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Книга довольно хорошо написана в виде рассказов старого человека молодому парню, основанных на событиях его реальной жизни, охватывающей период с нача...
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Time's Laughingstocks, and Other Verses
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“To-morrow I will walk your way,”
He hinted low, alas for me. —
Fieldwards I gazed throughout next day;
Now fields I never more would see!
The sunset-shine, as curfew strook,
As curfew strook beyond the lea,
Lit his white smock and gleaming crook,
While slowly he drew near to me.
He pulled from underneath his smock
The herb I sought, my curse to be —
“At times I use it in my flock,”
He said, and hope waxed strong in me.
“’Tis meant to balk ill-motherings” —
(Ill-motherings! Why should they be?) —
“If not, would God have sent such things?”
So spoke the shepherd unto me.
That night I watched the poppling brew,
With bended back and hand on knee:
I stirred it till the dawnlight grew,
And the wind whiffled wailfully.
“This scandal shall be slain,” said I,
“That lours upon her innocency:
I’ll give all whispering tongues the lie;” —
But worse than whispers was to be.
“Here’s physic for untimely fruit,”
I said to her, alas for me,
Early that morn in fond salute;
And in my grave I now would be.
– Next Sunday came, with sweet church chimes
In Pydel Vale, alas for me:
I went into her room betimes;
No more may such a Sunday be!
“Mother, instead of rescue nigh,”
She faintly breathed, alas for me,
“I feel as I were like to die,
And underground soon, soon should be.”
From church that noon the people walked
In twos and threes, alas for me,
Showed their new raiment – smiled and talked,
Though sackcloth-clad I longed to be.
Came to my door her lover’s friends,
And cheerly cried, alas for me,
“Right glad are we he makes amends,
For never a sweeter bride can be.”
My mouth dried, as ’twere scorched within,
Dried at their words, alas for me:
More and more neighbours crowded in,
(O why should mothers ever be!)
“Ha-ha! Such well-kept news!” laughed they,
Yes – so they laughed, alas for me.
“Whose banns were called in church to-day?” —
Christ, how I wished my soul could flee!
“Where is she? O the stealthy miss,”
Still bantered they, alas for me,
“To keep a wedding close as this.”
Ay, Fortune worked thus wantonly!
“But you are pale – you did not know?”
They archly asked, alas for me,
I stammered, “Yes – some days-ago,”
While coffined clay I wished to be.
“’Twas done to please her, we surmise?”
(They spoke quite lightly in their glee)
“Done by him as a fond surprise?”
I thought their words would madden me.
Her lover entered. “Where’s my bird? —
My bird – my flower – my picotee?
First time of asking, soon the third!”
Ah, in my grave I well may be.
To me he whispered: “Since your call – ”
So spoke he then, alas for me —
“I’ve felt for her, and righted all.”
– I think of it to agony.
“She’s faint to-day – tired – nothing more – ”
Thus did I lie, alas for me.
I called her at her chamber door
As one who scarce had strength to be.
No voice replied. I went within —
O women! scourged the worst are we.
I shrieked. The others hastened in
And saw the stroke there dealt on me.
He hinted low, alas for me. —
Fieldwards I gazed throughout next day;
Now fields I never more would see!
The sunset-shine, as curfew strook,
As curfew strook beyond the lea,
Lit his white smock and gleaming crook,
While slowly he drew near to me.
He pulled from underneath his smock
The herb I sought, my curse to be —
“At times I use it in my flock,”
He said, and hope waxed strong in me.
“’Tis meant to balk ill-motherings” —
(Ill-motherings! Why should they be?) —
“If not, would God have sent such things?”
So spoke the shepherd unto me.
That night I watched the poppling brew,
With bended back and hand on knee:
I stirred it till the dawnlight grew,
And the wind whiffled wailfully.
“This scandal shall be slain,” said I,
“That lours upon her innocency:
I’ll give all whispering tongues the lie;” —
But worse than whispers was to be.
“Here’s physic for untimely fruit,”
I said to her, alas for me,
Early that morn in fond salute;
And in my grave I now would be.
– Next Sunday came, with sweet church chimes
In Pydel Vale, alas for me:
I went into her room betimes;
No more may such a Sunday be!
“Mother, instead of rescue nigh,”
She faintly breathed, alas for me,
“I feel as I were like to die,
And underground soon, soon should be.”
From church that noon the people walked
In twos and threes, alas for me,
Showed their new raiment – smiled and talked,
Though sackcloth-clad I longed to be.
Came to my door her lover’s friends,
And cheerly cried, alas for me,
“Right glad are we he makes amends,
For never a sweeter bride can be.”
My mouth dried, as ’twere scorched within,
Dried at their words, alas for me:
More and more neighbours crowded in,
(O why should mothers ever be!)
“Ha-ha! Such well-kept news!” laughed they,
Yes – so they laughed, alas for me.
“Whose banns were called in church to-day?” —
Christ, how I wished my soul could flee!
“Where is she? O the stealthy miss,”
Still bantered they, alas for me,
“To keep a wedding close as this.”
Ay, Fortune worked thus wantonly!
“But you are pale – you did not know?”
They archly asked, alas for me,
I stammered, “Yes – some days-ago,”
While coffined clay I wished to be.
“’Twas done to please her, we surmise?”
(They spoke quite lightly in their glee)
“Done by him as a fond surprise?”
I thought their words would madden me.
Her lover entered. “Where’s my bird? —
My bird – my flower – my picotee?
First time of asking, soon the third!”
Ah, in my grave I well may be.
To me he whispered: “Since your call – ”
So spoke he then, alas for me —
“I’ve felt for her, and righted all.”
– I think of it to agony.
“She’s faint to-day – tired – nothing more – ”
Thus did I lie, alas for me.
I called her at her chamber door
As one who scarce had strength to be.
No voice replied. I went within —
O women! scourged the worst are we.
I shrieked. The others hastened in
And saw the stroke there dealt on me.
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Последний отзыв
Книга довольно хорошо написана в виде рассказов старого человека молодому парню, основанных на событиях его реальной жизни, охватывающей период с нача...
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