Poems by George Meredith Volume I Part 23

'"But half in his arms, and half at his stirrup, he bore me right forth, And pitched me among my old comrades: before I could tell south from north, He caught my hand up, and kissed it! Don't ever let any man speak A word against Frenchmen, I near him! I can't find his name, tho' I seek.

But French, and a General, surely he was, and, G.o.d bless him! thro'

him I've learnt to love a whole nation."' The ancient man paused, winking dim.

XXIV

A curious look, half woeful, was seen on his face as he turned His eyes upon each of his children, like one who but faintly discerned His old self in an old mirror. Then gathering sense in his fist, He sounded it hard on his knee-cap. 'Your hand, Tom, the French fellow kissed!

He kissed my boy's old pounder! I say he's a gentleman!' Straight The letter he tossed to one daughter; bade her the remainder relate.

XXV

Tom properly stated his praises in facts, but the lady preferred To deck the narration with brackets, and drop her additional word.

What n.o.bler Christian natures these women could boast, who, 'twas known, Once spat at the name of their nephew, and now made his praises their own!

The letter at last was finished, the hearers breathed freely, and sign Was given, 'Tom's health!'--Quoth the farmer: 'Eh, Miss? are you weak in the spine?'

XXVI

For Mary had sunk, and her body was shaking, as if in a fit.

Tom's letter she held, and her thumb-nail the month when the letter was writ Fast-dinted, while she hung sobbing: 'O, see, Sir, the letter is old!

O, do not be too happy!'--'If I understand you, I'm bowled!'

Said Grandfather Bridgeman, 'and down go my wickets!--not happy!

when here, Here's Tom like to marry his General's daughter--or widow--I'll swear!

XXVII

'I wager he knows how to strut, too! It's all on the cards that the Queen Will ask him to Buckingham Palace, to say what he's done and he's seen.

Victoria's fond of her soldiers: and she's got a nose for a fight.

If Tom tells a cleverish story--there is such a thing as a knight!

And don't he look roguish and handsome!--To see a girl snivelling there - By George, Miss, it's clear that you're jealous'--'I love him!' she answered his stare.

XXVIII

'Yes! now!' breathed the voice of a woman.--'Ah! now!' quiver'd low the reply.

'And "now"'s just a bit too late, so it's no use your piping your eye,'

The farmer added bluffly: 'Old Lawyer Charlworth was rich; You followed his instructions in kicking Tom into the ditch.

If you're such a dutiful daughter, that doesn't prove Tom is a fool.

Forgive and forget's my motto! and here's my grog growing cool!'

XXIX

'But, Sir,' Mary faintly repeated: 'for four long weeks I have failed To come and cast on you my burden; such grief for you always prevailed!

My heart has so bled for you!' The old man burst on her speech: 'You've chosen a likely time, Miss! a pretty occasion to preach!'

And was it not outrageous, that now, of all times, one should come With incomprehensible pity! Far better had Mary been dumb.

x.x.x

But when again she stammered in this bewildering way, The farmer no longer could bear it, and begged her to go, or to stay, But not to be whimpering nonsense at such a time. p.r.i.c.ked by a goad, 'Twas you who sent him to glory:- you've come here to reap what you sowed.

Is that it?' he asked; and the silence the elders preserved plainly said, On Mary's heaving bosom this begging-pet.i.tion was read.

x.x.xI

And that it was scarcely a bargain that she who had driven him wild Should share now the fruits of his valour, the women expressed, as they smiled.

The family pride of the Bridgemans was comforted; still, with contempt, They looked on a monied damsel of modesty quite so exempt.

'O give me force to tell them!' cried Mary, and even as she spoke, A shout and a hush of the children: a vision on all of them broke.

x.x.xII

Wheeled, pale, in a chair, and shattered, the wreck of their hero was seen; The ghost of Tom drawn slow o'er the orchard's shadowy green.

Could this be the martial darling they joyed in a moment ago?

'He knows it?' to Mary Tom murmured, and closed his weak lids at her 'No.'

'Beloved!' she said, falling by him, 'I have been a coward: I thought You lay in the foreign country, and some strange good might be wrought.

x.x.xIII

'Each day I have come to tell him, and failed, with my hand on the gate.

I bore the dreadful knowledge, and crushed my heart with its weight.

The letter brought by your comrade--he has but just read it aloud!

It only reached him this morning!' Her head on his shoulder she bowed.

Then Tom with pity's tenderest lordliness patted her arm, And eyed the old white-head fondly, with something of doubt and alarm.

x.x.xIV

O, take to your fancy a sculptor whose fresh marble offspring appears Before him, shiningly perfect, the laurel-crown'd issue of years: Is heaven offended? for lightning behold from its bosom escape, And those are mocking fragments that made the harmonious shape!

He cannot love the ruins, till, feeling that ruins alone Are left, he loves them threefold. So pa.s.sed the old grandfather's moan.

x.x.xV

John's text for a sermon on Slaughter he heard, and he did not protest.

All rigid as April snowdrifts, he stood, hard and feeble; his chest Just showing the swell of the fire as it melted him. Smiting a rib, 'Heigh! what have we been about, Tom! Was this all a terrible fib?'

He cried, and the letter forth-trembled. Tom told what the cannon had done.

Few present but ached to see falling those aged tears on his heart's son!

x.x.xVI

Up lanes of the quiet village, and where the mill-waters rush red Thro' browning summer meadows to catch the sun's crimsoning head, You meet an old man and a maiden who has the soft ways of a wife With one whom they wheel, alternate; whose delicate flush of new life Is prized like the early primrose. Then shake his right hand, in the chair - The old man fails never to tell you: 'You've got the French General's there!'

THE PROMISE IN DISTURBANCE

How low when angels fall their black descent, Our primal thunder tells: known is the pain Of music, that nigh throning wisdom went, And one false note cast wailful to the insane.

Now seems the language heard of Love as rain To make a mire where fruitfulness was meant.

The golden harp gives out a jangled strain, Too like revolt from heaven's Omnipotent.

But listen in the thought; so may there come Conception of a newly-added chord, Commanding s.p.a.ce beyond where ear has home.

In labour of the trouble at its fount, Leads Life to an intelligible Lord The rebel discords up the sacred mount.