Томас Харди (Гарди) Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries, with Miscellaneous Pieces
A WEEK
On Monday night I closed my door, And thought you were not as heretofore, And little cared if we met no more.
I seemed on Tuesday night to trace Something beyond mere commonplace In your ideas, and heart, and face.
On Wednesday I did not opine Your life would ever be one with mine, Though if it were we should well combine.
On Thursday noon I liked you well, And fondly felt that we must dwell Not far apart, whatever befell.
On Friday it was with a thrill In gazing towards your distant vill I owned you were my dear one still.
I saw you wholly to my mind On Saturday – even one who shrined All that was best of womankind.
As wing-clipt sea-gull for the sea On Sunday night I longed for thee, Without whom life were waste to me!
HAD YOU WEPT
Had you wept; had you but neared me with a frail uncertain ray, Dewy as the face of the dawn, in your large and luminous eye, Then would have come back all the joys the tidings had slain that day, And a new beginning, a fresh fair heaven, have smoothed the things awry. But you were less feebly human, and no passionate need for clinging Possessed your soul to overthrow reserve when I came near; Ay, though you suffer as much as I from storms the hours are bringing Upon your heart and mine, I never see you shed a tear.
The deep strong woman is weakest, the weak one is the strong; The weapon of all weapons best for winning, you have not used; Have you never been able, or would you not, through the evil times and long? Has not the gift been given you, or such gift have you refused? When I bade me not absolve you on that evening or the morrow, Why did you not make war on me with those who weep like rain? You felt too much, so gained no balm for all your torrid sorrow, And hence our deep division, and our dark undying pain.
BEREFT, SHE THINKS SHE DREAMS
I dream that the dearest I ever knew Has died and been entombed. I am sure it’s a dream that cannot be true, But I am so overgloomed By its persistence, that I would gladly Have quick death take me, Rather than longer think thus sadly; So wake me, wake me!
It has lasted days, but minute and hour I expect to get aroused And find him as usual in the bower Where we so happily housed. Yet stays this nightmare too appalling, And like a web shakes me, And piteously I keep on calling, And no one wakes me!
IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM
“What do you see in that time-touched stone, When nothing is there But ashen blankness, although you give it A rigid stare?
“You look not quite as if you saw, But as if you heard, Parting your lips, and treading softly As mouse or bird.
“It is only the base of a pillar, they’ll tell you, That came to us From a far old hill men used to name Areopagus.”
– “I know no art, and I only view A stone from a wall, But I am thinking that stone has echoed The voice of Paul,
“Paul as he stood and preached beside it Facing the crowd, A small gaunt figure with wasted features, Calling out loud
“Words that in all their intimate accents Pattered upon That marble front, and were far reflected, And then were gone.
“I’m a labouring man, and know but little, Or nothing at all; But I can’t help thinking that stone once echoed The voice of Paul.”
IN THE SERVANTS’ QUARTERS
“Man, you too, aren’t you, one of these rough followers of the criminal? All hanging hereabout to gather how he’s going to bear Examination in the hall.” She flung disdainful glances on The shabby figure standing at the fire with others there, Who warmed them by its flare.
“No indeed, my skipping maiden: I know nothing of the trial here, Or criminal, if so he be. – I chanced to come this way, And the fire shone out into the dawn, and morning airs are cold now; I, too, was drawn in part by charms I see before me play, That I see not every day.”
“Ha, ha!” then laughed the constables who also stood to warm themselves, The while another maiden scrutinized his features hard, As the blaze threw into contrast every line and knot that wrinkled them, Exclaiming, “Why, last night when he was brought in by the guard, You were with him in the yard!”
“Nay, nay, you teasing wench, I say! You know you speak mistakenly. Cannot a tired pedestrian who has footed it afar Here on his way from northern parts, engrossed in humble marketings, Come in and rest awhile, although judicial doings are Afoot by morning star?”
“O, come, come!” laughed the constables. “Why, man, you speak the dialect He uses in his answers; you can hear him up the stairs. So own it. We sha’n’t hurt ye. There he’s speaking now! His syllables Are those you sound yourself when you are talking unawares, As this pretty girl declares.”
“And you shudder when his chain clinks!” she rejoined. “O yes, I noticed it. And you winced, too, when those cuffs they gave him echoed to us here. They’ll soon be coming down, and you may then have to defend yourself Unless you hold your tongue, or go away and keep you clear When he’s led to judgment near!”
“No! I’ll be damned in hell if I know anything about the man! No single thing about him more than everybody knows! Must not I even warm my hands but I am charged with blasphemies?”. – His face convulses as the morning cock that moment crows, And he stops, and turns, and goes.
THE OBLITERATE TOMB
“More than half my life long Did they weigh me falsely, to my bitter wrong, But they all have shrunk away into the silence Like a lost song.
“And the day has dawned and come For forgiveness, when the past may hold it dumb On the once reverberate words of hatred uttered Half in delirium.
“With folded lips and hands They lie and wait what next the Will commands, And doubtless think, if think they can: ‘Let discord Sink with Life’s sands!’
“By these late years their names, Their virtues, their hereditary claims, May be as near defacement at their grave-place As are their fames.”
– Such thoughts bechanced to seize A traveller’s mind – a man of memories — As he set foot within the western city Where had died these
Who in their lifetime deemed Him their chief enemy – one whose brain had schemed To get their dingy greatness deeplier dingied And disesteemed.
So, sojourning in their town, He mused on them and on their once renown, And said, “I’ll seek their resting-place to-morrow Ere I lie down,
“And end, lest I forget, Those ires of many years that I regret, Renew their names, that men may see some liegeness Is left them yet.”
Duly next day he went And sought the church he had known them to frequent, And wandered in the precincts, set on eyeing Where they lay pent,
Till by remembrance led He stood at length beside their slighted bed, Above which, truly, scarce a line or letter Could now be read.
“Thus years obliterate Their graven worth, their chronicle, their date! At once I’ll garnish and revive the record Of their past state,
“That still the sage may say In pensive progress here where they decay, ‘This stone records a luminous line whose talents Told in their day.’”
While speaking thus he turned, For a form shadowed where they lay inurned, And he beheld a stranger in foreign vesture, And tropic-burned.
“Sir, I am right pleased to view That ancestors of mine should interest you, For I have come of purpose here to trace them. They are time-worn, true,
“But that’s a fault, at most, Sculptors can cure. On the Pacific coast I have vowed for long that relics of my forbears I’d trace ere lost,
“And hitherward I come, Before this same old Time shall strike me numb, To carry it out.” – “Strange, this is!” said the other; “What mind shall plumb
“Coincident design! Though these my father’s enemies were and mine, I nourished a like purpose – to restore them Each letter and line.”
“Such magnanimity Is now not needed, sir; for you will see That since I am here, a thing like this is, plainly, Best done by me.”
The other bowed, and left, Crestfallen in sentiment, as one bereft Of some fair object he had been moved to cherish, By hands more deft.
And as he slept that night The phantoms of the ensepulchred stood up-right Before him, trembling that he had set him seeking Their charnel-site.
And, as unknowing his ruth, Asked as with terrors founded not on truth Why he should want them. “Ha,” they hollowly hackered, “You come, forsooth,
“By stealth to obliterate Our graven worth, our chronicle, our date, That our descendant may not gild the record Of our past state,
“And that no sage may say In pensive progress near where we decay: ‘This stone records a luminous line whose talents Told in their day.’”
Upon the morrow he went And to that town and churchyard never bent His ageing footsteps till, some twelvemonths onward, An accident
Once more detained him there; And, stirred by hauntings, he must needs repair To where the tomb was. Lo, it stood still wasting In no man’s care.
“The travelled man you met The last time,” said the sexton, “has not yet Appeared again, though wealth he had in plenty. – Can he forget?
“The architect was hired And came here on smart summons as desired, But never the descendant came to tell him What he required.”
And so the tomb remained Untouched, untended, crumbling, weather-stained, And though the one-time foe was fain to right it He still refrained.
“I’ll set about it when I am sure he’ll come no more. Best wait till then.” But so it was that never the stranger entered That city again.
And the well-meaner died While waiting tremulously unsatisfied That no return of the family’s foreign scion Would still betide.
And many years slid by, And active church-restorers cast their eye Upon the ancient garth and hoary building The tomb stood nigh.
And when they had scraped each wall, Pulled out the stately pews, and smartened all, “It will be well,” declared the spruce church-warden, “To overhaul
“And broaden this path where shown; Nothing prevents it but an old tombstone Pertaining to a family forgotten, Of deeds unknown.
“Their names can scarce be read, Depend on’t, all who care for them are dead.” So went the tomb, whose shards were as path-paving Distributed.
Over it and about Men’s footsteps beat, and wind and water-spout, Until the names, aforetime gnawed by weathers, Were quite worn out.
So that no sage can say In pensive progress near where they decay, “This stone records a luminous line whose talents Told in their day.”
“REGRET NOT ME”
Regret not me; Beneath the sunny tree I lie uncaring, slumbering peacefully.
Swift as the light I flew my faery flight; Ecstatically I moved, and feared no night.
I did not know That heydays fade and go, But deemed that what was would be always so.
I skipped at morn Between the yellowing corn, Thinking it good and glorious to be born.
I ran at eves Among the piled-up sheaves, Dreaming, “I grieve not, therefore nothing grieves.”
Now soon will come The apple, pear, and plum And hinds will sing, and autumn insects hum.
Again you will fare To cider-makings rare, And junketings; but I shall not be there.
Yet gaily sing Until the pewter ring Those songs we sang when we went gipsying.
And lightly dance Some triple-timed romance In coupled figures, and forget mischance;
And mourn not me Beneath the yellowing tree; For I shall mind not, slumbering peacefully.
THE RECALCITRANTS
Let us off and search, and find a place Where yours and mine can be natural lives, Where no one comes who dissects and dives And proclaims that ours is a curious case, That its touch of romance can scarcely grace.
You would think it strange at first, but then Everything has been strange in its time. When some one said on a day of the prime He would bow to no brazen god again He doubtless dazed the mass of men.
None will recognize us as a pair whose claims To righteous judgment we care not making; Who have doubted if breath be worth the taking, And have no respect for the current fames Whence the savour has flown while abide the names.
We have found us already shunned, disdained, And for re-acceptance have not once striven; Whatever offence our course has given The brunt thereof we have long sustained. Well, let us away, scorned unexplained.
STARLINGS ON THE ROOF
“No smoke spreads out of this chimney-pot, The people who lived here have left the spot, And others are coming who knew them not.
“If you listen anon, with an ear intent, The voices, you’ll find, will be different From the well-known ones of those who went.”
“Why did they go? Their tones so bland Were quite familiar to our band; The comers we shall not understand.”
“They look for a new life, rich and strange; They do not know that, let them range Wherever they may, they will get no change.
“They will drag their house-gear ever so far In their search for a home no miseries mar; They will find that as they were they are,
“That every hearth has a ghost, alack, And can be but the scene of a bivouac Till they move perforce – no time to pack!”
THE MOON LOOKS IN
I
I have risen again, And awhile survey By my chilly ray Through your window-pane Your upturned face, As you think, “Ah-she Now dreams of me In her distant place!”
II
I pierce her blind In her far-off home: She fixes a comb, And says in her mind, “I start in an hour; Whom shall I meet? Won’t the men be sweet, And the women sour!”
THE SWEET HUSSY
In his early days he was quite surprised When she told him she was compromised By meetings and lingerings at his whim, And thinking not of herself but him; While she lifted orbs aggrieved and round That scandal should so soon abound, (As she had raised them to nine or ten Of antecedent nice young men) And in remorse he thought with a sigh, How good she is, and how bad am I! — It was years before he understood That she was the wicked one – he the good.
THE TELEGRAM
“O he’s suffering – maybe dying – and I not there to aid, And smooth his bed and whisper to him! Can I nohow go? Only the nurse’s brief twelve words thus hurriedly conveyed, As by stealth, to let me know.
“He was the best and brightest! – candour shone upon his brow, And I shall never meet again a soldier such as he, And I loved him ere I knew it, and perhaps he’s sinking now, Far, far removed from me!”
– The yachts ride mute at anchor and the fulling moon is fair, And the giddy folk are strutting up and down the smooth parade, And in her wild distraction she seems not to be aware That she lives no more a maid,
But has vowed and wived herself to one who blessed the ground she trod To and from his scene of ministry, and thought her history known In its last particular to him – aye, almost as to God, And believed her quite his own.
So great her absentmindedness she droops as in a swoon, And a movement of aversion mars her recent spousal grace, And in silence we two sit here in our waning honeymoon At this idle watering-place.
What now I see before me is a long lane overhung With lovelessness, and stretching from the present to the grave. And I would I were away from this, with friends I knew when young, Ere a woman held me slave.
THE MOTH-SIGNAL (On Egdon Heath)
“What are you still, still thinking,” He asked in vague surmise, “That stare at the wick unblinking With those great lost luminous eyes?”
“O, I see a poor moth burning In the candle-flame,” said she, “Its wings and legs are turning To a cinder rapidly.”
“Moths fly in from the heather,” He said, “now the days decline.” “I know,” said she. “The weather, I hope, will at last be fine.
“I think,” she added lightly, “I’ll look out at the door. The ring the moon wears nightly May be visible now no more.”
She rose, and, little heeding, Her husband then went on With his attentive reading In the annals of ages gone.
Outside the house a figure Came from the tumulus near, And speedily waxed bigger, And clasped and called her Dear.
“I saw the pale-winged token You sent through the crack,” sighed she. “That moth is burnt and broken With which you lured out me.
“And were I as the moth is It might be better far For one whose marriage troth is Shattered as potsherds are!”
Then grinned the Ancient Briton From the tumulus treed with pine: “So, hearts are thwartly smitten In these days as in mine!”
SEEN BY THE WAITS
Through snowy woods and shady We went to play a tune To the lonely manor-lady By the light of the Christmas moon.
We violed till, upward glancing To where a mirror leaned, We saw her airily dancing, Deeming her movements screened;
Dancing alone in the room there, Thin-draped in her robe of night; Her postures, glassed in the gloom there, Were a strange phantasmal sight.
She had learnt (we heard when homing) That her roving spouse was dead; Why she had danced in the gloaming We thought, but never said.
THE TWO SOLDIERS
Just at the corner of the wall We met – yes, he and I — Who had not faced in camp or hall Since we bade home good-bye, And what once happened came back – all — Out of those years gone by.
And that strange woman whom we knew And loved – long dead and gone, Whose poor half-perished residue, Tombless and trod, lay yon! But at this moment to our view Rose like a phantom wan.
And in his fixed face I could see, Lit by a lurid shine, The drama re-enact which she Had dyed incarnadine For us, and more. And doubtless he Beheld it too in mine.
A start, as at one slightly known, And with an indifferent air We passed, without a sign being shown That, as it real were, A memory-acted scene had thrown Its tragic shadow there.