Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (941 page)

IX

So now, the remedy? Yea, this:
   I gently swing the door
Here, of my fane — no soul to wis -
   And cross the patterned floor
      To the rood-screen
      That stands between
   The nave and inner chore.

X

The rich red windows dim the moon,
   But little light need I;
I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn
   From woods of rarest dye;
      Then from below
      My garment, so,
   I draw this cord, and tie

XI

One end thereof around the beam
   Midway ‘twixt Cross and truss:
I noose the nethermost extreme,
   And in ten seconds thus
      I journey hence -
      To that land whence
   No rumour reaches us.

XII

Well: Here at morn they’ll light on one
   Dangling in mockery
Of what he spent his substance on
   Blindly and uselessly! . . .
      ”He might,” they’ll say,
      ”Have built, some way.
   A cheaper gallows-tree!”

THE LOST PYX A MEDIAEVAL LEGEND

Some say the spot is banned; that the pillar Cross-and-Hand
   Attests to a deed of hell;
But of else than of bale is the mystic tale
   That ancient Vale-folk tell.

Ere Cernel’s Abbey ceased hereabout there dwelt a priest,
   (In later life sub-prior
Of the brotherhood there, whose bones are now bare
   In the field that was Cernel choir).

One night in his cell at the foot of yon dell
   The priest heard a frequent cry:
“Go, father, in haste to the cot on the waste,
   And shrive a man waiting to die.”

Said the priest in a shout to the caller without,
   ”The night howls, the tree-trunks bow;
One may barely by day track so rugged a way,
   And can I then do so now?”

No further word from the dark was heard,
   And the priest moved never a limb;
And he slept and dreamed; till a Visage seemed
   To frown from Heaven at him.

In a sweat he arose; and the storm shrieked shrill,
   And smote as in savage joy;
While High-Stoy trees twanged to Bubb-Down Hill,
   And Bubb-Down to High-Stoy.

There seemed not a holy thing in hail,
   Nor shape of light or love,
From the Abbey north of Blackmore Vale
   To the Abbey south thereof.

Yet he plodded thence through the dark immense,
   And with many a stumbling stride
Through copse and briar climbed nigh and nigher
   To the cot and the sick man’s side.

When he would have unslung the Vessels uphung
   To his arm in the steep ascent,
He made loud moan: the Pyx was gone
   Of the Blessed Sacrament.

Then in dolorous dread he beat his head:
   ”No earthly prize or pelf
Is the thing I’ve lost in tempest tossed,
   But the Body of Christ Himself!”

He thought of the Visage his dream revealed,
   And turned towards whence he came,
Hands groping the ground along foot-track and field,
   And head in a heat of shame.

Till here on the hill, betwixt vill and vill,
   He noted a clear straight ray
Stretching down from the sky to a spot hard by,
   Which shone with the light of day.

And gathered around the illumined ground
   Were common beasts and rare,
All kneeling at gaze, and in pause profound
   Attent on an object there.

‘Twas the Pyx, unharmed ‘mid the circling rows
   Of Blackmore’s hairy throng,
Whereof were oxen, sheep, and does,
   And hares from the brakes among;

And badgers grey, and conies keen,
   And squirrels of the tree,
And many a member seldom seen
   Of Nature’s family.

The ireful winds that scoured and swept
   Through coppice, clump, and dell,
Within that holy circle slept
   Calm as in hermit’s cell.

Then the priest bent likewise to the sod
   And thanked the Lord of Love,
And Blessed Mary, Mother of God,
   And all the saints above.

And turning straight with his priceless freight,
   He reached the dying one,
Whose passing sprite had been stayed for the rite
   Without which bliss hath none.

And when by grace the priest won place,
   And served the Abbey well,
He reared this stone to mark where shone
   That midnight miracle.

TESS’S LAMENT

I

I would that folk forgot me quite,
         Forgot me quite!
I would that I could shrink from sight,
   And no more see the sun.
Would it were time to say farewell,
To claim my nook, to need my knell,
Time for them all to stand and tell
   Of my day’s work as done.

II

Ah! dairy where I lived so long,
         I lived so long;
Where I would rise up stanch and strong,
   And lie down hopefully.
‘Twas there within the chimney-seat
He watched me to the clock’s slow beat -
Loved me, and learnt to call me sweet,
   And whispered words to me.

III

And now he’s gone; and now he’s gone; . . .
      And now he’s gone!
The flowers we potted p’rhaps are thrown
   To rot upon the farm.
And where we had our supper-fire
May now grow nettle, dock, and briar,
And all the place be mould and mire
   So cozy once and warm.

IV

And it was I who did it all,
         Who did it all;
‘Twas I who made the blow to fall
   On him who thought no guile.
Well, it is finished — past, and he
Has left me to my misery,
And I must take my Cross on me
   For wronging him awhile.

V

How gay we looked that day we wed,
      That day we wed!
“May joy be with ye!” all o’m said
   A standing by the durn.
I wonder what they say o’s now,
And if they know my lot; and how
She feels who milks my favourite cow,
   And takes my place at churn!

VI

It wears me out to think of it,
      To think of it;
I cannot bear my fate as writ,
   I’d have my life unbe;
Would turn my memory to a blot,
Make every relic of me rot,
My doings be as they were not,
   And what they’ve brought to me!

THE SUPPLANTER A TALE

I

He bends his travel-tarnished feet
   To where she wastes in clay:
From day-dawn until eve he fares
   Along the wintry way;
From day-dawn until eve repairs
   Unto her mound to pray.

II

“Are these the gravestone shapes that meet
   My forward-straining view?
Or forms that cross a window-blind
   In circle, knot, and queue:
Gay forms, that cross and whirl and wind
   To music throbbing through?” -

III

“The Keeper of the Field of Tombs
   Dwells by its gateway-pier;
He celebrates with feast and dance
   His daughter’s twentieth year:
He celebrates with wine of France
   The birthday of his dear.” -

IV

“The gates are shut when evening glooms:
   Lay down your wreath, sad wight;
To-morrow is a time more fit
   For placing flowers aright:
The morning is the time for it;
   Come, wake with us to-night!” -

V

He grounds his wreath, and enters in,
   And sits, and shares their cheer. -
“I fain would foot with you, young man,
   Before all others here;
I fain would foot it for a span
   With such a cavalier!”

VI

She coaxes, clasps, nor fails to win
   His first-unwilling hand:
The merry music strikes its staves,
   The dancers quickly band;
And with the damsel of the graves
   He duly takes his stand.

VII

“You dance divinely, stranger swain,
   Such grace I’ve never known.
O longer stay! Breathe not adieu
   And leave me here alone!
O longer stay: to her be true
   Whose heart is all your own!” -

VIII

“I mark a phantom through the pane,
   That beckons in despair,
Its mouth all drawn with heavy moan -
   Her to whom once I sware!” -
“Nay; ‘tis the lately carven stone
   Of some strange girl laid there!” -

IX

“I see white flowers upon the floor
   Betrodden to a clot;
My wreath were they?” — ”Nay; love me much,
   Swear you’ll forget me not!
‘Twas but a wreath! Full many such
   Are brought here and forgot.”

* * *

X

The watches of the night grow hoar,
   He rises ere the sun;
“Now could I kill thee here!” he says,
   ”For winning me from one
Who ever in her living days
   Was pure as cloistered nun!”

XI

She cowers, and he takes his track
   Afar for many a mile,
For evermore to be apart
   From her who could beguile
His senses by her burning heart,
   And win his love awhile.

XII

A year: and he is travelling back
   To her who wastes in clay;
From day-dawn until eve he fares
   Along the wintry way,
From day-dawn until eve repairs
   Unto her mound to pray.

XIII

And there he sets him to fulfil
   His frustrate first intent:
And lay upon her bed, at last,
   The offering earlier meant:
When, on his stooping figure, ghast
   And haggard eyes are bent.

XIV

“O surely for a little while
   You can be kind to me!
For do you love her, do you hate,
   She knows not — cares not she:
Only the living feel the weight
   Of loveless misery!

XV

“I own my sin; I’ve paid its cost,
   Being outcast, shamed, and bare:
I give you daily my whole heart,
   Your babe my tender care,
I pour you prayers; and aye to part
   Is more than I can bear!”

XVI

He turns — unpitying, passion-tossed;
   ”I know you not!” he cries,
“Nor know your child. I knew this maid,
   But she’s in Paradise!”
And swiftly in the winter shade
   He breaks from her and flies.

SAPPHIC FRAGMENT

“Thou shalt be — Nothing.” — OMAR KHAYYAM.
“Tombless, with no remembrance.” — W. SHAKESPEARE.

Dead shalt thou lie; and nought
   Be told of thee or thought,
For thou hast plucked not of the Muses’ tree:
   And even in Hades’ halls
   Amidst thy fellow-thralls
No friendly shade thy shade shall company!

CATULLUS: XXXI
(After passing Sirmione, April 1887.)

Sirmio, thou dearest dear of strands
That Neptune strokes in lake and sea,
With what high joy from stranger lands
Doth thy old friend set foot on thee!
Yea, barely seems it true to me
That no Bithynia holds me now,
But calmly and assuringly
Around me stretchest homely Thou.

Is there a scene more sweet than when
Our clinging cares are undercast,
And, worn by alien moils and men,
The long untrodden sill repassed,
We press the pined for couch at last,
And find a full repayment there?
Then hail, sweet Sirmio; thou that wast,
And art, mine own unrivalled Fair!

AFTER SCHILLER

Knight, a true sister-love
   This heart retains;
Ask me no other love,
   That way lie pains!

Calm must I view thee come,
   Calm see thee go;
Tale-telling tears of thine
   I must not know!

SONG FROM HEINE

I scanned her picture dreaming,
   Till each dear line and hue
Was imaged, to my seeming,
   As if it lived anew.

Her lips began to borrow
   Their former wondrous smile;
Her fair eyes, faint with sorrow,
   Grew sparkling as erstwhile.

Such tears as often ran not
   Ran then, my love, for thee;
And O, believe I cannot
   That thou are lost to me!

FROM VICTOR HUGO

Child, were I king, I’d yield my royal rule,
   My chariot, sceptre, vassal-service due,
My crown, my porphyry-basined waters cool,
My fleets, whereto the sea is but a pool,
   For a glance from you!

Love, were I God, the earth and its heaving airs,
   Angels, the demons abject under me,
Vast chaos with its teeming womby lairs,
Time, space, all would I give — aye, upper spheres,
   For a kiss from thee!

CARDINAL BEMBO’S EPITAPH ON RAPHAEL

Here’s one in whom Nature feared — faint at such vying -
Eclipse while he lived, and decease at his dying.

I HAVE LIVED WITH SHADES

I

I have lived with shades so long,
And talked to them so oft,
Since forth from cot and croft
I went mankind among,
   That sometimes they
   In their dim style
   Will pause awhile
   To hear my say;

II

And take me by the hand,
And lead me through their rooms
In the To-be, where Dooms
Half-wove and shapeless stand:
   And show from there
   The dwindled dust
   And rot and rust
   Of things that were.

III

“Now turn,” spake they to me
One day: “Look whence we came,
And signify his name
Who gazes thence at thee.” -
  — ”Nor name nor race
   Know I, or can,”
   I said, “Of man
   So commonplace.

IV

“He moves me not at all;
I note no ray or jot
Of rareness in his lot,
Or star exceptional.
   Into the dim
   Dead throngs around
   He’ll sink, nor sound
   Be left of him.”