She turned in the high pew, until her sight
Swept the west gallery, and caught its row
Of music-men with viol, book, and bow
Against the sinking sad tower-window light.

She turned again; and in her pride’s despite
One strenuous viol’s inspirer seemed to throw
A message from his string to her below,
Which said: “I claim thee as my own forthright!”

Thus their hearts’ bond began, in due time signed.
And long years thence, when Age had scared Romance,
At some old attitude of his or glance
That gallery-scene would break upon her mind,
With him as minstrel, ardent, young, and trim,
Bowing “New Sabbath” or “Mount Ephraim.”

I

We Christmas-carolled down the Vale, and up the Vale, and round the Vale,
We played and sang that night as we were yearly wont to do—
A carol in a minor key, a carol in the major D,
Then at each house: “Good wishes: many Christmas joys to you!”

II

Next, to the widow’s John and I and all the rest drew on.  And I
Discerned that John could hardly hold the tongue of him for joy.
The widow was a sweet young thing whom John was bent on marrying,
And quiring at her casement seemed romantic to the boy.

“She’ll make reply, I trust,” said he, “to our salute?  She must!” said he,
“And then I will accost her gently—much to her surprise!—
For knowing not I am with you here, when I speak up and call her dear
A tenderness will fill her voice, a bashfulness her eyes.

IV

So, by her window-square we stood; ay, with our lanterns there we stood,
And he along with us,—not singing, waiting for a sign;
And when we’d quired her carols three a light was lit and out looked she,
A shawl about her bedgown, and her colour red as wine.

V

And sweetly then she bowed her thanks, and smiled, and spoke aloud her thanks;
When lo, behind her back there, in the room, a man appeared.
I knew him—one from Woolcomb way—Giles Swetman—honest as the day,
But eager, hasty; and I felt that some strange trouble neared.

“How comes he there? . . . Suppose,” said we, “she’s wed of late!  Who knows?” said we.
—“She married yester-morning—only mother yet has known
The secret o’t!” shrilled one small boy.  “But now I’ve told, let’s wish ’em joy!”
A heavy fall aroused us: John had gone down like a stone.

VII

We rushed to him and caught him round, and lifted him, and brought him round,
When, hearing something wrong had happened, oped the window she:
“Has one of you fallen ill?” she asked, “by these night labours overtasked?”
None answered.  That she’d done poor John a cruel turn felt we.

VIII

IX

Her man had said no word at all; but being behind had heard it all,
And now cried: “Neighbours, on my soul I knew not ’twas like this!”
And then to her: “If I had known you’d had in tow not me alone,
No wife should you have been of mine.  It is a dear bought bliss!”

X

She changed death-white, and heaved a cry: we’d never heard so grieved a cry
As came from her at this from him: heart-broken quite seemed she;
And suddenly, as we looked on, she turned, and rushed; and she was gone,
Whither, her husband, following after, knew not; nor knew we.

We searched till dawn about the house; within the house, without the house,
We searched among the laurel boughs that grew beneath the wall,
And then among the crocks and things, and stores for winter junketings,
In linhay, loft, and dairy; but we found her not at all.

XII

Then John rushed in: “O friends,” he said, “hear this, this, this!” and bends his head:
“I’ve—searched round by the—well, and find the cover open wide!
I am fearful that—I can’t say what . . . Bring lanterns, and some cords to knot.”
We did so, and we went and stood the deep dark hole beside.

XIII

And then they, ropes in hand, and I—ay, John, and all the band, and I
Let down a lantern to the depths—some hundred feet and more;
It glimmered like a fog-dimmed star; and there, beside its light, afar,
White drapery floated, and we knew the meaning that it bore.

The rest is naught . . . We buried her o’ Sunday.  Neighbours carried her;
And Swetman—he who’d married her—now miserablest of men,
Walked mourning first; and then walked John; just quivering, but composed anon;
And we the quire formed round the grave, as was the custom then.

XV

Our old bass player, as I recall—his white hair blown—but why recall!—
His viol upstrapped, bent figure—doomed to follow her full soon—
Stood bowing, pale and tremulous; and next to him the rest of us . . .
We sang the Ninetieth Psalm to her—set to Saint Stephen’s tune.

I

Beside the Mead of Memories,
Where Church-way mounts to Moaning Hill,
The sad man sighed his phantasies:
   He seems to sigh them still.

II

“’Twas the Birth-tide Eve, and the hamleteers
Made merry with ancient Mellstock zest,
But the Mellstock quire of former years
   Had entered into rest.

III

“Old Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree,
And Reuben and Michael a pace behind,
And Bowman with his family
   By the wall that the ivies bind.

“The singers had followed one by one,
Treble, and tenor, and thorough-bass;
And the worm that wasteth had begun
   To mine their mouldering place.

V

“For two-score years, ere Christ-day light,
Mellstock had throbbed to strains from these;
But now there echoed on the night
   No Christmas harmonies.

VI

“Three meadows off, at a dormered inn,
The youth had gathered in high carouse,
And, ranged on settles, some therein
   Had drunk them to a drowse.

VII

“Loud, lively, reckless, some had grown,
Each dandling on his jigging knee
Eliza, Dolly, Nance, or Joan—
   Livers in levity.

“The taper flames and hearthfire shine
Grew smoke-hazed to a lurid light,
And songs on subjects not divine
   Were warbled forth that night.

IX

“Yet many were sons and grandsons here
Of those who, on such eves gone by,
At that still hour had throated clear
   Their anthems to the sky.

X

“The clock belled midnight; and ere long
One shouted, ‘Now ’tis Christmas morn;
Here’s to our women old and young,
   And to John Barleycorn!’

XI

“They drink the toast and shout again:
The pewter-ware rings back the boom,
And for a breath-while follows then
   A silence in the room.

“When nigh without, as in old days,
The ancient quire of voice and string
Seemed singing words of prayer and praise
   As they had used to sing:

XIII

“‘While shepherds watch’d their flocks by night,’—
Thus swells the long familiar sound
In many a quaint symphonic flight—
   To, ‘Glory shone around.’

XIV

“The sons defined their fathers’ tones,
The widow his whom she had wed,
And others in the minor moans
   The viols of the dead.

XV

“Something supernal has the sound
As verse by verse the strain proceeds,
And stilly staring on the ground
   Each roysterer holds and heeds.

“Towards its chorded closing bar
Plaintively, thinly, waned the hymn,
Yet lingered, like the notes afar
   Of banded seraphim.

XVII

“With brows abashed, and reverent tread,
The hearkeners sought the tavern door:
But nothing, save wan moonlight, spread
   The empty highway o’er.

XVIII

“While on their hearing fixed and tense
The aerial music seemed to sink,
As it were gently moving thence
   Along the river brink.

XIX

“Then did the Quick pursue the Dead
By crystal Froom that crinkles there;
And still the viewless quire ahead
   Voiced the old holy air.

“By Bank-walk wicket, brightly bleached,
It passed, and ’twixt the hedges twain,
Dogged by the living; till it reached
   The bottom of Church Lane.

XXI

“There, at the turning, it was heard
Drawing to where the churchyard lay:
But when they followed thitherward
   It smalled, and died away.

XXII

“Each headstone of the quire, each mound,
Confronted them beneath the moon;
But no more floated therearound
   That ancient Birth-night tune.

XXIII

“There Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree,
There Reuben and Michael, a pace behind,
And Bowman with his family
   By the wall that the ivies bind . . .

“As from a dream each sobered son
Awoke, and musing reached his door:
’Twas said that of them all, not one
   Sat in a tavern more.”

XXV

—The sad man ceased; and ceased to heed
His listener, and crossed the leaze
From Moaning Hill towards the mead—
   The Mead of Memories.

1897.

Whose child is this they bring
   Into the aisle?—
At so superb a thing
The congregation smile
And turn their heads awhile.

Its eyes are blue and bright,
   Its cheeks like rose;
Its simple robes unite
Whitest of calicoes
With lawn, and satin bows.

A pride in the human race
   At this paragon
Of mortals, lights each face
While the old rite goes on;
But ah, they are shocked anon.

What girl is she who peeps
   From the gallery stair,
Smiles palely, redly weeps,
With feverish furtive air
As though not fitly there?

“Where is the baby’s father?”—
   “In the woods afar.
He says there is none he’d rather
Meet under moon or star
Than me, of all that are.

“To clasp me in lovelike weather,
   Wish fixing when,
He says: To be together
At will, just now and then,
Makes him the blest of men;

“But chained and doomed for life
   To slovening
As vulgar man and wife,
He says, is another thing:
Yea: sweet Love’s sepulchring!”

1904.

“It shall be dark unto you, that ye shall not divine.”

Micah iii. 6.

I asked the Lord: “Sire, is this true
Which hosts of theologians hold,
That when we creatures censure you
For shaping griefs and ails untold
(Deeming them punishments undue)
You rage, as Moses wrote of old?

When we exclaim: ‘Beneficent
He is not, for he orders pain,
Or, if so, not omnipotent:
To a mere child the thing is plain!’
Those who profess to represent
You, cry out: ‘Impious and profane!’”

He: “Save me from my friends, who deem
That I care what my creatures say!
Mouth as you list: sneer, rail, blaspheme,
O manikin, the livelong day,
Not one grief-groan or pleasure-gleam
Will you increase or take away.

Not far from Mellstock—so tradition saith—
Where barrows, bulging as they bosoms were
Of Multimammia stretched supinely there,
Catch night and noon the tempest’s wanton breath,

A battle, desperate doubtless unto death,
Was one time fought.  The outlook, lone and bare,
The towering hawk and passing raven share,
And all the upland round is called “The He’th.”

Here once a woman, in our modern age,
Fought singlehandedly to shield a child—
One not her own—from a man’s senseless rage.
And to my mind no patriots’ bones there piled
So consecrate the silence as her deed
Of stoic and devoted self-unheed.

   “War ends, and he’s returning
      Early; yea,
   The evening next to-morrow’s!”—
      —This I say
To her, whom I suspiciously survey,

   Holding my husband’s letter
      To her view.—
   She glanced at it but lightly,
      And I knew
That one from him that day had reached her too.

   There was no time for scruple;
      Secretly
   I filched her missive, conned it,
      Learnt that he
Would lodge with her ere he came home to me.

   So purposed, so effected;
      At the inn
   Assigned, I found her hidden:—
      O that sin
Should bear what she bore when I entered in!

   Her heavy lids grew laden
      With despairs,
   Her lips made soundless movements
      Unawares,
While I peered at the chamber hired as theirs.

   And as beside its doorway,
      Deadly hued,
   One inside, one withoutside
      We two stood,
He came—my husband—as she knew he would.

   No pleasurable triumph
      Was that sight!
   The ghastly disappointment
      Broke them quite.
What love was theirs, to move them with such might!

   Then, as it were, within me
      Something snapped,
   As if my soul had largened:
      Conscience-capped,
I saw myself the snarer—them the trapped.

   “My hate dies, and I promise,
      Grace-beguiled,”
   I said, “to care for you, be
      Reconciled;
And cherish, and take interest in the child.”

   Without more words I pressed him
      Through the door
   Within which she stood, powerless
      To say more,
And closed it on them, and downstairward bore.

   “He joins his wife—my sister,”
      I, below,
   Remarked in going—lightly—
      Even as though
All had come right, and we had arranged it so . . .

The Roman Road runs straight and bare
As the pale parting-line in hair
Across the heath.  And thoughtful men
Contrast its days of Now and Then,
And delve, and measure, and compare;

Visioning on the vacant air
Helmed legionaries, who proudly rear
The Eagle, as they pace again
   The Roman Road.

But no tall brass-helmed legionnaire
Haunts it for me.  Uprises there
A mother’s form upon my ken,
Guiding my infant steps, as when
We walked that ancient thoroughfare,
   The Roman Road.

Gilbert had sailed to India’s shore,
   And I was all alone:
My lord came in at my open door
   And said, “O fairest one!”

He leant upon the slant bureau,
   And sighed, “I am sick for thee!”
“My lord,” said I, “pray speak not so,
   Since wedded wife I be.”

Leaning upon the slant bureau,
   Bitter his next words came:
“So much I know; and likewise know
   My love burns on the same!

“But since you thrust my love away,
   And since it knows no cure,
I must live out as best I may
   The ache that I endure.”

My lord grew ill with love for me;
   Gilbert was far from port;
And—so it was—that time did see
   Me housed at Manor Court.

About the bowers of Manor Court
   The primrose pushed its head
When, on a day at last, report
   Arrived of him I had wed.

“Gilbert, my lord, is homeward bound,
   His sloop is drawing near,
What shall I do when I am found
   Not in his house but here?”

“O I will heal the injuries
   I’ve done to him and thee.
I’ll give him means to live at ease
   Afar from Shastonb’ry.”

When Gilbert came we both took thought:
   “Since comfort and good cheer,”
Said he, “So readily are bought,
   He’s welcome to thee, Dear.”

And then I coaxed him to install
   My other kith and kin,
With aim to benefit them all
   Before his love ran thin.

And next I craved to be possessed
   Of plate and jewels rare.
He groaned: “You give me, Love, no rest,
   Take all the law will spare!”

And so in course of years my wealth
   Became a goodly hoard,
My steward brethren, too, by stealth
   Had each a fortune stored.

Thereafter in the gloom he’d walk,
   And by and by began
To say aloud in absent talk,
   “I am a ruined man!—

“I hardly could have thought,” he said,
   “When first I looked on thee,
That one so soft, so rosy red,
   Could thus have beggared me!”

Next month upon a Sunday morn
   A gunshot sounded nigh:
By his own hand my lordly born
   Had doomed himself to die.

“Live, my dear lord, and much of thine
   Shall be restored to thee!”
He smiled, and said ’twixt word and sign,
   “Alas—that cannot be!”

And while I searched his cabinet
   For letters, keys, or will,
’Twas touching that his gaze was set
   With love upon me still.

And when I burnt each document
   Before his dying eyes,
’Twas sweet that he did not resent
   My fear of compromise.

The steeple-cock gleamed golden when
   I watched his spirit go:
And I became repentant then
   That I had wrecked him so.

And having worn a mournful gown,
   I joined, in decent while,
My husband at a dashing town
   To live in dashing style.

Yet though I now enjoy my fling,
   And dine and dance and drive,
I’d give my prettiest emerald ring
   To see my lord alive.

And when the meet on hunting-days
   Is near his churchyard home,
I leave my bantering beaux to place
   A flower upon his tomb;

And sometimes say: “Perhaps too late
   The saints in Heaven deplore
That tender time when, moved by Fate,
   He darked my cottage door.”

While I watch the Christmas blaze
Paint the room with ruddy rays,
Something makes my vision glide
To the frosty scene outside.

There, to reach a rotting berry,
Toils a thrush,—constrained to very
Dregs of food by sharp distress,
Taking such with thankfulness.

Why, O starving bird, when I
One day’s joy would justify,
And put misery out of view,
Do you make me notice you!

I do not see the hills around,
Nor mark the tints the copses wear;
I do not note the grassy ground
And constellated daisies there.

I hear not the contralto note
Of cuckoos hid on either hand,
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk’s throat
When eve’s brown awning hoods the land.

Some say each songster, tree, and mead—
All eloquent of love divine—
Receives their constant careful heed:
Such keen appraisement is not mine.

The tones around me that I hear,
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,
Are those far back ones missed when near,
And now perceived too late by me!

When the wasting embers redden the chimney-breast,
And Life’s bare pathway looms like a desert track to me,
And from hall and parlour the living have gone to their rest,
My perished people who housed them here come back to me.

They come and seat them around in their mouldy places,
Now and then bending towards me a glance of wistfulness,
A strange upbraiding smile upon all their faces,
And in the bearing of each a passive tristfulness.

“—O let be the Wherefore!  We fevered our years not thus:
Take of Life what it grants, without question!” they answer me seemingly.
“Enjoy, suffer, wait: spread the table here freely like us,
And, satisfied, placid, unfretting, watch Time away beamingly!”

There’s no more to be done, or feared, or hoped;
None now need watch, speak low, and list, and tire;
No irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped
   Does she require.

Blankly we gaze.  We are free to go or stay;
Our morrow’s anxious plans have missed their aim;
Whether we leave to-night or wait till day
   Counts as the same.

The lettered vessels of medicaments
Seem asking wherefore we have set them here;
Each palliative its silly face presents
   As useless gear.

We see by littles now the deft achievement
Whereby she has escaped the Wrongers all,
In view of which our momentary bereavement
   Outshapes but small.

1904.

   In the middle of the night
Mother’s spirit came and spoke to me,
   Looking weariful and white—
As ’twere untimely news she broke to me.

   “O my daughter, joyed are you
To own the weetless child you mother there;
   ‘Men may search the wide world through,’
You think, ‘nor find so fair another there!’

   “Dear, this midnight time unwombs
Thousands just as rare and beautiful;
   Thousands whom High Heaven foredooms
To be as bright, as good, as dutiful.

   “Source of ecstatic hopes and fears
And innocent maternal vanity,
   Your fond exploit but shapes for tears
New thoroughfares in sad humanity.

I

We work here together
   In blast and breeze;
He fills the earth in,
   I hold the trees.

He does not notice
   That what I do
Keeps me from moving
   And chills me through.

He has seen one fairer
   I feel by his eye,
Which skims me as though
   I were not by.

And since she passed here
   He scarce has known
But that the woodland
   Holds him alone.

I have helped him so many,
   So many days,
But never win any
   Small word of praise!

Shall I not sigh to him
   That I work on
Glad to be nigh to him
   Though hope is gone?

Nay, though he never
   Knew love like mine,
I’ll bear it ever
   And make no sign!

II

It will sigh in the morning,
   Will sigh at noon,
At the winter’s warning,
   In wafts of June;
Grieving that never
   Kind Fate decreed
It should for ever
   Remain a seed,
And shun the welter
   Of things without,
Unneeding shelter
   From storm and drought.

Thus, all unknowing
   For whom or what
We set it growing
   In this bleak spot,
It still will grieve here
   Throughout its time,
Unable to leave here,
   Or change its clime;
Or tell the story
   Of us to-day
When, halt and hoary,
   We pass away.

I plodded to Fairmile Hill-top, where
   A maiden one fain would guard
From every hazard and every care
   Advanced on the roadside sward.

I wondered how succeeding suns
   Would shape her wayfarings,
And wished some Power might take such ones
   Under Its warding wings.

The busy breeze came up the hill
   And smartened her cheek to red,
And frizzled her hair to a haze.  With a will
   “Good-morning, my Dear!” I said.

She glanced from me to the far-off gray,
   And, with proud severity,
“Good-morning to you—though I may say
   I am not your Dear,” quoth she:

1901

She told how they used to form for the country dances—
   “The Triumph,” “The New-rigged Ship”—
To the light of the guttering wax in the panelled manses,
   And in cots to the blink of a dip.

She spoke of the wild “poussetting” and “allemanding”
   On carpet, on oak, and on sod;
And the two long rows of ladies and gentlemen standing,
   And the figures the couples trod.

She showed us the spot where the maypole was yearly planted,
   And where the bandsmen stood
While breeched and kerchiefed partners whirled, and panted
   To choose each other for good.

Of how his threats woke warlike preparations
   Along the southern strand,
And how each night brought tremors and trepidations
   Lest morning should see him land.

She said she had often heard the gibbet creaking
   As it swayed in the lightning flash,
Had caught from the neighbouring town a small child’s shrieking
   At the cart-tail under the lash . . .

With cap-framed face and long gaze into the embers—
   We seated around her knees—
She would dwell on such dead themes, not as one who remembers,
   But rather as one who sees.

May 20, 1902.

There was a time in former years—
   While my roof-tree was his—
When I should have been distressed by fears
   At such a night as this!

I should have murmured anxiously,
   “The pricking rain strikes cold;
His road is bare of hedge or tree,
   And he is getting old.”

But now the fitful chimney-roar,
   The drone of Thorncombe trees,
The Froom in flood upon the moor,
   The mud of Mellstock Leaze,

The candle slanting sooty wick’d,
   The thuds upon the thatch,
The eaves-drops on the window flicked,
   The clacking garden-hatch,

And what they mean to wayfarers,
   I scarcely heed or mind;
He has won that storm-tight roof of hers
   Which Earth grants all her kind.

I pace along, the rain-shafts riddling me,
Mile after mile out by the moorland way,
And up the hill, and through the ewe-leaze gray
Into the lane, and round the corner tree;

Where, as my clothing clams me, mire-bestarred,
And the enfeebled light dies out of day,
Leaving the liquid shades to reign, I say,
“This is a hardship to be calendared!”

Yet sires of mine now perished and forgot,
When worse beset, ere roads were shapen here,
And night and storm were foes indeed to fear,
Times numberless have trudged across this spot
In sturdy muteness on their strenuous lot,
And taking all such toils as trifles mere.

   A time there was—as one may guess
And as, indeed, earth’s testimonies tell—
   Before the birth of consciousness,
      When all went well.

   None suffered sickness, love, or loss,
None knew regret, starved hope, or heart-burnings;
   None cared whatever crash or cross
      Brought wrack to things.

   If something ceased, no tongue bewailed,
If something winced and waned, no heart was wrung;
   If brightness dimmed, and dark prevailed,
      No sense was stung.

   But the disease of feeling germed,
And primal rightness took the tinct of wrong;
   Ere nescience shall be reaffirmed
      How long, how long?

“I have finished another year,” said God,
   “In grey, green, white, and brown;
I have strewn the leaf upon the sod,
Sealed up the worm within the clod,
   And let the last sun down.”

“And what’s the good of it?” I said.
   “What reasons made you call
From formless void this earth we tread,
When nine-and-ninety can be read
   Why nought should be at all?

“Yea, Sire; why shaped you us, ‘who in
   This tabernacle groan’—
If ever a joy be found herein,
Such joy no man had wished to win
   If he had never known!”

Then he: “My labours—logicless—
   You may explain; not I:
Sense-sealed I have wrought, without a guess
That I evolved a Consciousness
   To ask for reasons why.

He sank to raptness as of yore,
   And opening New Year’s Day
Wove it by rote as theretofore,
And went on working evermore
   In his unweeting way.

1906.

I saw him steal the light away
   That haunted in her eye:
It went so gently none could say
More than that it was there one day
   And missing by-and-by.

I watched her longer, and he stole
   Her lily tincts and rose;
All her young sprightliness of soul
Next fell beneath his cold control,
   And disappeared like those.

I asked: “Why do you serve her so?
   Do you, for some glad day,
Hoard these her sweets—?”  He said, “O no,
They charm not me; I bid Time throw
   Them carelessly away.”

Said I: “We call that cruelty—
   We, your poor mortal kind.”
He mused.  “The thought is new to me.
Forsooth, though I men’s master be,
   Theirs is the teaching mind!”

O sweet sincerity!—
Where modern methods be
What scope for thine and thee?

Life may be sad past saying,
Its greens for ever graying,
Its faiths to dust decaying;

And youth may have foreknown it,
And riper seasons shown it,
But custom cries: “Disown it:

“Say ye rejoice, though grieving,
Believe, while unbelieving,
Behold, without perceiving!”

—Yet, would men look at true things,
And unilluded view things,
And count to bear undue things,

The real might mend the seeming,
Facts better their foredeeming,
And Life its disesteeming.

February 1899.

(For other forms of this legend—first met with in the second century—see Origen contra Celsum; the Talmud; Sepher Toldoth Jeschu; quoted fragments of lost Apocryphal gospels; Strauss, Haeckel; etc.)

   This was a tragedy of his Eastern days,
Personal in touch—though I have sometimes thought
That touch a possible delusion—wrought
Of half-conviction carried to a craze—
His mind at last being stressed by ails and age:—
Yet his good faith thereon I well could wage.

   “This noon is not unlike,” he again began,
“The noon these pricking memories print on me—
Yea, that day, when the sun grew copper-red,
And I served in Judæa . . . ’Twas a date
Of rest for arms.  The Pax Romana ruled,
To the chagrin of frontier legionaries!
Palestine was annexed—though sullen yet,—
I, being in age some two-score years and ten
And having the garrison in Jerusalem
Part in my hands as acting officer
Under the Governor.  A tedious time
I found it, of routine, amid a folk
Restless, contentless, and irascible.—
Quelling some riot, sentrying court and hall,
Sending men forth on public meeting-days
To maintain order, were my duties there.

   “Among the tag-rag rabble of either sex
That hung around the wretches as they writhed,
Till thrust back by our spears, one held my eye—
A weeping woman, whose strained countenance,
Sharpened against a looming livid cloud,
Was mocked by the crude rays of afternoon—
The mother of one of those who suffered there
I had heard her called when spoken roughly to
By my ranged men for pressing forward so.
It stole upon me hers was a face I knew;
Yet when, or how, I had known it, for a while
Eluded me.  And then at once it came.

   “Encumbering me were sundry sick, so fallen
Through drinking from a swamp beside the way;
But we pressed on, till, bearing over a ridge,
We dipt into a world of pleasantness—
A vale, the fairest I had gazed upon—
Which lapped a village on its furthest slopes
Called Nazareth, brimmed round by uplands nigh.
In the midst thereof a fountain bubbled, where,
Lime-dry from marching, our glad halt we made
To rest our sick ones, and refresh us all.

   “Well, I was young, and hot, and readily stirred
To quick desire.  ’Twas tedious timing out
The convalescence of the soldiery;
And I beguiled the long and empty days
By blissful yieldance to her sweet allure,
Who had no arts, but what out-arted all,
The tremulous tender charm of trustfulness.
We met, and met, and under the winking stars
That passed which peoples earth—true union, yea,
To the pure eye of her simplicity.

   “Though I betrayed some qualms, she marked me not;
And I was scarce of mood to comrade her
And close the silence of so wide a time
To claim a malefactor as my son—
(For so I guessed him).  And inquiry made
Brought rumour how at Nazareth long before
An old man wedded her for pity’s sake
On finding she had grown pregnant, none knew how,
Cared for her child, and loved her till he died.

   “The impalements done, and done the soldiers’ game
Of raffling for the clothes, a legionary,
Longinus, pierced the young man with his lance
At signs from me, moved by his agonies
Through naysaying the drug they had offered him.
It brought the end.  And when he had breathed his last
The woman went.  I saw her never again . . .
Now glares my moody meaning on you, friend?—
That when you talk of offspring as sheer joy
So trustingly, you blink contingencies.
Fors Fortuna!  He who goes fathering
Gives frightful hostages to hazardry!”

I rose at night, and visited
   The Cave of the Unborn:
And crowding shapes surrounded me
For tidings of the life to be,
Who long had prayed the silent Head
   To haste its advent morn.

Their eyes were lit with artless trust,
   Hope thrilled their every tone;
“A scene the loveliest, is it not?
A pure delight, a beauty-spot
Where all is gentle, true and just,
   And darkness is unknown?”

My heart was anguished for their sake,
   I could not frame a word;
And they descried my sunken face,
And seemed to read therein, and trace
The news that pity would not break,
   Nor truth leave unaverred.

1905.

   “Had he and I but met
   By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
   Right many a nipperkin!

   “But ranged as infantry,
   And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
   And killed him in his place.

   “I shot him dead because—
   Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
   That’s clear enough; although

   “He thought he’d ’list, perhaps,
   Off-hand like—just as I—
Was out of work—had sold his traps—
   No other reason why.

   “Yes; quaint and curious war is!
   You shoot a fellow down
You’d treat if met where any bar is,
   Or help to half-a-crown.”

1902.

Where Blackmoor was, the road that led
   To Bath, she could not show,
Nor point the sky that overspread
   Towns ten miles off or so.

But that Calcutta stood this way,
   Cape Horn there figured fell,
That here was Boston, here Bombay,
   She could declare full well.

Less known to her the track athwart
   Froom Mead or Yell’ham Wood
Than how to make some Austral port
   In seas of surly mood.

She saw the glint of Guinea’s shore
   Behind the plum-tree nigh,
Heard old unruly Biscay’s roar
   In the weir’s purl hard by . . .

“He’s now just there—by Gib’s high rock—
   And when he gets, you see,
To Portsmouth here, behind the clock,
   Then he’ll come back to me!”

(“It being deposed that vij women who were mayds before he knew them have been brought upon the towne [rates?] by the fornicacions of one Ralph Blossom, Mr Major inquired why he should not contribute xiv pence weekly toward their mayntenance.  But it being shewn that the sayd R. B. was dying of a purple feaver, no order was made.”—Budmouth Borough Minutes: 16–.)

When I am in hell or some such place,
A-groaning over my sorry case,
What will those seven women say to me
Who, when I coaxed them, answered “Aye” to me?

“I did not understand your sign!”
Will be the words of Caroline;
While Jane will cry, “If I’d had proof of you,
I should have learnt to hold aloof of you!”

“I won’t reproach: it was to be!”
Will dryly murmur Cicely;
And Rosa: “I feel no hostility,
For I must own I lent facility.”

Says Patience: “Why are we apart?
Small harm did you, my poor Sweet Heart!
A manchild born, now tall and beautiful,
Was worth the ache of days undutiful.”

And Anne cries: “O the time was fair,
So wherefore should you burn down there?
There is a deed under the sun, my Love,
And that was ours.  What’s done is done, my Love.
These trumpets here in Heaven are dumb to me
With you away.  Dear, come, O come to me!”

I

   “We moved with pensive paces,
      I and he,
   And bent our faded faces
      Wistfully,
For something troubled him, and troubled me.

   “The lanthorn feebly lightened
      Our grey hall,
   Where ancient brands had brightened
      Hearth and wall,
And shapes long vanished whither vanish all.

   “‘O why, Love, nightly, daily,’
      I had said,
   ‘Dost sigh, and smile so palely,
      As if shed
Were all Life’s blossoms, all its dear things dead?’

   “He held me, I remember,
      Just as when
   Our life was June—(September
      It was then);
And we walked on, until he spoke again.

   “‘Susie, an Irish mummer,
      Loud-acclaimed
   Through the gay London summer,
      Was I; named
A master in my art, who would be famed.

   “‘But lo, there beamed before me
      Lady Su;
   God’s altar-vow she swore me
      When none knew,
And for her sake I bade the sock adieu.

   “‘My Lord your father’s pardon
      Thus I won:
   He let his heart unharden
      Towards his son,
And honourably condoned what we had done;

   “‘Just so.—And here he housed us,
      In this nook,
   Where Love like balm has drowsed us:
      Robin, rook,
Our chief familiars, next to string and book.

   “‘Our days here, peace-enshrouded,
      Followed strange
   The old stage-joyance, crowded,
      Rich in range;
But never did my soul desire a change,

   “‘Till now, when far uncertain
      Lips of yore
   Call, call me to the curtain,
      There once more,
But once, to tread the boards I trod before.

   “‘A night—the last and single
      Ere I die—
   To face the lights, to mingle
      As did I
Once in the game, and rivet every eye!’

   “Such was his wish.  He feared it,
      Feared it though
   Rare memories endeared it.
      I, also,
Feared it still more; its outcome who could know?

   “‘Alas, my Love,’ said I then,
      ‘Since it be
   A wish so mastering, why, then,
      E’en go ye!—
Despite your pledge to father and to me . . . ’

   “’Twas fixed; no more was spoken
      Thereupon;
   Our silences were broken
      Only on
The petty items of his needs were gone.

   “Farewell he bade me, pleading
      That it meant
   So little, thus conceding
      To his bent;
And then, as one constrained to go, he went.

   “Thwart thoughts I let deride me,
      As, ’twere vain
   To hope him back beside me
      Ever again:
Could one plunge make a waxing passion wane?

II

   “Yet came it, to my gladness,
      That, as vowed,
   He did return.—But sadness
      Swiftly cowed
The job with which my greeting was endowed.

   “Some woe was there.  Estrangement
      Marked his mind.
   Each welcome-warm arrangement
      I had designed
Touched him no more than deeds of careless kind.

   “‘I—failed!’ escaped him glumly.
      ‘—I went on
   In my old part.  But dumbly—
      Memory gone—
Advancing, I sank sick; my vision drawn

   “Hours passed; till I implored him,
      As he knew
   How faith and frankness toward him
      Ruled me through,
To say what ill I had done, and could undo.

   “‘Faith—frankness.  Ah!  Heaven save such!’
      Murmured he,
   ‘They are wedded wealth!  I gave such
      Liberally,
But you, Dear, not.  For you suspected me.’

   “I was about beseeching
      In hurt haste
   More meaning, when he, reaching
      To my waist,
Led me to pace the hall as once we paced.

   “‘I never meant to draw you
      To own all,’
   Declared he.  ‘But—I saw you—
      By the wall,
Half-hid.  And that was why I failed withal!’

   “That I had never been there,
      But had gone
   To my locked room—unseen there,
      Curtains drawn,
Long days abiding—told I, wonder-wan.

   “‘Nay, ’twas your form and vesture,
      Cloak and gown,
   Your hooded features—gesture
      Half in frown,
That faced me, pale,’ he urged, ‘that night in town.