»Madam,« I said,

»Have you the wherewithal for this? Pray speak.

Love fills no cupboard. You'll need daily bread.«

 

»We've nothing, sire,« she lipped; »and nothing seek.

'Twere base in me to rob my lord unware;

Our hands will earn a pittance week by week.«

 

And next I saw she had piled her raiment rare

Within the garde-robes, and her household purse,

Her jewels, her least lace of personal wear;

 

And stood in homespun. Now grown wholly hers,

I handed her the gold, her jewels all,

And him the choicest of her robes diverse.

 

»I'll take you to the doorway in the wall,

And then adieu,« I told them. »Friends, withdraw.«

They did so; and she went – beyond recall.

 

And as I paused beneath the arch I saw

Their moonlit figures – slow, as in surprise –

Descend the slope, and vanish on the haw.

 

»›Fool,‹ some will say,« I thought. – »But who is wise,

Save God alone, to weigh my reasons why?«

– »Hast thou struck home?« came with the boughs' night-sighs.

 

It was my friend. »I have struck well. They fly,

But carry wounds that none can cicatrize.«

– »Not mortal?« said he. »Lingering – worse,« said I.

 

Leipzig

(1813)

Scene. – The Master-tradesmen's Parlour at the Old Ship Inn, Casterbridge. Evening.

 

»Old Norbert with the flat blue cap –

A German said to be –

Why let your pipe die on your lap,

Your eyes blink absently?«

 

– »Ah! ... Well, I had thought till my cheek was wet

Of my mother – her voice and mien

When she used to sing and pirouette,

And tap the tambourine

 

To the march that yon street-fiddler plies:

She told me 'twas the same

She'd heard from the trumpets, when the Allies

Burst on her home like flame.

 

My father was one of the German Hussars,

My mother of Leipzig; but he,

Being quartered here, fetched her at close of the wars,

And a Wessex lad reared me.

 

And as I grew up, again and again

She'd tell, after trilling that air,

Of her youth, and the battles on Leipzig plain

And of all that was suffered there! ...

 

– 'Twas a time of alarms. Three Chiefs-at-arms

Combined them to crush One,

And by numbers' might, for in equal fight

He stood the matched of none.

 

Carl Schwarzenberg was of the plot,

And Blücher, prompt and prow,

And Jean the Crown-Prince Bernadotte:

Buonaparte was the foe.

 

City and plain had felt his reign

From the North to the Middle Sea,

And he'd now sat down in the noble town

Of the King of Saxony.

 

October's deep dew its wet gossamer threw

Upon Leipzig's lawns, leaf-strewn,

Where lately each fair avenue

Wrought shade for summer noon.

 

To westward two dull rivers crept

Through miles of marsh and slough,

Whereover a streak of whiteness swept –

The Bridge of Lindenau.

 

Hard by, in the City, the One, care-tossed,

Sat pondering his shrunken power;

And without the walls the hemming host

Waxed denser every hour.

 

He had speech that night on the morrow's designs

With his chiefs by the bivouac fire,

While the belt of flames from the enemy's lines

Flared nigher him yet and nigher.

 

Three rockets then from the girdling trine

Told, ›Ready!‹ As they rose

Their flashes seemed his Judgment-Sign

For bleeding Europe's woes.

 

Twas seen how the French watch-fires that night

Glowed still and steadily;

And the Three rejoiced, for they read in the sight

That the One disdained to flee. ...

 

– Five hundred guns began the affray

On next day morn at nine;

Such mad and mangling cannon-play

Had never torn human line.

 

Around the town three battles beat,

Contracting like a gin;

As nearer marched the million feet

Of columns closing in.

 

The first battle nighed on the low Southern side;

The second by the Western way;

The nearing of the third on the North was heard;

– The French held all at bay.

 

Against the first band did the Emperor stand;

Against the second stood Ney;

Marmont against the third gave the order-word:

– Thus raged it throughout the day.

 

Fifty thousand sturdy souls on those trampled plains and knolls,

Who met the dawn hopefully,

And were lotted their shares in a quarrel not theirs,

Dropt then in their agony.

 

›O,‹ the old folks said, ›ye Preachers stern!

O so-called Christian time!

When will men's swords to ploughshares turn?

When come the promised prime?‹ ...

 

– The clash of horse and man which that day began,

Closed not as evening wore;

And the morrow's armies, rear and van,

Still mustered more and more.

 

From the City towers the Confederate Powers

Were eyed in glittering lines,

And up from the vast a murmuring passed

As from a wood of pines.

 

›'Tis well to cover a feeble skill

By numbers' might!‹ scoffed He;

›But give me a third of their strength, I'd fill

Half Hell with their soldiery!‹

 

All that day raged the war they waged,

And again dumb night held reign,

Save that ever upspread from the dank deathbed

A miles-wide pant of pain.

 

Hard had striven brave Ney, the true Bertrand,

Victor, and Augereau,

Bold Poniatowski, and Lauriston,

To stay their overthrow;

 

But, as in the dream of one sick to death

There comes a narrowing room

That pens him, body and limbs and breath,

To wait a hideous doom,

 

So to Napoleon, in the hush

That held the town and towers

Through these dire nights, a creeping crush

Seemed borne in with the hours.

 

One road to the rearward, and but one,

Did fitful Chance allow;

'Twas where the Pleiss' and Elster run –

The Bridge of Lindenau.

 

The nineteenth dawned. Down street and Platz

The wasted French sank back,

Stretching long lines across the Flats

And on the bridgeway track:

 

When there surged on the sky an earthen wave,

And stones, and men, as though

Some rebel churchyard crew updrave

Their sepulchres from below.

 

To Heaven is blown Bridge Lindenau;

Wrecked regiments reel therefrom;

And rank and file in masses plough

The sullen Elster-Strom.

 

A gulf was Lindenau; and dead

Were fifties, hundreds, tens;

And every current rippled red

With Marshal's blood and men's.

 

The smart Macdonald swam therein,

And barely won the verge;

Bold Poniatowski plunged him in

Never to re-emerge.

 

Then stayed the strife. The remnants wound

Their Rhineward way pell-mell;

And thus did Leipzig City sound

An Empire's passing bell;

 

While in cavalcade, with band and blade,

Came Marshals, Princes, Kings;

And the town was theirs. ... Ay, as simple maid,

My mother saw these things!

 

And whenever those notes in the street begin,

I recall her, and that far scene,

And her acting of how the Allies marched in,

And her tap of the tambourine!«

 

The Peasant's Confession

»Si le maréchal Grouchy avait été rejoint par l'officier que Napoléon lui avait expédié la veille à dix heures du soir, toute question eût disparu. Mais cet officier n'était point parvenu à sa destination, ainsi que le maréchal n'a cessé de l'affirmer toute sa vie, et il faut l'en croire, car autrement il n'aurait eu aucune raison pour hésiter. Cet officier avait-il été pris? avait-il passé à l'ennemi? c'est ce qu'on a toujours ignoré.« –

THIERS, Histoire de l'Empire. »Waterloo«.

 

Good Father! ... It was eve in middle June,

And war was waged anew

By great Napoleon, who for years had strewn

Men's bones all Europe through.

 

Three nights ere this, with columned corps he'd cross'd

The Sambre at Charleroi,

To move on Brussels, where the English host

Dallied in Parc and Bois.

 

The yestertide we'd heard the gloomy gun

Growl through the long-sunned day

From Quatre-Bras and Ligny; till the dun

Twilight suppressed the fray;

 

Albeit therein – as lated tongues bespoke –

Brunswick's high heart was drained,

And Prussia's Line and Landwehr, though unbroke,

Stood cornered and constrained.

 

And at next noon-time Grouchy slowly passed

With thirty thousand men:

We hoped thenceforth no army, small or vast,

Would trouble us again.

 

My hut lay deeply in a vale recessed,

And never a soul seemed nigh

When, reassured at length, we went to rest –

My children, wife, and I.

 

But what was this that broke our humble ease?

What noise, above the rain,

Above the dripping of the poplar trees

That smote along the pane?

 

– A call of mastery, bidding me arise,

Compelled me to the door,

At which a horseman stood in martial guise –

Splashed – sweating from every pore.

 

Had I seen Grouchy? Yes? What track took he?

Could I lead thither on? –

Fulfilment would ensure much gold for me,

Perhaps more gifts anon.

 

»I bear the Emperor's mandate,« then he said,

»Charging the Marshal straight

To strike between the double host ahead

Ere they co-operate,

 

Engaging Blücher till the Emperor put

Lord Wellington to flight,

And next the Prussians. This to set afoot

Is my emprise to-night.«

 

I joined him in the mist; but, pausing, sought

To estimate his say.

Grouchy had made for Wavre; and yet, on thought,

I did not lead that way.

 

I mused: »If Grouchy thus and thus be told,

The clash comes sheer hereon;

My farm is stript. While, as for gifts of gold,

Money the French have none.

 

Grouchy unwarned, moreo'er, the English win,

And mine is left to me –

They buy, not borrow.« – Hence did I begin

To lead him treacherously.

 

And as we edged Joidoigne with cautious view

Dawn pierced the humid air;

And still I easted with him, though I knew

Never marched Grouchy there.

 

Near Ottignies we passed, across the Dyle

(Lim'lette left far aside),

And thence direct toward Pervez and Noville

Through green grain, till he cried:

 

»I doubt thy conduct, man! no track is here –

I doubt thy gagèd word!«

Thereat he scowled on me, and prancing near,

He pricked me with his sword.

 

»Nay, Captain, hold! We skirt, not trace the course

Of Grouchy,« said I then:

»As we go, yonder went he, with his force

Of thirty thousand men.«

 

– At length noon nighed; when west, from Saint-John's-Mound,

A hoarse artillery boomed,

And from Saint-Lambert's upland, chapel-crowned,

The Prussian squadrons loomed.

 

Then leaping to the wet wild path we had kept,

»My mission fails!« he cried;

»Too late for Grouchy now to intercept,

For, peasant, you have lied!«

 

He turned to pistol me. I sprang, and drew

The sabre from his flank,

And 'twixt his nape and shoulder, ere he knew,

I struck, and dead he sank.

 

I hid him deep in nodding rye and oat –

His shroud green stalks and loam;

His requiem the corn-blade's husky note –

And then I hastened home. ...

 

– Two armies writhe in coils of red and blue,

And brass and iron clang

From Goumont, past the front of Waterloo,

To Pap'lotte and Smohain.

 

The Guard Imperial wavered on the height;

The Emperor's face grew glum;

»I sent,« he said, »to Grouchy yesternight,

And yet he does not come!«

 

'Twas then, Good Father, that the French espied,

Streaking the summer land,

The men of Blücher. But the Emperor cried,

»Grouchy is now at hand!«

 

And meanwhile Vand'leur, Vivian, Maitland, Kempt,

Met d'Erlon, Friant, Ney;

But Grouchy – mis-sent, blamed, yet blame-exempt –

Grouchy was far away.

 

By even, slain or struck, Michel the strong,

Bold Travers, Dnop, Delord,

Smart Guyot, Reil-le, l'Heriter, Friant,

Scattered that champaign o'er.

 

Fallen likewise wronged Duhesme, and skilled Lobau

Did that red sunset see;

Colbert, Legros, Blancard! ... And of the foe

Picton and Ponsonby;

 

With Gordon, Canning, Blackman, Ompteda,

L'Estrange, Delancey, Packe,

Grose, D'Oyly, Stables, Morice, Howard, Hay,

Von Schwerin, Watzdorf, Boek,

 

Smith, Phelips, Fuller, Lind, and Battersby,

And hosts of ranksmen round. ...

Memorials linger yet to speak to thee

Of those that bit the ground!

 

The Guards' last column yielded; dykes of dead

Lay between vale and ridge,

As, thinned yet closing, faint yet fierce, they sped

In packs to Genappe Bridge.

 

Safe was my stock; my capple cow unslain;

Intact each cock and hen;

But Grouchy far at Wavre all day had lain,

And thirty thousand men.

 

O Saints, had I but lost my earing corn

And saved the cause once prized!

O Saints, why such false witness had I borne

When late I'd sympathized! ...

 

So now, being old, my children eye askance

My slowly dwindling store,

And crave my mite; till, worn with tarriance,

I care for life no more.

 

To Almighty God henceforth I stand confessed,

And Virgin-Saint Marie;

O Michael, John, and Holy Ones in rest,

Entreat the Lord for me!

 

The Alarm

(Traditional)
In Memory of one of the Writer's Family who was a Volunteer during the War with Napoleon

In a ferny byway

Near the great South-Wessex Highway,

A homestead raised its breakfast-smoke aloft;

The dew-damps still lay steamless, for the sun had made no skyway,

And twilight cloaked the croft.

 

It was almost past conceiving

Here, where woodbines hung inweaving,

That quite closely hostile armaments might steer,

Save from seeing in the porchway a fair woman mutely grieving,

And a harnessed Volunteer.

 

In haste he'd flown there

To his comely wife alone there,

While marching south hard by, to still her fears,

For she soon would be a mother, and few messengers were known there

In these campaigning years.

 

'Twas time to be Good-bying,

Since the assembly-hour was nighing

In royal George's town at six that morn;

And betwixt its wharves and this retreat were ten good miles of hieing

Ere ring of bugle-horn.

 

»I've laid in food, Dear,

And broached the spiced and brewed, Dear;

And if our July hope should antedate,

Let the char-wench mount and gallop by the halterpath and wood, Dear,

And fetch assistance straight.

 

As for Buonaparte, forget him;

He's not like to land! But let him,

 

Those strike with aim who strike for wives and sons!

And the war-boats built to float him; 'twere but wanted to upset him

A slat from Nelson's guns!

 

But, to assure thee,

And of creeping fears to cure thee,

If he should be rumoured anchoring in the Road,

Drive with the nurse to Kingsbere; and let nothing thence allure thee

Till we have him safe-bestowed.

 

Now, to turn to marching matters: –

I've my knapsack, firelock, spatters,

Crossbelts, priming-horn, stock, bay'net, blackball, clay,

Pouch, magazine, and flint-box that at every quick-step clatters; –

My heart, Dear; that must stay!«

 

– With breathings broken

Farewell was kissed unspoken,

And they parted there as morning stroked the panes;

And the Volunteer went on, and turned, and twirled his glove for token,

And took the coastward lanes.

 

When above He'th Hills he found him,

He saw, on gazing round him,

The Barrow-Beacon burning – burning low,

As if, perhaps, enkindled ever since he'd homeward bound him;

And it meant: Expect the Foe!

 

Leaving the byway,

He entered on the highway,

Where were cars and chariots, faring fast inland;

»He's anchored, Soldier!« shouted some: »God save thee, marching thy way,

Th'lt front him on the strand!«

 

He slowed; he stopped; he paltered

Awhile with self, and faltered,

»Why courting misadventure shoreward roam?

To Molly, surely! Seek the woods with her till times have altered;

Charity favours home.

 

Else, my denying

He'd come, she'll read as lying –

Think the Barrow-Beacon must have met my eyes –

That my words were not unwareness, but deceit of her, while vying

In deeds that jeopardize.

 

At home is stocked provision,

And to-night, without suspicion,

We might bear it with us to a covert near;

Such sin, to save a childing wife, would earn it Christ's remission,

Though none forgive it here!«

 

While he stood thinking,

A little bird, perched drinking

Among the crowfoot tufts the river bore,

Was tangled in their stringy arms and fluttered, almost sinking

Near him, upon the moor.

 

He stepped in, reached, and seized it,

And, preening, had released it

But that a thought of Holy Writ occurred,

And Signs Divine ere battle, till it seemed him Heaven had pleased it

As guide to send the bird.

 

»O Lord, direct me! ...

Doth Duty now expect me

To march a-coast, or guard my weak ones near?

Give this bird a flight according, that I thence learn to elect me

The southward or the rear.«

 

He loosed his clasp; when, rising,

The bird – as if surmising –

Bore due to southward, crossing by the Froom,

And Durnover Great Field and Fort, the soldier clear advising –

Prompted he deemed by Whom.

 

Then on he panted

By grim Mai-Don, and slanted

Up the steep Ridge-way, hearkening between whiles;

Till nearing coast and harbour he beheld the shore-line planted

With Foot and Horse for miles.

 

Mistrusting not the omen,

He gained the beach, where Yeomen,

Militia, Fencibles and Pikemen bold,

With Regulars in thousands, were enmassed to meet the Foemen,

Whose fleet had not yet shoaled.

 

Captain and Colonel,

Sere Generals, Ensigns vernal,

Were there; of neighbour-natives, Michel, Smith,

Meggs, Bingham, Gambier, Cunningham, to face the said nocturnal

Swoop on their land and kith.

 

But Buonaparte still tarried:

His project had miscarried;

At the last hour, equipped for victory,

The fleet had paused; his subtle combinations had been parried

By British strategy.

 

Homeward returning

Anon, no beacons burning,

No alarms, the Volunteer, in modest bliss,

Te Deum sang with wife and friends: »We praise Thee, Lord, discerning

That Thou hast helped in this!«

 

Her Death and After

The summons was urgent: and forth I went –

By the way of the Western Wall, so drear

On that winter night, and sought a gate,

Where one, by Fate,

Lay dying that I held dear.

 

And there, as I paused by her tenement,

And the trees shed on me their rime and hoar,

I thought of the man who had left her lone –

Him who made her his own

When I loved her, long before.

 

The rooms within had the piteous shine

That home-things wear when there's aught amiss;

From the stairway floated the rise and fall

Of an infant's call,

Whose birth had brought her to this.

 

Her life was the price she would pay for that whine –

For a child by the man she did not love.

»But let that rest for ever,« I said,

And bent my tread

To the bedchamber above.

 

She took my hand in her thin white own,

And smiled her thanks – though nigh too weak –

And made them a sign to leave us there,

Then faltered, ere

She could bring herself to speak.

 

»Just to see you – before I go – he'll condone

Such a natural thing now my time's not much –

When Death is so near it hustles hence

All passioned sense

Between woman and man as such!

 

My husband is absent. As heretofore

The City detains him. But, in truth,

He has not been kind.