Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated), page 736
“Yes; I have heard, sweet Nan;
I have known it all the time.
I am not a particular man;
Misfortunes are no crime:
“And what with our serious need
Of sons for soldiering,
That accident, indeed,
To maids, is a useful thing!”
ROSE-ANN
Why didn’t you say you was promised, Rose-Ann?
Why didn’t you name it to me,
Ere ever you tempted me hither, Rose-Ann,
So often, so wearifully?
O why did you let me be near ‘ee, Rose-Ann,
Talking things about wedlock so free,
And never by nod or by whisper, Rose-Ann,
Give a hint that it wasn’t to be?
Down home I was raising a flock of stock ewes,
Cocks and hens, and wee chickens by scores,
And lavendered linen all ready to use,
A-dreaming that they would be yours.
Mother said: “She’s a sport-making maiden, my son”;
And a pretty sharp quarrel had we;
O why do you prove by this wrong you have done
That I saw not what mother could see?
Never once did you say you was promised, Rose-Ann,
Never once did I dream it to be;
And it cuts to the heart to be treated, Rose-Ann,
As you in your scorning treat me!
THE HOMECOMING
Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare,
And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there.
“Now don’t ye rub your eyes so red; we’re home and have no cares;
Here’s a skimmer-cake for supper, peckled onions, and some pears;
I’ve got a little keg o’ summat strong, too, under stairs:
- What, slight your husband’s victuals? Other brides can tackle theirs!”
The wind of winter mooed and mouthed their chimney like a horn,
And round the house and past the house ‘twas leafless and lorn.
“But my dear and tender poppet, then, how came ye to agree
In Ivel church this morning? Sure, there-right you married me!”
- “Hoo-hoo! — I don’t know — I forgot how strange and far ‘twould be,
An’ I wish I was at home again with dear daddee!”
Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare,
And lonesome was the house and dark; and few came there.
“I didn’t think such furniture as this was all you’d own,
And great black beams for ceiling, and a floor o’ wretched stone,
And nasty pewter platters, horrid forks of steel and bone,
And a monstrous crock in chimney. ‘Twas to me quite unbeknown!”
Rattle rattle went the door; down flapped a cloud of smoke,
As shifting north the wicked wind assayed a smarter stroke.
“Now sit ye by the fire, poppet; put yourself at ease:
And keep your little thumb out of your mouth, dear, please!
And I’ll sing to ‘ee a pretty song of lovely flowers and bees,
And happy lovers taking walks within a grove o’ trees.”
Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down, so bleak and bare,
And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there.
“Now, don’t ye gnaw your handkercher; ‘twill hurt your little tongue,
And if you do feel spitish, ‘tis because ye are over young;
But you’ll be getting older, like us all, ere very long,
And you’ll see me as I am — a man who never did ‘ee wrong.”
Straight from Whit’sheet Hill to Benvill Lane the blusters pass,
Hitting hedges, milestones, handposts, trees, and tufts of grass.
“Well, had I only known, my dear, that this was how you’d be,
I’d have married her of riper years that was so fond of me.
But since I can’t, I’ve half a mind to run away to sea,
And leave ‘ee to go barefoot to your d-d daddee!”
Up one wall and down the other — past each window-pane -
Prance the gusts, and then away down Crimmercrock’s long lane.
“I — I — don’t know what to say to’t, since your wife I’ve vowed to be;
And as ‘tis done, I s’pose here I must bide — poor me!
Aye — as you are ki-ki-kind, I’ll try to live along with ‘ee,
Although I’d fain have stayed at home with dear daddee!”
Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down, so bleak and bare,
And lonesome was the house and dark; and few came there.
“That’s right, my Heart! And though on haunted Toller Down we be,
And the wind swears things in chimley, we’ll to supper merrily!
So don’t ye tap your shoe so pettish-like; but smile at me,
And ye’ll soon forget to sock and sigh for dear daddee!”
December 1901.
PIECES OCCASIONAL AND VARIOUS
A CHURCH ROMANCE
(MELLSTOCK circa 1835)
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.”
THE RASH BRIDE AN EXPERIENCE OF THE MELLSTOCK QUIRE
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.
III
“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.
VI
“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
Till up spoke Michael: “Fie, young dame! You’ve broke your promise, sly
young dame,
By forming this new tie, young dame, and jilting John so true,
Who trudged to-night to sing to ‘ee because he thought he’d bring to ‘ee
Good wishes as your coming spouse. May ye such trifling rue!”
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.
XI
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.
XIV
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.
THE DEAD QUIRE
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.
IV
“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.
VIII
“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.
XII
“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.
XVI
“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.
XX
“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 . . .
XXIV
“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.
THE CHRISTENING
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.
