The Complete Poetical Works. Томас Харди

The Complete Poetical Works - Томас Харди


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whose soul my soul suffused,

       Her child ill-used,

       I helpless to interfere!

      One eve as I stood at my spot of thought

       In the white-stoned Garth, brooding thus her wrong,

       Her husband neared; and to shun his view

       By her hallowed mew

       I went from the tombs among

      To the Cirque of the Gladiators which faced—

       That haggard mark of Imperial Rome,

       Whose Pagan echoes mock the chime

       Of our Christian time:

       It was void, and I inward clomb.

      Scarce night the sun’s gold touch displaced

       From the vast Rotund and the neighbouring dead

       When her husband followed; bowed; half-passed,

       With lip upcast;

       Then, halting, sullenly said:

      “It is noised that you visit my first wife’s tomb.

       Now, I gave her an honoured name to bear

       While living, when dead. So I’ve claim to ask

       By what right you task

       My patience by vigiling there?

      “There’s decency even in death, I assume;

       Preserve it, sir, and keep away;

       For the mother of my first-born you

       Show mind undue!

       —Sir, I’ve nothing more to say.”

      A desperate stroke discerned I then—

       God pardon—or pardon not—the lie;

       She had sighed that she wished (lest the child should pine

       Of slights) ’twere mine,

       So I said: “But the father I.

      “That you thought it yours is the way of men;

       But I won her troth long ere your day:

       You learnt how, in dying, she summoned me?

       ’Twas in fealty.

       —Sir, I’ve nothing more to say,

      “Save that, if you’ll hand me my little maid,

       I’ll take her, and rear her, and spare you toil.

       Think it more than a friendly act none can;

       I’m a lonely man,

       While you’ve a large pot to boil.

      “If not, and you’ll put it to ball or blade—

       To-night, to-morrow night, anywhen—

       I’ll meet you here . . . But think of it,

       And in season fit

       Let me hear from you again.”

      —Well, I went away, hoping; but nought I heard

       Of my stroke for the child, till there greeted me

       A little voice that one day came

       To my window-frame

       And babbled innocently:

      “My father who’s not my own, sends word

       I’m to stay here, sir, where I belong!”

       Next a writing came: “Since the child was the fruit

       Of your lawless suit,

       Pray take her, to right a wrong.”

      And I did. And I gave the child my love,

       And the child loved me, and estranged us none.

       But compunctions loomed; for I’d harmed the dead

       By what I’d said

       For the good of the living one.

      —Yet though, God wot, I am sinner enough,

       And unworthy the woman who drew me so,

       Perhaps this wrong for her darling’s good

       She forgives, or would,

       If only she could know!

Sketch of tree-lined path Sketch of a decorative stave of music

      The Dance at the Phœnix

       Table of Contents

      To Jenny came a gentle youth

       From inland leazes lone,

       His love was fresh as apple-blooth

       By Parrett, Yeo, or Tone.

       And duly he entreated her

       To be his tender minister,

       And call him aye her own.

      Fair Jenny’s life had hardly been

       A life of modesty;

       At Casterbridge experience keen

       Of many loves had she

       From scarcely sixteen years above;

       Among them sundry troopers of

       The King’s-Own Cavalry.

      But each with charger, sword, and gun,

       Had bluffed the Biscay wave;

       And Jenny prized her gentle one

       For all the love he gave.

       She vowed to be, if they were wed,

       His honest wife in heart and head

       From bride-ale hour to grave.

      Wedded they were. Her husband’s trust

       In Jenny knew no bound,

       And Jenny kept her pure and just,

       Till even malice found

       No sin or sign of ill to be

       In one who walked so decently

       The duteous helpmate’s round.

      Two sons were born, and bloomed to men,

       And roamed, and were as not:

       Alone was Jenny left again

       As ere her mind had sought

       A solace in domestic joys,

       And ere the vanished pair of boys

       Were sent to sun her cot.

      She numbered near on sixty years,

       And passed as elderly,

       When, in the street, with flush of fears,

       One day discovered she,

       From shine of swords and thump of drum.

       Her early loves from war had come,

       The King’s-Own Cavalry.

      She turned aside, and bowed her head

       Anigh Saint Peter’s door;

       “Alas for chastened thoughts!” she said;

       “I’m faded now, and hoar,

       And yet those notes—they thrill me through,

       And those gay forms move me anew

       As in the years of yore!” . . .

      ’Twas Christmas, and the Phœnix Inn

       Was lit with tapers


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