Time's Laughingstocks and Other verses Read Online

I did not think

You would test me quite so soon!«

She vanished with a curious smile,

Which told me, plainlier than by word,

That my staunch pledge could scarce beguile

The fear she had averred.

Her doubts then wrought their shape in me,

And when next day I paid

My due caress, we seemed to be

Divided by some shade.

The Conformers

Yes; we'll wed, my little fay,

And you shall write you mine,

And in a villa chastely gray

We'll house, and sleep, and dine.

But those night-screened, divine,

Stolen trysts of heretofore,

We of choice ecstasies and fine

Shall know no more.

The formal faced cohue

Will then no more upbraid

With smiting smiles and whisperings two

Who have thrown less loves in shade.

We shall no more evade

The searching light of the sun,

Our game of passion will be played,

Our dreaming done.

We shall not go in stealth

To rendezvous unknown,

But friends will ask me of your health,

And you about my own.

When we abide alone,

No leapings each to each,

But syllables in frigid tone

Of household speech.

When down to dust we glide

Men will not say askance,

As now: »How all the country side

Rings with their mad romance!«

But as they graveward glance

Remark: »In them we lose

A worthy pair, who helped advance

Sound parish views.«

The Dawn after the Dance

Here is your parents' dwelling with its curtained windows telling

Of no thought of us within it or of our arrival here;

Their slumbers have been normal after one day more of formal

Matrimonial commonplace and household life's mechanic gear.

I would be candid willingly, but dawn draws on so chillingly

As to render further cheerlessness intolerable now,

So I will not stand endeavouring to declare a day for severing,

But will clasp you just as always – just the olden love avow.

Through serene and surly weather we have walked the ways together,

And this long night's dance this year's end eve now finishes the spell;

Yet we dreamt us but beginning a sweet sempiternal spinning

Of a cord we have spun to breaking – too intemperately, too well.

Yes; last night we danced I know, Dear, as we did that year ago, Dear,

When a new strange bond between our days was formed, and felt, and heard;

Would that dancing were the worst thing from the latest to the first thing

That the faded year can charge us with; but what avails a word!

That which makes man's love the lighter and the woman's burn no brighter

Came to pass with us inevitably while slipped the shortening year. ...

And there stands your father's dwelling with its blind bleak windows telling

That the vows of man and maid are frail as filmy gossamere.

Weymouth, 1869

The Sun on the Letter

I drew the letter out, while gleamed

The sloping sun from under a roof

Of cloud whose verge rose visibly.

The burning ball flung rays that seemed

Stretched like a warp without a woof

Across the levels of the lea

To where I stood, and where they beamed

As brightly on the page of proof

That she had shown her false to me

As if it had shown her true – had teemed

With passionate thought for my behoof

Expressed with their own ardency!

The Night of the Dance

The cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn,

And centres its gaze on me;

The stars, like eyes in reverie,

Their westering as for a while forborne,

Quiz downward curiously.

Old Robert draws the backbrand in,

The green logs steam and spit;

The half-awakened sparrows flit

From the riddled thatch; and owls begin

To whoo from the gable-slit.

Yes; far and nigh things seem to know

Sweet scenes are impending here;

That all is prepared; that the hour is near

For welcomes, fellowships, and flow

Of sally, song, and cheer;

That spigots are pulled and viols strung;

That soon will arise the sound

Of measures trod to tunes renowned;

That She will return in Love's low tongue

My vows as we wheel around.

Misconception

I busied myself to find a sure

Snug hermitage

That should preserve my Love secure

From the world's rage;

Where no unseemly saturnals,

Or strident traffic-roars,

Or hum of intervolved cabals

Should echo at her doors.

I laboured that the diurnal spin

Of vanities

Should not contrive to suck her in

By dark degrees,

And cunningly operate to blur

Sweet teachings I had begun;

And then I went full-heart to her

To expound the glad deeds done.

She looked at me, and said thereto

With a pitying smile,

»And this is what has busied you

So long a while?

O poor exhausted one, I see

You have worn you old and thin

For naught! Those moils you fear for me

I find most pleasure in!«

The Voice of the Thorn

I

When the thorn on the down

Quivers naked and cold,

And the mid-aged and old

Pace the path there to town,

In these words dry and drear

It seems to them sighing:

»O winter is trying

To sojourners here!«

II

When it stands fully tressed

On a hot summer day,

And the ewes there astray

Find its shade a sweet rest,

By the breath of the breeze

It inquires of each farer:

»Who would not be sharer

Of shadow with these?«

III

But by day or by night,

And in winter or summer,

Should I be the comer

Along that lone height,

In its voicing to me

Only one speech is spoken:

»Here once was nigh broken

A heart, and by thee.«

From Her in the Country

I thought and thought of thy crass clanging town

To folly, till convinced such dreams were ill,

I held my heart in bond, and tethered down

Fancy to where I was, by force of will.

I said: How beautiful are these flowers, this wood,

One little bud is far more sweet to me

Than all man's urban shows; and then I stood

Urging new zest for bird, and bush, and tree;

And strove to feel my nature brought it forth

Of instinct, or no rural maid was I;

But it was vain; for I could not see worth

Enough around to charm a midge or fly,

And mused again on city din and sin,

Longing to madness I might move therein!

16 W.P.V., 1866

Her Confession

As some bland soul, to whom a debtor says

»I'll now repay the amount I owe to you,«

In inward gladness feigns forgetfulness

That such a payment ever was his due

(His long thought notwithstanding), so did I

At our last meeting waive your proffered kiss

With quick divergent talk of scenery nigh,

By such suspension to enhance my bliss.

And as his looks in consternation fall

When, gathering that the debt is lightly deemed,

The debtor makes as not to pay at all,

So faltered I, when your intention seemed

Converted by my false uneagerness

To putting off for ever the caress.

W.P.V., 1865-67

To an Impersonator of Rosalind

Did he who drew her in the years ago –

Till now conceived creator of her grace –

With telescopic sight high natures know,

Discern remote in Time's untravelled space

Your soft sweet mien, your gestures, as do we,

And with a copyist's hand but set them down,

Glowing yet more to dream our ecstasy

When his Original should be forthshown?

For, kindled by that animated eye,

Whereto all fairnesses about thee brim,

And by thy tender tones, what wight can fly

The wild conviction welling up in him

That he at length beholds woo, parley, plead,

The ›very, very Rosalind‹ indeed!

8 Adelphi Terrace, 21 April 1867

To an Actress

I read your name when you were strange to me,

Where it stood blazoned bold with many more;

I passed it vacantly, and did not see

Any great glory in the shape it wore.

O cruelty, the insight barred me then!

Why did I not possess me with its sound,

And in its cadence catch and catch again

Your nature's essence floating therearound?

Could that man be this I, unknowing you,

When now the knowing you is all of me,

And the old world of then is now a new,

And purpose no more what it used to be –

A thing of formal journeywork, but due

To springs that then were sealed up utterly?

The Minute before Meeting

The grey gaunt days dividing us in twain

Seemed hopeless hills my strength must faint to climb,

But they are gone; and now I would detain

The few clock-beats that part us; rein back Time,

And live in close expectance never closed

In change for far expectance closed at last,

So harshly has expectance been imposed

On my long need while these slow blank months passed.

And knowing that what is now about to be

Will all have been in O, so short a space!

I read beyond it my despondency

When more dividing months shall take its place,

Thereby denying to this hour of grace

A full-up measure of felicity.

He Abjures Love

At last I put off love,

For twice ten years

The daysman of my thought,

And hope, and doing;

Being ashamed thereof,

And faint of fears

And desolations, wrought

In his pursuing,

Since first in youthtime those

Disquietings

That heart-enslavement brings

To hale and hoary,

Became my housefellows,

And, fool and blind,

I turned from kith and kind

To give him glory.

I was as children be

Who have no care;

I did not shrink or sigh,

I did not sicken;

But lo, Love beckoned me,

And I was bare,

And poor, and starved, and dry,

And fever-stricken.

Too many times ablaze

With fatuous fires,

Enkindled by his wiles

To new embraces,

Did I, by wilful ways

And baseless ires,

Return the anxious smiles

Of friendly faces.

No more will now rate I

The common rare,

The midnight drizzle dew,

The gray hour golden,

The wind a yearning cry,

The faulty fair,

Things dreamt, of comelier hue

Than things beholden! ...

– I speak as one who plumbs

Life's dim profound,

One who at length can sound

Clear views and certain.

But – after love what comes?

A scene that lours,

A few sad vacant hours,

And then, the Curtain.

A set of country songs

Let Me Enjoy

(Minor key)

I

Let me enjoy the earth no less

Because the all-enacting Might

That fashioned forth its loveliness

Had other aims than my delight.

II

About my path there flits a Fair,

Who throws me not a word or sign;

I'll charm me with her ignoring air,

And laud the lips not meant for mine.

III

From manuscripts of moving song

Inspired by scenes and dreams unknown

I'll pour out raptures that belong

To others, as they were my own.

IV

And some day hence, toward Paradise

And all its blest – if such should be –

I will lift glad, afar-off eyes,

Though it contain no place for me.

I. The Ballad-Singer

At Casterbridge Fair

Sing, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune;

Make me forget that there was ever a one

I walked with in the meek light of the moon

When the day's work was done.

Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song;

Make me forget that she whom I loved well

Swore she would love me dearly, love me long,

Then – what I cannot tell!

Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book;

Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears;

Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look –

Make me forget her tears.

II. Former Beauties

These market-dames, mid-aged, with lips thin-drawn,

And tissues sere,

Are they the ones we loved in years agone,

And courted here?

Are these the muslined pink young things to whom

We vowed and swore

In nooks on summer Sundays by the Froom,

Or Budmouth shore?

Do they remember those gay tunes we trod

Clasped on the green;

Aye; trod till moonlight set on the beaten sod

A satin sheen?

They must forget, forget! They cannot know

What once they were,

Or memory would transfigure them, and show

Them always fair.

III. After the Club-Dance

Black'on frowns east on Maidon,

And westward to the sea,

But on neither is his frown laden

With scorn, as his frown on me!

At dawn my heart grew heavy,

I could not sip the wine,

I left the jocund bevy

And that young man o' mine.

The roadside elms pass by me, –

Why do I sink with shame

When the birds a-perch there eye me?

They, too, have done the same!

IV. The Market-Girl

Nobody took any notice of her as she stood on the causey kerb,

All eager to sell her honey and apples and bunches of garden herb;

And if she had offered to give her wares and herself with them too that day,

I doubt if a soul would have cared to take a bargain so choice away.

But chancing to trace her sunburnt grace that morning as I passed nigh,

I went and I said »Poor maidy dear! – and will none of the people buy?«

And so it began; and soon we knew what the end of it all must be,

And I found that though no others had bid, a prize had been won by me.

V. The Inquiry

And are ye one of Hermitage –

Of Hermitage, by Ivel Road,

And do ye know, in Hermitage

A thatch-roofed house where sengreens grow?

And does John Waywood live there still –

He of the name that there abode

When father hurdled on the hill

Some fifteen years ago?

Does he now speak o' Patty Beech,

The Patty Beech he used to – see,

Or ask at all if Patty Beech

Is known or heard of out this way?

– Ask ever if she's living yet,

And where her present home may be,

And how she bears life's fag and fret

After so long a day?

In years agone at Hermitage

This faded face was counted fair,

None fairer; and at Hermitage

We swore to wed when he should thrive.

But never a chance had he or I,

And waiting made his wish outwear,

And Time, that dooms man's love to die,

Preserves a maid's alive.

VI. A Wife Waits

Will's at the dance in the Club-room below,

Where the tall liquor-cups foam;

I on the pavement up here by the Bow,

Wait, wait, to steady him home.

Will and his partner are treading a tune,

Loving companions they be;

Willy, before we were married in June,

Said he loved no one but me;

Said he would let his old pleasures all go

Ever to live with his Dear.

Will's at the dance in the Club-room below,

Shivering I wait for him here.

NOTE. – »The Bow« (line 3). The old name for the curved corner by the cross-streets in the middle of Casterbridge.

VII. After the Fair

The singers are gone from the Cornmarket-place

With their broadsheets of rhymes,

The street rings no longer in treble and bass

With their skits on the times,

And the Cross, lately thronged, is a dim naked space

That but echoes the stammering chimes.

From Clock-corner steps, as each quarter ding-dongs,

Away the folk roam

By the ›Hart‹ and Grey's Bridge into byways and ›drongs‹,

Or across the ridged loam;

The younger ones shrilling the lately heard songs,

The old saying, »Would we were home.«

The shy-seeming maiden so mute in the fair

Now rattles and talks,

And that one who looked the most swaggering there

Grows sad as she walks,

And she who seemed eaten by cankering care

In statuesque sturdiness stalks.

And midnight clears High Street of all but the ghosts

Of its buried burghees,

From the latest far back to those old Roman hosts

Whose remains one yet sees,

Who loved, laughed, and fought, hailed their friends, drank their toasts

At their meeting-times here, just as these!

NOTE. – »The chimes« (line 6) will be listened for in vain here at midnight now, having been abolished some years ago.

The Dark-Eyed Gentleman

I

I pitched my day's leazings in Crimmercrock Lane,

To tie up my garter and jog on again,

When a dear dark-eyed gentleman passed there and said,

In a way that made all o' me colour rose-red,

»What do I see –

O pretty knee!«

And he came and he tied up my garter for me.

II

'Twixt sunset and moonrise it was, I can mind:

Ah, 'tis easy to lose what we nevermore find! –

Of the dear stranger's home, of his name, I knew nought,

But I soon knew his nature and all that it brought.

Then bitterly

Sobbed I that he

Should ever have tied up my garter for me!

III

Yet now I've beside me a fine lissom lad,

And my slip's nigh forgot, and my days are not sad;

My own dearest joy is he, comrade, and friend,

He it is who safe-guards me, on him I depend;

No sorrow brings he,

And thankful I be

That his daddy once tied up my garter for me!

NOTE. – »Leazings« (line I), bundle of gleaned corn.

To Carrey Clavel

You turn your back, you turn your back,

And never your face to me,

Alone you take your homeward track,

And scorn my company.

What will you do when Charley's seen

Dewbeating down this way?

– You'll turn your back as now, you mean?

Nay, Carrey Clavel, nay!

You'll see none's looking; put your lip

Up like a tulip, so;

And he will coll you, bend, and sip:

Yes, Carrey, yes; I know!

The Orphaned Old Maid

I wanted to marry, but father said, »No –

'Tis weakness in women to give themselves so;

If you care for your freedom you'll listen to me,

Make a spouse in your pocket, and let the men be.«

I spake on't again and again: father cried,

»Why – if you go husbanding, where shall I bide?

For never a home's for me elsewhere than here!«

And I yielded; for father had ever been dear.

But now father's gone, and I feel growing old,

And I'm lonely and poor in this house on the wold,

And my sweetheart that was found a partner elsewhere,

And nobody flings me a thought or a care.

The Spring Call

Down Wessex way, when spring's a-shine,

The blackbird's ›pret-ty de-urr!‹

In Wessex accents marked as mine

Is heard afar and near.

He flutes it strong, as if in song

No R's of feebler tone

Than his appear in ›pretty dear‹,

Have blackbirds ever known.

Yet they pipe ›prattie deerh!‹ I glean,

Beneath a Scottish sky,

And ›pehty de-aw!‹ amid the treen

Of Middlesex or nigh.

While some folk say – perhaps in play –

Who know the Irish isle,

'Tis ›purrity dare!‹ in treeland there

When songsters would beguile.

Well: I'll say what the listening birds

Say, hearing ›pret-ty de-urr!‹ –

However strangers sound such words,

That's how we sound them here.

Yes, in this clime at pairing time,

As soon as eyes can see her

At dawn of day, the proper way

To call is ›pret-ty de-urr!‹

Julie-Jane

Sing; how 'a would sing!

How 'a would raise the tune

When we rode in the waggon from harvesting

By the light o' the moon!

Dance; how 'a would dance!

If a fiddlestring did but sound

She would hold out her coats, give a slanting glance,

And go round and round.

Laugh; how 'a would laugh!

Her peony lips would part

As if none such a place for a lover to quaff

At the deeps of a heart.

Julie, O girl of joy,

Soon, soon that lover he came.

Ah, yes; and gave thee a baby-boy,

But never his name. ...

– Tolling for her, as you guess;

And the baby too. ... 'Tis well.

You knew her in maidhood likewise? – Yes,

That's her burial bell.

»I suppose,« with a laugh, she said,

»I should blush that I'm not a wife;

But how can it matter, so soon to be dead,

What one does in life!«

When we sat making the mourning

By her death-bed side, said she,

»Dears, how can you keep from your lovers, adorning

In honour of me!«

Bubbling and brightsome eyed!

But now – O never again.

She chose her bearers before she died

From her fancy-men.

NOTE. – It is, or was, a common custom in Wessex, and probably other country places, to prepare the mourning beside the death-bed, the dying person sometimes assisting, who also selects his or her bearers on such occasions.

»Coats« (line 7), old name for petticoats.

News for Her Mother

I

One mile more is

Where your door is,

Mother mine! –

Harvest's coming,

Mills are strumming,

Apples fine,

And the cider made to-year will be as wine.

II

Yet, not viewing

What's a-doing

Here around

Is it thrills me,

And so fills me

That I bound

Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground.

III

Tremble not now

At your lot now,

Silly soul!

Hosts have sped them

Quick to wed them,

Great and small,

Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole.

IV

Yet I wonder,

Will it sunder

Her from me?

Will she guess that

I said »Yes,« – that

His I'd be,

Ere I thought she might not see him as I see!

V

Old brown gable,

Granary, stable,

Here you are!

O my mother,

Can another

Ever bar

Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar?

The Fiddler

The fiddler knows what's brewing

To the lilt of his lyric wiles:

The fiddler knows what rueing

Will come of this night's smiles!

He sees couples join them for dancing,

And afterwards joining for life,

He sees them pay high for their prancing

By a welter of wedded strife.

He twangs: »Music hails from the devil,

Though vaunted to come from heaven,

For it makes people do at a revel

What multiplies sins by seven.

There's many a heart now mangled,

And waiting its time to go,

Whose tendrils were first entangled

By my sweet viol and bow!«

The Husband's View

»Can anything avail

Beldame, for my hid grief? –

Listen: I'll tell the tale,

It may bring faint relief! –

I came where I was not known,

In hope to flee my sin;

And walking forth alone

A young man said, ›Good e'en.‹

In gentle voice and true

He asked to marry me;

›You only – only you

Fulfil my dream!‹ said he.

We married o' Monday morn,

In the month of hay and flowers;

My cares were nigh forsworn,

And perfect love was ours.

But ere the days are long

Untimely fruit will show;

My Love keeps up his song,

Undreaming it is so.

And I awake in the night,

And think of months gone by,

And of that cause of flight

Hidden from my Love's eye.

Discovery borders near,

And then! ... But something stirred? –

My husband – he is here!

Heaven – has he overheard?« –

»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!«

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: heartbroken 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.