Wessex Poems and Other Verses

Till I replied: “Since it has come to this
I’ll do it!  But alone.  I can be strong.”

Three hours past Curfew, when the Froom’s mild hiss
Reigned 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 bent
My lifted blade upon them to have let
Their two souls loose upon the firmament.

But something held my arm.  “A moment yet
As pray-time ere you wantons die!” I said;
And then they saw me.  Swift her gaze was set

With eye and cry of love illimited
Upon her Heart-king.  Never upon me
Had she thrown look of love so thorough-sped!.

At once she flung her faint form shieldingly
On 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 house

And I may husband her, yet what am I
But licensed tyrant to this bonded pair?
Says Charity, Do as ye would be done by.”.

Hurling my iron to the bushes there
I bade them stay.  And, as if brain and breast
Were passive, they walked with me to the stair.

Inside the house none watched; and on we prest
Before a mirror, in whose gleam I read
Her 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 rare
Within 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 saw
Their 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 wet
Of my mother – her voice and mien
When she used to sing and pirouette,
And touse the tambourine

“To the march that yon street-fiddler plies:
She told me ’twas the same
She’d heard from the trumpets, when the Allies
Her 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.