Wessex Poems and Other Verses Part 12

That from this bright believing band An outcast I should be, That faiths by which my comrades stand Seem fantasies to me, And mirage-mists their Shining Land, Is a drear destiny.

Why thus my soul should be consigned To infelicity, Why always I must feel as blind To sights my brethren see, Why joys they've found I cannot find, Abides a mystery.

Since heart of mine knows not that ease Which they know; since it be That He who breathes All's Well to these Breathes no All's-Well to me, My lack might move their sympathies And Christian charity!

I am like a gazer who should mark An inland company Standing upfingered, with, "Hark! hark!

The glorious distant sea!"

And feel, "Alas, 'tis but yon dark And wind-swept pine to me!"

Yet I would bear my shortcomings With meet tranquillity, But for the charge that blessed things I'd liefer have unbe.

O, doth a bird deprived of wings Go earth-bound wilfully!

Enough. As yet disquiet clings About us. Rest shall we.

AT AN INN

When we as strangers sought Their catering care, Veiled smiles bespoke their thought Of what we were.

They warmed as they opined Us more than friends - That we had all resigned For love's dear ends.

And that swift sympathy With living love Which quicks the world--maybe The spheres above, Made them our ministers, Moved them to say, "Ah, G.o.d, that bliss like theirs Would flush our day!"

And we were left alone As Love's own pair; Yet never the love-light shone Between us there!

But that which chilled the breath Of afternoon, And palsied unto death The pane-fly's tune.

The kiss their zeal foretold, And now deemed come, Came not: within his hold Love lingered-numb.

Why cast he on our port A bloom not ours?

Why shaped us for his sport In after-hours?

As we seemed we were not That day afar, And now we seem not what We aching are.

O severing sea and land, O laws of men, Ere death, once let us stand As we stood then!

THE SLOW NATURE (AN INCIDENT OF FROOM VALLEY)

"Thy husband--poor, poor Heart!--is dead-- Dead, out by Moreford Rise; A bull escaped the barton-shed, Gored him, and there he lies!"

- "Ha, ha--go away! 'Tis a tale, methink, Thou joker Kit!" laughed she.

"I've known thee many a year, Kit Twink, And ever hast thou fooled me!"

- "But, Mistress Damon--I can swear Thy goodman John is dead!

And soon th'lt hear their feet who bear His body to his bed."

So unwontedly sad was the merry man's face - That face which had long deceived - That she gazed and gazed; and then could trace The truth there; and she believed.

She laid a hand on the dresser-ledge, And scanned far Egdon-side; And stood; and you heard the wind-swept sedge And the rippling Froom; till she cried:

"O my chamber's untidied, unmade my bed Though the day has begun to wear!

'What a slovenly hussif!' it will be said, When they all go up my stair!"

She disappeared; and the joker stood Depressed by his neighbour's doom, And amazed that a wife struck to widowhood Thought first of her unkempt room.

But a fortnight thence she could take no food, And she pined in a slow decay; While Kit soon lost his mournful mood And laughed in his ancient way.

1894.

IN A EWELEAZE NEAR WEATHERBURY

The years have gathered grayly Since I danced upon this leaze With one who kindled gaily Love's fitful ecstasies!

But despite the term as teacher, I remain what I was then In each essential feature Of the fantasies of men.

Yet I note the little chisel Of never-napping Time, Defacing ghast and grizzel The blazon of my prime.

When at night he thinks me sleeping, I feel him boring sly Within my bones, and heaping Quaintest pains for by-and-by.

Still, I'd go the world with Beauty, I would laugh with her and sing, I would shun divinest duty To resume her worshipping.

But she'd scorn my brave endeavour, She would not balm the breeze By murmuring "Thine for ever!"

As she did upon this leaze.

1890.

THE FIRE AT TRANTER SWEATLEY'S

They had long met o' Zundays--her true love and she - And at junketings, maypoles, and flings; But she bode wi' a thirtover uncle, and he Swore by noon and by night that her goodman should be Naibour Sweatley--a gaffer oft weak at the knee From taking o' sommat more cheerful than tea - Who tranted, and moved people's things.

She cried, "O pray pity me!" Nought would he hear; Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed.

She chid when her Love was for clinking off wi' her.

The pa'son was told, as the season drew near To throw over pu'pit the names of the peair As fitting one flesh to be made.

The wedding-day dawned and the morning drew on; The couple stood bridegroom and bride; The evening was pa.s.sed, and when midnight had gone The folks horned out, "G.o.d save the King," and anon The two home-along gloomily hied.