “Who sings the strainI sang ere warmth did wane?Who thinks its numbers spellHis Amabel?” —Knowing that, though Love cease,Love’s race shows undecrease;All find in dorp or dellAn Amabel.– I felt that I could creepTo some housetop, and weep,That Time the tyrant fellRuled Amabel!I said (the while I sighedThat love like ours had died),“Fond things I’ll no more tellTo Amabel,“But leave her to her fate,And fling across the gate,‘Till the Last Trump, farewell,O Amabel!’”1865.HAP
If but some vengeful god would call to meFrom up the sky, and laugh: “Thou suffering thing,Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,That thy love’s loss is my hate’s profiting!”Then would I bear, and clench myself, and die,Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than IHad willed and meted me the tears I shed.But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?– Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan.These purblind Doomsters had as readily strownBlisses about my pilgrimage as pain.1866.“IN VISION I ROAMED”
TO —
In vision I roamed the flashing Firmament,So fierce in blazon that the Night waxed wan,As though with an awed sense of such ostent;And as I thought my spirit ranged on and onIn footless traverse through ghast heights of sky,To the last chambers of the monstrous Dome,Where stars the brightest here to darkness die:Then, any spot on our own Earth seemed Home!And the sick grief that you were far awayGrew pleasant thankfulness that you were near?Who might have been, set on some outstep sphere,Less than a Want to me, as day by dayI lived unware, uncaring all that layLocked in that Universe taciturn and drear.1866.AT A BRIDAL
TO —
When you paced forth, to wait maternity,A dream of other offspring held my mind,Compounded of us twain as Love designed;Rare forms, that corporate now will never be!Should I, too, wed as slave to Mode’s decree,And each thus found apart, of false desire,A stolid line, whom no high aims will fireAs had fired ours could ever have mingled we;And, grieved that lives so matched should mis-compose,Each mourn the double waste; and question dareTo the Great Dame whence incarnation flows.Why those high-purposed children never were:What will she answer? That she does not careIf the race all such sovereign types unknows.1866.POSTPONEMENT
Snow-bound in woodland, a mournful word,Dropt now and then from the bill of a bird,Reached me on wind-wafts; and thus I heard,Wearily waiting: —“I planned her a nest in a leafless tree,But the passers eyed and twitted me,And said: ‘How reckless a bird is he,Cheerily mating!’“Fear-filled, I stayed me till summer-tide,In lewth of leaves to throne her bride;But alas! her love for me waned and died,Wearily waiting.“Ah, had I been like some I see,Born to an evergreen nesting-tree,None had eyed and twitted me,Cheerily mating!”1866.A CONFESSION TO A FRIEND IN TROUBLE
Your troubles shrink not, though I feel them lessHere, far away, than when I tarried near;I even smile old smiles – with listlessness —Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere.A thought too strange to house within my brainHaunting its outer precincts I discern:– That I will not show zeal again to learnYour griefs, and sharing them, renew my pain.It goes, like murky bird or buccaneerThat shapes its lawless figure on the main,And each new impulse tends to make outfleeThe unseemly instinct that had lodgment here;Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge beThan that, though banned, such instinct was in me!1866.NEUTRAL TONES
We stood by a pond that winter day,And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,And a few leaves lay on the starving sod,– They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.Your eyes on me were as eyes that roveOver tedious riddles solved years ago;And some words played between us to and fro —On which lost the more by our love.The smile on your mouth was the deadest thingAlive enough to have strength to die;And a grin of bitterness swept therebyLike an ominous bird a-wing.Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,And wrings with wrong, have shaped to meYour face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree,And a pond edged with grayish leaves.1867.SHE
AT HIS FUNERAL
They bear him to his resting-place —In slow procession sweeping by;I follow at a stranger’s space;His kindred they, his sweetheart I.Unchanged my gown of garish dye,Though sable-sad is their attire;But they stand round with griefless eye,Whilst my regret consumes like fire!187–.HER INITIALS
Upon a poet’s page I wroteOf old two letters of her name;Part seemed she of the effulgent thoughtWhence that high singer’s rapture came.– When now I turn the leaf the sameImmortal light illumes the lay,But from the letters of her nameThe radiance has died away!1869.HER DILEMMA
(IN – CHURCH)
The two were silent in a sunless church,Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving-stones,And wasted carvings passed antique research;And nothing broke the clock’s dull monotones.Leaning against a wormy poppy-head,So wan and worn that he could scarcely stand,– For he was soon to die, – he softly said,“Tell me you love me!” – holding hard her hand.She would have given a world to breathe “yes” truly,So much his life seemed handing on her mindAnd hence she lied, her heart persuaded throughly’Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind.But the sad need thereof, his nearing death,So mocked humanity that she shamed to prizeA world conditioned thus, or care for breathWhere Nature such dilemmas could devise.1866.REVULSION
Though I waste watches framing words to fetterSome spirit to mine own in clasp and kiss,Out of the night there looms a sense ’twere betterTo fail obtaining whom one fails to miss.For winning love we win the risk of losing,And losing love is as one’s life were riven;It cuts like contumely and keen ill-usingTo cede what was superfluously given.Let me then feel no more the fateful thrillingThat devastates the love-worn wooer’s frame,The hot ado of fevered hopes, the chillingThat agonizes disappointed aim!So may I live no junctive law fulfilling,And my heart’s table bear no woman’s name.1866.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 claimThe 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 unpaidTo one who could resign her all to you —And thus reflecting, you will never seeThat 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 masqueradeA 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 eyeThat he did not discern and domicileOne his by right ever since that last Good-bye!I have no care for friends, or kin, or primeOf manhood who deal gently with me here;Amid the happy people of my timeWho work their love’s fulfilment, I appearNumb as a vane that cankers on its point,True to the wind that kissed ere canker came;Despised by souls of Now, who would disjointThe 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 HIMIV
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 herUngrasped, though helped by nigh-regarding eyes;Canst thou then hate me as an envierWho see unrecked what I so dearly prize?Believe me, Lost One, Love is lovelierThe more it shapes its moan in selfish-wise.1866.DITTY
(E. L G.)
Beneath a knap where flownNestlings play,Within walls of weathered stone,Far awayFrom the files of formal houses,By the bough the firstling browses,Lives a Sweet: no merchants meet,No man barters, no man sellsWhere she dwells.Upon that fabric fair“Here is she!”Seems written everywhereUnto me.But to friends and nodding neighbours,Fellow-wights in lot and labours,Who descry the times as I,No such lucid legend tellsWhere she dwells.Should I lapse to what I wasEre we met;(Such can not be, but becauseSome forgetLet me feign it) – none would noticeThat where she I know by rote isSpread a strange and withering change,Like a drying of the wellsWhere she dwells.To feel I might have kissed —Loved as true —Otherwhere, nor Mine have missedMy life through.Had I never wandered near her,Is a smart severe – severerIn the thought that she is nought,Even as I, beyond the dellsWhere she dwells.And Devotion droops her glanceTo recallWhat bond-servants of ChanceWe are all.I but found her in that, goingOn my errant path unknowing,I did not out-skirt the spotThat 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.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 hummedAth’art the ditch, the month we bombedThe Town o’ Valencieën. ’Twas in the June o’ Ninety-dree(The Duke o’ Yark our then Commander been)The German Legion, Guards, and weLaid siege to Valencieën. This was the first time in the warThat French and English spilled each other’s gore;– Few dreamt how far would roll the roarBegun at Valencieën! ’Twas said that we’d no business thereA-topperèn the French for disagreën;However, that’s not my affair —We were at Valencieën. Such snocks and slats, since war beganNever knew raw recruit or veteran:Stone-deaf therence went many a manWho served at Valencieën. Into the streets, ath’art the sky,A hundred thousand balls and bombs were fleën;And harmless townsfolk fell to dieEach hour at Valencieën! And, sweatèn wi’ the bombardiers,A shell was slent to shards anighst my ears:– ’Twas nigh the end of hopes and fearsFor me at Valencieën! They bore my wownded frame to camp,And shut my gapèn skull, and washed en cleän,And jined en wi’ a zilver clampThik night at Valencieën. “We’ve fetched en back to quick from dead;But never more on earth while rose is redWill drum rouse Corpel!” Doctor saidO’ me at Valencieën. ’Twer true. No voice o’ friend or foeCan reach me now, or any livèn beën;And little have I power to knowSince then at Valencieën! I never hear the zummer humsO’ bees; and don’ know when the cuckoo comes;But night and day I hear the bombsWe threw at Valencieën. 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 farFrom great at Valencieën. 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’ gladI fout at Valencieën. Well: Heaven wi’ its jasper hallsIs now the on’y Town I care to be in..Good Lord, if Nick should bomb the wallsAs we did Valencieën!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 wifeHave 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 knewWhen 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-lightOf 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 cannoneersHove crashing balls of iron fire;On the shaking gap mount the volunteersIn files, and as they mount expireAmid 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 thunderThat 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 whiteWe 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 headI pursued to the chamber she called her own; —When might is right no qualms deter,And having her helpless and aloneI wreaked my will on her.“She raised her beseeching eyes to me,And I heard the words of prayer she sentIn her own soft language.. SeeminglyI copied those eyes for my punishmentIn begetting the girl you see!“So, to-day I stand with a God-set brandLike 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 WayAs though at home there were spectres rife;I delight me not in my proud career;And ’tis coals of fire that a gracious wifeShould 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!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 pedimentAnd my wrecked face, and shaped my nearing friendLike 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 endHer 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 alongTill I replied: “Since it has come to thisI’ll do it! But alone. I can be strong.”Three hours past Curfew, when the Froom’s mild hissReigned 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 bentMy lifted blade upon them to have letTheir two souls loose upon the firmament.But something held my arm. “A moment yetAs pray-time ere you wantons die!” I said;And then they saw me. Swift her gaze was setWith eye and cry of love illimitedUpon her Heart-king. Never upon meHad she thrown look of love so thorough-sped!.At once she flung her faint form shieldinglyOn his, against the vengeance of my vows;The which o’erruling, her shape shielded he.Blanked by such love, I stood as in a drowse,And the slow moon edged from the upland nigh,My sad thoughts moving thuswise: “I may houseAnd I may husband her, yet what am IBut licensed tyrant to this bonded pair?Says Charity, Do as ye would be done by.”.Hurling my iron to the bushes thereI bade them stay. And, as if brain and breastWere passive, they walked with me to the stair.Inside the house none watched; and on we prestBefore a mirror, in whose gleam I readHer beauty, his, – and mine own mien unblest;Till at her room I turned. “Madam,” I said,“Have you the wherewithal for this? Pray speak.Love fills no cupboard. You’ll need daily bread.”“We’ve nothing, sire,” said she; “and nothing seek.’Twere base in me to rob my lord unware;Our hands will earn a pittance week by week.”And next I saw she’d piled her raiment rareWithin the garde-robes, and her household purse,Her jewels, and least lace of personal wear;And stood in homespun. Now grown wholly hers,I handed her the gold, her jewels all,And him the choicest of her robes diverse.“I’ll take you to the doorway in the wall,And then adieu,” I to them. “Friends, withdraw.”They did so; and she went – beyond recall.And as I paused beneath the arch I sawTheir moonlit figures – slow, as in surprise —Descend the slope, and vanish on the haw.“‘Fool,’ some will say,” I thought. “But who is wise,Save God alone, to weigh my reasons why?”– “Hast thou struck home?” came with the boughs’ night-sighs.It was my friend. “I have struck well. They fly,But carry wounds that none can cicatrize.”– “Not mortal?” said he. “Lingering – worse,” said I.LEIPZIG
(1813)
Scene: The Master-tradesmen’s Parlour at the Old Ship Inn, Casterbridge. Evening“Old Norbert with the flat blue cap —A German said to be —Why let your pipe die on your lap,Your eyes blink absently?” —– “Ah!.. Well, I had thought till my cheek was wetOf my mother – her voice and mienWhen she used to sing and pirouette,And touse the tambourine“To the march that yon street-fiddler plies:She told me ’twas the sameShe’d heard from the trumpets, when the AlliesHer city overcame.“My father was one of the German Hussars,My mother of Leipzig; but he,Long quartered here, fetched her at close of the wars,And a Wessex lad reared me.“And as I grew up, again and againShe’d tell, after trilling that air,Of her youth, and the battles on Leipzig plainAnd of all that was suffered there!.“ – ’Twas a time of alarms. Three Chiefs-at-armsCombined them to crush One,And by numbers’ might, for in equal fightHe stood the matched of none.“Carl Schwarzenberg was of the plot,And Blücher, prompt and prow,And Jean the Crown-Prince Bernadotte:Buonaparte was the foe.“City and plain had felt his reignFrom the North to the Middle Sea,And he’d now sat down in the noble townOf the King of Saxony.“October’s deep dew its wet gossamer threwUpon Leipzig’s lawns, leaf-strewn,Where lately each fair avenueWrought shade for summer noon.“To westward two dull rivers creptThrough miles of marsh and slough,Whereover a streak of whiteness swept —The Bridge of Lindenau.“Hard by, in the City, the One, care-tossed,Gloomed over his shrunken power;And without the walls the hemming hostWaxed denser every hour.“He had speech that night on the morrow’s designsWith his chiefs by the bivouac fire,While the belt of flames from the enemy’s linesFlared nigher him yet and nigher.“Three sky-lights then from the girdling trineTold, ‘Ready!’ As they roseTheir flashes seemed his Judgment-SignFor bleeding Europe’s woes.“’Twas seen how the French watch-fires that nightGlowed still and steadily;And the Three rejoiced, for they read in the sightThat the One disdained to flee.“ – Five hundred guns began the affrayOn next day morn at nine;Such mad and mangling cannon-playHad never torn human line.“Around the town three battles beat,Contracting like a gin;As nearer marched the million feetOf columns closing in.“The first battle nighed on the low Southern side;The second by the Western way;The nearing of the third on the North was heard:– The French held all at bay.“Against the first band did the Emperor stand;Against the second stood Ney;Marmont against the third gave the order-word:– Thus raged it throughout the day.“Fifty thousand sturdy souls on those trampled plains and knolls,Who met the dawn hopefully,And were lotted their shares in a quarrel not theirs,Dropt then in their agony.“‘O,’ the old folks said, ‘ye Preachers stern!O so-called Christian time!When will men’s swords to ploughshares turn?When come the promised prime?’.“ – The clash of horse and man which that day began,Closed not as evening wore;And the morrow’s armies, rear and van,Still mustered more and more.“From the City towers the Confederate PowersWere eyed in glittering linesAnd up from the vast a murmuring passedAs from a wood of pines.“‘’Tis well to cover a feeble skillBy numbers!’ scoffèd He;‘But give me a third of their strength, I’d fillHalf Hell with their soldiery!’“All that day raged the war they waged,And again dumb night held reign,Save that ever upspread from the dark deathbedA miles-wide pant of pain.“Hard had striven brave Ney, the true Bertrand,Victor, and Augereau,Bold Poniatowski, and Lauriston,To stay their overthrow;“But, as in the dream of one sick to deathThere comes a narrowing roomThat pens him, body and limbs and breath,To wait a hideous doom,“So to Napoleon, in the hushThat held the town and towersThrough these dire nights, a creeping crushSeemed inborne with the hours.“One road to the rearward, and but one,Did fitful Chance allow;’Twas where the Pleiss’ and Elster run —The Bridge of Lindenau.“The nineteenth dawned. Down street and PlatzThe wasted French sank back,Stretching long lines across the FlatsAnd on the bridge-way track;“When there surged on the sky an earthen wave,And stones, and men, as thoughSome rebel churchyard crew updraveTheir sepulchres from below.“To Heaven is blown Bridge Lindenau;Wrecked regiments reel therefrom;And rank and file in masses ploughThe sullen Elster-Strom.“A gulf was Lindenau; and deadWere fifties, hundreds, tens;And every current rippled redWith Marshal’s blood and men’s.“The smart Macdonald swam therein,And barely won the verge;Bold Poniatowski plunged him inNever to re-emerge.“Then stayed the strife.The remnants woundTheir Rhineward way pell-mell;And thus did Leipzig City soundAn Empire’s passing bell;“While in cavalcade, with band and blade,Came Marshals, Princes, Kings;And the town was theirs.. Ay, as simple maid,My mother saw these things!“And whenever those notes in the street begin,I recall her, and that far scene,And her acting of how the Allies marched in,And her touse of the tambourine!”