Wessex Poems and Other Verses Part 4

To-morrow is my working day, Simple shepherds all - To-morrow is a working day for me: For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta'en, And on his soul may G.o.d ha' mer-cy!

Printed in "The Three Strangers," 1883.

THE BURGHERS (17-)

The sun had wheeled from Grey's to Dammer's Crest, And still I mused on that Thing imminent: At length I sought the High-street to the West.

The level flare raked pane and pediment And my wrecked face, and shaped my nearing friend Like one of those the Furnace held unshent.

"I've news concerning her," he said. "Attend.

They fly to-night at the late moon's first gleam: Watch with thy steel: two righteous thrusts will end

Her shameless visions and his pa.s.sioned dream.

I'll watch with thee, to testify thy wrong - To aid, maybe.--Law consecrates the scheme."

I started, and we paced the flags along 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 s.h.i.+eldingly On his, against the vengeance of my vows; The which o'erruling, her shape s.h.i.+elded 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 pa.s.sive, 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 G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+p 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 Wess.e.x lad reared me.

"And as I grew up, again and again She'd tell, after trilling that air, Of her youth, and the battles on Leipzig plain And of all that was suffered there! . . .

"--'Twas a time of alarms. Three Chiefs-at-arms Combined them to crush One, And by numbers' might, for in equal fight He stood the matched of none.

"Carl Schwarzenberg was of the plot, And Blucher, prompt and prow, And Jean the Crown-Prince Bernadotte: Buonaparte was the foe.

"City and plain had felt his reign From the North to the Middle Sea, And he'd now sat down in the n.o.ble town Of the King of Saxony.

"October's deep dew its wet gossamer threw Upon Leipzig's lawns, leaf-strewn, Where lately each fair avenue Wrought shade for summer noon.

"To westward two dull rivers crept Through miles of marsh and slough, Whereover a streak of whiteness swept - The Bridge of Lindenau.

"Hard by, in the City, the One, care-tossed, Gloomed over his shrunken power; And without the walls the hemming host Waxed denser every hour.

"He had speech that night on the morrow's designs With his chiefs by the bivouac fire, While the belt of flames from the enemy's lines Flared nigher him yet and nigher.

"Three sky-lights then from the girdling trine Told, 'Ready!' As they rose Their flashes seemed his Judgment-Sign For bleeding Europe's woes.

"'Twas seen how the French watch-fires that night Glowed still and steadily; And the Three rejoiced, for they read in the sight That the One disdained to flee . . .

"--Five hundred guns began the affray On next day morn at nine; Such mad and mangling cannon-play Had never torn human line.