Wessex Poems and Other Verses Part 13

The lover Tim Tankens mourned heart-sick and drear To be thus of his darling deprived: He roamed in the dark ath'art field, mound, and mere, And, a'most without knowing it, found himself near The house of the tranter, and now of his Dear, Where the lantern-light showed 'em arrived.

The bride sought her cham'er so calm and so pale That a Northern had thought her resigned; But to eyes that had seen her in tide-times of weal, Like the white cloud o' smoke, the red battle-field's vail, That look spak' of havoc behind.

The bridegroom yet laitered a beaker to drain, Then reeled to the linhay for more, When the candle-snoff kindled some chaff from his grain - Flames spread, and red vlankers, wi' might and wi' main, And round beams, thatch, and chimley-tun roar.

Young Tim away yond, rafted up by the light, Through brimble and underwood tears, Till he comes to the orchet, when crooping thereright In the lewth of a codlin-tree, bivering wi' fright, Wi' on'y her night-rail to screen her from sight, His lonesome young Barbree appears.

Her cwold little figure half-naked he views Played about by the frolicsome breeze, Her light-tripping totties, her ten little tooes, All bare and besprinkled wi' Fall's chilly dews, While her great gallied eyes, through her hair hanging loose, Sheened as stars through a tardle o' trees.

She eyed en; and, as when a weir-hatch is drawn, Her tears, penned by terror afore, With a rus.h.i.+ng of sobs in a shower were strawn, Till her power to pour 'em seemed wasted and gone From the heft o' misfortune she bore.

"O Tim, my OWN Tim I must call 'ee--I will!

All the world ha' turned round on me so!

Can you help her who loved 'ee, though acting so ill?

Can you pity her misery--feel for her still?

When worse than her body so quivering and chill Is her heart in its winter o' woe!

"I think I mid almost ha' borne it," she said, "Had my griefs one by one come to hand; But O, to be slave to thik husbird for bread, And then, upon top o' that, driven to wed, And then, upon top o' that, burnt out o' bed, Is more than my nater can stand!"

Tim's soul like a lion 'ithin en outsprung - (Tim had a great soul when his feelings were wrung)-- "Feel for 'ee, dear Barbree?" he cried; And his warm working-jacket about her he flung, Made a back, horsed her up, till behind him she clung Like a chiel on a gipsy, her figure uphung By the sleeves that around her he tied.

Over piggeries, and mixens, and apples, and hay, They lumpered straight into the night; And finding bylong where a halter-path lay, At dawn reached Tim's house, on'y seen on their way By a naibour or two who were up wi' the day; But they gathered no clue to the sight.

Then tender Tim Tankens he searched here and there For some garment to clothe her fair skin; But though he had breeches and waistcoats to spare, He had nothing quite seemly for Barbree to wear, Who, half shrammed to death, stood and cried on a chair At the caddle she found herself in.

There was one thing to do, and that one thing he did, He lent her some clouts of his own, And she took 'em perforce; and while in 'em she slid, Tim turned to the winder, as modesty bid, Thinking, "O that the picter my duty keeps hid To the sight o' my eyes mid be shown!"

In the tallet he stowed her; there huddied she lay, Shortening sleeves, legs, and tails to her limbs; But most o' the time in a mortal bad way, Well knowing that there'd be the divel to pay If 'twere found that, instead o' the elements' prey, She was living in lodgings at Tim's.

"Where's the tranter?" said men and boys; "where can er be?"

"Where's the tranter?" said Barbree alone.

"Where on e'th is the tranter?" said everybod-y: They sifted the dust of his perished roof-tree, And all they could find was a bone.

Then the uncle cried, "Lord, pray have mercy on me!"

And in terror began to repent.

But before 'twas complete, and till sure she was free, Barbree drew up her loft-ladder, tight turned her key - Tim bringing up breakfast and dinner and tea - Till the news of her hiding got vent.

Then followed the custom-kept rout, shout, and flare Of a skimmington-ride through the naibourhood, ere Folk had proof o' wold Sweatley's decay.

Whereupon decent people all stood in a stare, Saying Tim and his lodger should risk it, and pair: So he took her to church. An' some laughing lads there Cried to Tim, "After Sweatley!" She said, "I declare I stand as a maiden to-day!"

Written 1866; printed 1875.

HEIRESS AND ARCHITECT FOR A. W. B.

She sought the Studios, beckoning to her side An arch-designer, for she planned to build.

He was of wise contrivance, deeply skilled In every intervolve of high and wide - Well fit to be her guide.

"Whatever it be,"

Responded he, With cold, clear voice, and cold, clear view, "In true accord with prudent fas.h.i.+onings For such vicissitudes as living brings, And thwarting not the law of stable things, That will I do."

"Shape me," she said, "high halls with tracery And open ogive-work, that scent and hue Of buds, and travelling bees, may come in through, The note of birds, and singings of the sea, For these are much to me."

"An idle whim!"

Broke forth from him Whom nought could warm to gallantries: "Cede all these buds and birds, the zephyr's call, And scents, and hues, and things that falter all, And choose as best the close and surly wall, For winters freeze."

"Then frame," she cried, "wide fronts of crystal gla.s.s, That I may show my laughter and my light - Light like the sun's by day, the stars' by night - Till rival heart-queens, envying, wail, 'Alas, Her glory!' as they pa.s.s."

"O maid misled!"

He sternly said, Whose facile foresight pierced her dire; "Where shall abide the soul when, sick of glee, It shrinks, and hides, and prays no eye may see?

Those house them best who house for secrecy, For you will tire."

"A little chamber, then, with swan and dove Ranged thickly, and engrailed with rare device Of reds and purples, for a Paradise Wherein my Love may greet me, I my Love, When he shall know thereof?"

"This, too, is ill,"

He answered still, The man who swayed her like a shade.

"An hour will come when sight of such sweet nook Would bring a bitterness too sharp to brook, When brighter eyes have won away his look; For you will fade."

Then said she faintly: "O, contrive some way - Some narrow winding turret, quite mine own, To reach a loft where I may grieve alone!

It is a slight thing; hence do not, I pray, This last dear fancy slay!"

"Such winding ways Fit not your days,"

Said he, the man of measuring eye; "I must even fas.h.i.+on as my rule declares, To wit: Give s.p.a.ce (since life ends unawares) To hale a coffined corpse adown the stairs; For you will die."

1867.

THE TWO MEN

There were two youths of equal age, Wit, station, strength, and parentage; They studied at the selfsame schools, And shaped their thoughts by common rules.

One pondered on the life of man, His hopes, his ending, and began To rate the Market's sordid war As something scarce worth living for.

"I'll brace to higher aims," said he, "I'll further Truth and Purity; Thereby to mend the mortal lot And sweeten sorrow. Thrive I not,

"Winning their hearts, my kind will give Enough that I may lowly live, And house my Love in some dim dell, For pleasing them and theirs so well."

Idly attired, with features wan, In secret swift he laboured on: Such press of power had brought much gold Applied to things of meaner mould.

Sometimes he wished his aims had been To gather gains like other men; Then thanked his G.o.d he'd traced his track Too far for wish to drag him back.

He looked from his loft one day To where his slighted garden lay; Nettles and hemlock hid each lawn, And every flower was starved and gone.