Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes:By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage.It's nigh my last above the daisies:My next leaf 'll be man's blank page.Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying:Juggler, constable, king, must bow.One that outjuggles all's been spyingLong to have me, and he has me now.
We've travelled times to this old common:Often we've hung our pots in the gorse.We've had a stirring life, old woman!You, and I, and the old grey horse.Races, and fairs, and royal occasions,Found us coming to their call:Now they'll miss us at our stations:There's a Juggler outjuggles all!
Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly!Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.Easy to think that grieving's folly,When the hand's firm as driven stakes!Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful,Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batchBorn to become the Great Juggler's han'ful:Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch.
Here's where the lads of the village cricket:I was a lad not wide from here:Couldn't I whip off the bail from the wicket?Like an old world those days appear!Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale-house -I know them!They are old friends of my halts, and seem,Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them:Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem.
Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual:Nature allows us to bait for the fool.Holding one's own makes us juggle no little;But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule.You that are sneering at my profession,Haven't you juggled a vast amount?There's the Prime Minister, in one Session,Juggles more games than my sins 'll count.
I've murdered insects with mock thunder:Conscience, for that, in men don't quail.I've made bread from the bump of wonder:That's my business, and there's my tale.Fashion and rank all praised the professor:Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen:Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her!Ain't this a sermon on that scene?
I've studied men from my topsy-turvyClose, and, I reckon, rather true.Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy:Most, a dash between the two.But it's a woman, old girl, that makes meThink more kindly of the race:And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes meWhen the Great Juggler I must face.
We two were married, due and legal:Honest we've lived since we've been one.Lord! I could then jump like an eagle:You danced bright as a bit o' the sun.Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry!All night we kiss'd, we juggled all day.Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry!Now from his old girl he's juggled away.
It's past parsons to console us:No, nor no doctor fetch for me:I can die without my bolus;Two of a trade, lass, never agree!Parson and Doctor!—don't they love rarely,Fighting the devil in other men's fields!Stand up yourself and match him fairly:Then see how the rascal yields!
I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flauntingFinery while his poor helpmate grubs:Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting:You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs.Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchenMany a Marquis would hail you Cook!Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in,But our old Jerry you never forsook.
Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it;Let's have comfort and be at peace.Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet.Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease.May be—for none see in that black hollow -It's just a place where we're held in pawn,And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow,It's just the sword-trick—I ain't quite gone!
Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty,Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May.Better than mortar, brick and putty,Is God's house on a blowing day.Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it:All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange?There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it,But He's by us, juggling the change.
I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying,Once—it's long gone—when two gulls we beheld,Which, as the moon got up, were flyingDown a big wave that sparked and swelled.Crack, went a gun: one fell: the secondWheeled round him twice, and was off for new luck:There in the dark her white wing beckon'd:-Drop me a kiss—I'm the bird dead-struck!
O might I load my arms with thee,Like that young lover of RomanceWho loved and gained so gloriouslyThe fair Princess of France!
Because he dared to love so high,He, bearing her dear weight, shall speedTo where the mountain touched on sky:So the proud king decreed.
Unhalting he must bear her on,Nor pause a space to gather breath,And on the height she will be won;And she was won in death!
Red the far summit flames with morn,While in the plain a glistening CourtSurrounds the king who practised scornThrough such a mask of sport.
She leans into his arms; she letsHer lovely shape be clasped: he fares.God speed him whole! The knights make bets:The ladies lift soft prayers.
O have you seen the deer at chase?O have you seen the wounded kite?So boundingly he runs the race,So wavering grows his flight.
- My lover! linger here, and slakeThy thirst, or me thou wilt not win.- See'st thou the tumbled heavens? they break!They beckon us up and in.
- Ah, hero-love! unloose thy hold:O drop me like a cursed thing.- See'st thou the crowded swards of gold?They wave to us Rose and Ring.
- O death-white mouth! O cast me down!Thou diest? Then with thee I die.- See'st thou the angels with their Crown?We twain have reached the sky.
When the Head of BranWas firm on British shoulders,God made a man!Cried all beholders.
Steel could not resistThe weight his arm would rattle;He, with naked fist,Has brain'd a knight in battle.
He marched on the foe,And never counted numbers;Foreign widows knowThe hosts he sent to slumbers.
As a street you scan,That's towered by the steeple,So the Head of BranRose o'er his people.
'Death's my neighbour,'Quoth Bran the Blest;'Christian labourBrings Christian rest.From the trunk severThe Head of Bran,That which neverHas bent to man!'That which neverTo men has bowedShall live everTo shame the shroud:Shall live everTo face the foe;Sever it, sever,And with one blow.
'Be it written,That all I wroughtWas for Britain,In deed and thought:Be it written,That while I die,Glory to Britain!Is my last cry.
'Glory to Britain!Death echoes me round.Glory to Britain!The world shall resound.Glory to Britain!In ruin and fall,Glory to Britain!Is heard over all.'
Burn, Sun, down the sea!Bran lies low with thee.
Burst, Morn, from the main!Bran so shall rise again.
Blow, Wind, from the field!Bran's Head is the Briton's shield.
Beam, Star, in the West!Bright burns the Head of Bran the Blest.
Crimson-footed, like the stork,From great ruts of slaughter,Warriors of the Golden TorqueCross the lifting water.Princes seven, enchaining hands,Bear the live head homeward.Lo! it speaks, and still commands:Gazing out far foamward.
Fiery words of lightning senseDown the hollows thunder;Forest hostels know not whenceComes the speech, and wonder.City-Castles, on the steep,Where the faithful SevenHouse at midnight, hear, in sleep,Laughter under heaven.
Lilies, swimming on the mere,In the castle shadow,Under draw their heads, and FearWalks the misty meadow.Tremble not! it is not DeathPledging dark espousal:'Tis the Head of endless breath,Challenging carousal!
Brim the horn! a health is drunk,Now, that shall keep going:Life is but the pebble sunk;Deeds, the circle growing!Fill, and pledge the Head of Bran!While his lead they follow,Long shall heads in Britain planSpeech Death cannot swallow!
The old coach-road through a common of furze,With knolls of pine, ran white;Berries of autumn, with thistles, and burrs,And spider-threads, droop'd in the light.
The light in a thin blue veil peered sick;The sheep grazed close and still;The smoke of a farm by a yellow rickCurled lazily under a hill.
No fly shook the round of the silver net;No insect the swift bird chased;Only two travellers moved and metAcross that hazy waste.
One was a girl with a babe that throve,Her ruin and her bliss;One was a youth with a lawless love,Who clasped it the more for this.
The girl for her babe hummed prayerful speech;The youth for his love did pray;Each cast a wistful look on each,And either went their way.
Now, this, to my notion, is pleasant cheer,To lie all alone on a ragged heath,Where your nose isn't sniffing for bones or beer,But a peat-fire smells like a garden beneath.The cottagers bustle about the door,And the girl at the window ties her strings.She's a dish for a man who's a mind to be poor;Lord! women are such expensive things.
We don't marry beggars, says she: why, no:It seems that to make 'em is what you do;And as I can cook, and scour, and sew,I needn't pay half my victuals for you.A man for himself should be able to scratch,But tickling's a luxury:- love, indeed!Love burns as long as the lucifer match,Wedlock's the candle! Now, that's my creed.
The church-bells sound water-like over the wheat;And up the long path troop pair after pair.The man's well-brushed, and the woman looks neat:It's man and woman everywhere!Unless, like me, you lie here flat,With a donkey for friend, you must have a wife:She pulls out your hair, but she brushes your hat.Appearances make the best half of life.
You nice little madam! you know you're nice.I remember hearing a parson sayYou're a plateful of vanity pepper'd with vice;You chap at the gate thinks t' other way.On his waistcoat you read both his head and his heart:There's a whole week's wages there figured in gold!Yes! when you turn round you may well give a start:It's fun to a fellow who's getting old.
Now, that's a good craft, weaving waistcoats and flowers,And selling of ribbons, and scenting of lard:It gives you a house to get in from the showers,And food when your appetite jockeys you hard.You live a respectable man; but I askIf it's worth the trouble? You use your tools,And spend your time, and what's your task?Why, to make a slide for a couple of fools.
You can't match the colour o' these heath mounds,Nor better that peat-fire's agreeable smell.I'm clothed-like with natural sights and sounds;To myself I'm in tune: I hope you're as well.You jolly old cot! though you don't own coal:It's a generous pot that's boiled with peat.Let the Lord Mayor o' London roast oxen whole:His smoke, at least, don't smell so sweet.
I'm not a low Radical, hating the laws,Who'd the aristocracy rebuke.I talk o' the Lord Mayor o' London becauseI once was on intimate terms with his cook.I served him a turn, and got pensioned on scraps,And, Lord, Sir! didn't I envy his place,Till Death knock'd him down with the softest of taps,And I knew what was meant by a tallowy face!
On the contrary, I'm Conservative quite;There's beggars in Scripture 'mongst Gentiles and Jews:It's nonsense, trying to set things right,For if people will give, why, who'll refuse?That stopping old custom wakes my spleen:The poor and the rich both in giving agree:Your tight-fisted shopman's the Radical mean:There's nothing in common 'twixt him and me.
He says I'm no use! but I won't reply.You're lucky not being of use to him!On week-days he's playing at Spider and Fly,And on Sundays he sings about Cherubim!Nailing shillings to counters is his chief work:He nods now and then at the name on his door:But judge of us two, at a bow and a smirk,I think I'm his match: and I'm honest—that's more.
No use! well, I mayn't be. You ring a pig's snout,And then call the animal glutton! Now, he,Mr. Shopman, he's nought but a pipe and a spoutWho won't let the goods o' this world pass free.This blazing blue weather all round the brown crop,He can't enjoy! all but cash he hates.He's only a snail that crawls under his shop;Though he has got the ear o' the magistrates.
Now, giving and taking's a proper exchange,Like question and answer: you're both content.But buying and selling seems always strange;You're hostile, and that's the thing that's meant.It's man against man—you're almost brutes;There's here no thanks, and there's there no pride.If Charity's Christian, don't blame my pursuits,I carry a touchstone by which you're tried.
- 'Take it,' says she, 'it's all I've got':I remember a girl in London streets:She stood by a coffee-stall, nice and hot,My belly was like a lamb that bleats.Says I to myself, as her shilling I seized,You haven't a character here, my dear!But for making a rascal like me so pleased,I'll give you one, in a better sphere!
And that's where it is—she made me feelI was a rascal: but people who scorn,And tell a poor patch-breech he isn't genteel,Why, they make him kick up—and he treads on a corn.It isn't liking, it's curst ill-luck,Drives half of us into the begging-trade:If for taking to water you praise a duck,For taking to beer why a man upbraid?
The sermon's over: they're out of the porch,And it's time for me to move a leg;But in general people who come from church,And have called themselves sinners, hate chaps to beg.I'll wager they'll all of 'em dine to-day!I was easy half a minute ago.If that isn't pig that's baking away,May I perish!—we're never contented—heigho!
The old grey Alp has caught the cloud,And the torrent river sings aloud;The glacier-green Rosanna singsAn organ song of its upper springs.Foaming under the tiers of pine,I see it dash down the dark ravine,And it tumbles the rocks in boisterous play,With an earnest will to find its way.Sharp it throws out an emerald shoulder,And, thundering ever of the mountain,Slaps in sport some giant boulder,And tops it in a silver fountain.A chain of foam from end to end,And a solitude so deep, my friend,You may forget that man abidesBeyond the great mute mountain-sides.Yet to me, in this high-walled solitudeOf river and rock and forest rude,The roaring voice through the long white chainIs the voice of the world of bubble and brain.
Within a Temple of the Toes,Where twirled the passionate Wili,I saw full many a market rose,And sighed for my village lily.
With cynical Adrian then I took flightTo that old dead city whose carolBursts out like a reveller's loud in the night,As he sits astride his barrel.
We two were bound the Alps to scale,Up the rock-reflecting river;Old times blew thro' me like a gale,And kept my thoughts in a quiver.
Hawking ruin, wood-slope, and vineReeled silver-laced under my vision,And into me passed, with the green-eyed wineKnocking hard at my head for admission.
I held the village lily cheap,And the dream around her idle:Lo, quietly as I lay to sleep,The bells led me off to a bridal.
My bride wore the hood of a Beguine,And mine was the foot to falter;Three cowled monks, rat-eyed, were seen;The Cross was of bones o'er the altar.
The Cross was of bones; the priest that read,A spectacled necromancer:But at the fourth word, the bride I ledChanged to an Opera dancer.
A young ballet-beauty, who perked in her place,A darling of pink and spangles;One fair foot level with her face,And the hearts of men at her ankles.
She whirled, she twirled, the mock-priest grinned,And quickly his mask unriddled;'Twas Adrian! loud his old laughter dinned;Then he seized a fiddle, and fiddled.
He fiddled, he glowed with the bottomless fire,Like Sathanas in feature:All through me he fiddled a wolfish desireTo dance with that bright creature.
And gathering courage I said to my soul,Throttle the thing that hinders!When the three cowled monks, from black as coal,Waxed hot as furnace-cinders.
They caught her up, twirling: they leapt between-whiles:The fiddler flickered with laughter:Profanely they flew down the awful aisles,Where I went sliding after.
Down the awful aisles, by the fretted walls,Beneath the Gothic arches:-King Skull in the black confessionalsSat rub-a-dub-dubbing his marches.
Then the silent cold stone warriors frowned,The pictured saints strode forward:A whirlwind swept them from holy ground;A tempest puffed them nor'ward.
They shot through the great cathedral door;Like mallards they traversed ocean:And gazing below, on its boiling floor,I marked a horrid commotion.
Down a forest's long alleys they spun like tops:It seemed that for ages and ages,Thro' the Book of Life bereft of stops,They waltzed continuous pages.
And ages after, scarce awake,And my blood with the fever fretting,I stood alone by a forest-lake,Whose shadows the moon were netting.
Lilies, golden and white, by the curlsOf their broad flat leaves hung swaying.A wreath of languid twining girlsStreamed upward, long locks disarraying.
Their cheeks had the satin frost-glow of the moon;Their eyes the fire of Sirius.They circled, and droned a monotonous tune,Abandoned to love delirious.
Like lengths of convolvulus torn from the hedge,And trailing the highway over,The dreamy-eyed mistresses circled the sedge,And called for a lover, a lover!
I sank, I rose through seas of eyes,In odorous swathes delicious:They fanned me with impetuous sighs,They hit me with kisses vicious.
My ears were spelled, my neck was coiled,And I with their fury was glowing,When the marbly waters bubbled and boiledAt a watery noise of crowing.
They dragged me low and low to the lake:Their kisses more stormily showered;On the emerald brink, in the white moon's wake,An earthly damsel cowered.
Fresh heart-sobs shook her knitted handsBeneath a tiny suckling,As one by one of the doleful bandsDived like a fairy duckling.
And now my turn had come—O me!What wisdom was mine that second!I dropped on the adorer's knee;To that sweet figure I beckoned.
Save me! save me! for now I knowThe powers that Nature gave me,And the value of honest love I know:-My village lily! save me!
Come 'twixt me and the sisterhood,While the passion-born phantoms are fleeing!Oh, he that is true to flesh and bloodIs true to his own being!
And he that is false to flesh and bloodIs false to the star within him:And the mad and hungry sisterhoodAll under the tides shall win him!
My village lily! save me! save!For strength is with the holy:-Already I shuddered to feel the wave,As I kept sinking slowly:-
I felt the cold wave and the under-tugOf the Brides, when—starting and shrinking -Lo, Adrian tilts the water-jug!And Bruges with morn is blinking.
Merrily sparkles sunny primeOn gabled peak and arbour:Merrily rattles belfry-chimeThe song of Sevilla's Barber.
Whate'er I be, old England is my dam!So there's my answer to the judges, clear.I'm nothing of a fox, nor of a lamb;I don't know how to bleat nor how to leer:I'm for the nation!That's why you see me by the wayside here,Returning home from transportation.
It's Summer in her bath this morn, I think.I'm fresh as dew, and chirpy as the birds:And just for joy to see old England winkThro' leaves again, I could harangue the herds:Isn't it somethingTo speak out like a man when you've got words,And prove you're not a stupid dumb thing?
They shipp'd me of for it; I'm here again.Old England is my dam, whate'er I be!Says I, I'll tramp it home, and see the grain:If you see well, you're king of what you see:Eyesight is having,If you're not given, I said, to gluttony.Such talk to ignorance sounds as raving.
You dear old brook, that from his Grace's parkCome bounding! on you run near my old town:My lord can't lock the water; nor the lark,Unless he kills him, can my lord keep down.Up, is the song-note!I've tried it, too:- for comfort and renown,I rather pitch'd upon the wrong note.
I'm not ashamed: Not beaten's still my boast:Again I'll rouse the people up to strike.But home's where different politics jar most.Respectability the women like.This form, or that form, -The Government may be hungry pike,But don't you mount a Chartist platform!
Well, well! Not beaten—spite of them, I shout;And my estate is suffering for the Cause. -No,—what is yon brown water-rat about,Who washes his old poll with busy paws?What does he mean by't?It's like defying all our natural laws,For him to hope that he'll get clean by't.
His seat is on a mud-bank, and his tradeIs dirt:- he's quite contemptible; and yetThe fellow's all as anxious as a maidTo show a decent dress, and dry the wet.Now it's his whisker,And now his nose, and ear: he seems to getEach moment at the motion brisker!
To see him squat like little chaps at school,I could let fly a laugh with all my might.He peers, hangs both his fore-paws:- bless that fool,He's bobbing at his frill now!—what a sight!Licking the dish up,As if he thought to pass from black to white,Like parson into lawny bishop.
The elms and yellow reed-flags in the sun,Look on quite grave:- the sunlight flecks his side;And links of bindweed-flowers round him run,And shine up doubled with him in the tide.I'M nearly splitting,But nature seems like seconding his pride,And thinks that his behaviour's fitting.
That isle o' mud looks baking dry with gold.His needle-muzzle still works out and in.It really is a wonder to behold,And makes me feel the bristles of my chin.Judged by appearance,I fancy of the two I'm nearer Sin,And might as well commence a clearance.
And that's what my fine daughter said:- she meant:Pray, hold your tongue, and wear a Sunday face.Her husband, the young linendraper, spentMuch argument thereon:- I'm their disgrace.Bother the couple!I feel superior to a chap whose placeCommands him to be neat and supple.
But if I go and say to my old hen:I'll mend the gentry's boots, and keep discreet,Until they grow TOO violent,—why, then,A warmer welcome I might chance to meet:Warmer and better.And if she fancies her old cock is beat,And drops upon her knees—so let her!
She suffered for me:- women, you'll observe,Don't suffer for a Cause, but for a man.When I was in the dock she show'd her nerve:I saw beneath her shawl my old tea-canTrembling . . . she brought itTo screw me for my work: she loath'd my plan,And therefore doubly kind I thought it.
I've never lost the taste of that same tea:That liquor on my logic floats like oil,When I state facts, and fellows disagree.For human creatures all are in a coil;All may want pardon.I see a day when every pot will boilHarmonious in one great Tea-garden!
We wait the setting of the Dandy's day,Before that time!—He's furbishing his dress, -He WILL be ready for it!—and I say,That yon old dandy rat amid the cress, -Thanks to hard labour! -If cleanliness is next to godliness,The old fat fellow's heaven's neighbour!
You teach me a fine lesson, my old boy!I've looked on my superiors far too long,And small has been my profit as my joy.You've done the right while I've denounced the wrong.Prosper me later!Like you I will despise the sniggering throng,And please myself and my Creator.
I'll bring the linendraper and his wifeSome day to see you; taking off my hat.Should they ask why, I'll answer: in my lifeI never found so true a democrat.Base occupationCan't rob you of your own esteem, old rat!I'll preach you to the British nation.
Should thy love die;O bury it not under ice-blue eyes!And lips that deny,With a scornful surprise,The life it once lived in thy breast when it wore no disguise.
Should thy love die;O bury it where the sweet wild-flowers blow!And breezes go by,With no whisper of woe;And strange feet cannot guess of the anguish that slumbers below.
Should thy love die;O wander once more to the haunt of the bee!Where the foliaged skyIs most sacred to see,And thy being first felt its wild birth like a wind-wakened tree.
Should thy love die;O dissemble it! smile! let the rose hide the thorn!While the lark sings on high,And no thing looks forlorn,Bury it, bury it, bury it where it was born.
Not vainly doth the earnest voice of manCall for the thing that is his pure desire!Fame is the birthright of the living lyre!To noble impulse Nature puts no ban.Nor vainly to the Sphinx thy voice was raised!Tho' all thy great emotions like a sea,Against her stony immortality,Shatter themselves unheeded and amazed.Time moves behind her in a blind eclipse:Yet if in her cold eyes the end of allBe visible, as on her large closed lipsHangs dumb the awful riddle of the earth; -She sees, and she might speak, since that wild call,The mighty warning of a Poet's birth.
'Heigh, boys!' cried Grandfather Bridgeman, 'it's time before dinnerto-day.'He lifted the crumpled letter, and thumped a surprising 'Hurrah!'Up jumped all the echoing young ones, but John, with the starch inhis throat,Said, 'Father, before we make noises, let's see the contents of thenote.'The old man glared at him harshly, and twinkling made answer: 'Toobad!John Bridgeman, I'm always the whisky, and you are the water, mylad!'
But soon it was known thro' the house, and the house ran over forjoy,That news, good news, great marvels, had come from the soldier boy;Young Tom, the luckless scapegrace, offshoot of Methodist John;His grandfather's evening tale, whom the old man hailed as his son.And the old man's shout of pride was a shout of his victory, too;For he called his affection a method: the neighbours' opinions heknew.
Meantime, from the morning table removing the stout breakfast cheer,The drink of the three generations, the milk, the tea, and the beer(Alone in its generous reading of pints stood the Grandfather'sjug),The women for sight of the missive came pressing to coax and to hug.He scattered them quick, with a buss and a smack; thereupon he beganDiversions with John's little Sarah: on Sunday, the naughty oldman!
Then messengers sped to the maltster, the auctioneer, miller, andallThe seven sons of the farmer who housed in the range of his call.Likewise the married daughters, three plentiful ladies, prime cooks,Who bowed to him while they condemned, in meek hope to stand high inhis books.'John's wife is a fool at a pudding,' they said, and the light cartsup hillWent merrily, flouting the Sabbath: for puddings well made mend awill.
The day was a van-bird of summer: the robin still piped, but theblue,As a warm and dreamy palace with voices of larks ringing thro',Looked down as if wistfully eyeing the blossoms that fell from itslap:A day to sweeten the juices: a day to quicken the sap.All round the shadowy orchard sloped meadows in gold, and the dearShy violets breathed their hearts out: the maiden breath of theyear!
Full time there was before dinner to bring fifteen of his blood,To sit at the old man's table: they found that the dinner was good.But who was she by the lilacs and pouring laburnums concealed,When under the blossoming apple the chair of the Grandfatherwheeled?She heard one little child crying, 'Dear brave Cousin Tom!' as itleapt;Then murmured she: 'Let me spare them!' and passed round thewalnuts, and wept.
Yet not from sight had she slipped ere feminine eyes could detectThe figure of Mary Charlworth. 'It's just what we all mightexpect,'Was uttered: and: 'Didn't I tell you?' Of Mary the rumourresounds,That she is now her own mistress, and mistress of five thousandpounds.'Twas she, they say, who cruelly sent young Tom to the war.Miss Mary, we thank you now! If you knew what we're thanking youfor!
But, 'Have her in: let her hear it,' called Grandfather Bridgeman,elate,While Mary's black-gloved fingers hung trembling with flight on thegate.Despite the women's remonstrance, two little ones, lighter thandeer,Were loosed, and Mary, imprisoned, her whole face white as a tear,Came forward with culprit footsteps. Her punishment was tocommence:The pity in her pale visage they read in a different sense.
'You perhaps may remember a fellow, Miss Charlworth, a sort of blacksheep,'The old man turned his tongue to ironical utterance deep:'He came of a Methodist dad, so it wasn't his fault if he kicked.He earned a sad reputation, but Methodists are mortal strict.His name was Tom, and, dash me! but Bridgeman! I think you mightadd:Whatever he was, bear in mind that he came of a Methodist dad.'
This prelude dismally lengthened, till Mary, starting, exclaimed,'A letter, Sir, from your grandson?' 'Tom Bridgeman that rascal isnamed,'The old man answered, and further, the words that sent Tom to theranksRepeated as words of a person to whom they all owed mighty thanks.But Mary never blushed: with her eyes on the letter, she sate,And twice interrupting him faltered, 'The date, may I ask, Sir, thedate?'
'Why, that's what I never look at in a letter,' the farmer replied:'Facts first! and now I'll be parson.' The Bridgeman women descriedA quiver on Mary's eyebrows. One turned, and while shifting hercomb,Said low to a sister: 'I'm certain she knows more than we aboutTom.She wants him now he's a hero!' The same, resuming her place,Begged Mary to check them the moment she found it a tedious case.
Then as a mastiff swallows the snarling noises of cats,The voice of the farmer opened. '"Three cheers, and off with yourhats!"- That's Tom. "We've beaten them, Daddy, and tough work it was, tobe sure!A regular stand-up combat: eight hours smelling powder and gore.I entered it Serjeant-Major,"—and now he commands a salute,And carries the flag of old England! Heigh! see him lift foes onhis foot!
'—An officer! ay, Miss Charlworth, he is, or he is so to be;You'll own war isn't such humbug: and Glory means something, yousee."But don't say a word," he continues, "against the brave French anymore."- That stopt me: we'll now march together. I couldn't read furtherbefore.That "brave French" I couldn't stomach. He can't see their cunningto getUs Britons to fight their battles, while best half the winnings theynet!'
The old man sneered, and read forward. It was of that desperatefight; -The Muscovite stole thro' the mist-wreaths that wrapped the chillInkermann height,Where stood our silent outposts: old England was in them that day!O sharp worked his ruddy wrinkles, as if to the breath of the frayThey moved! He sat bareheaded: his long hair over him slowSwung white as the silky bog-flowers in purple heath-hollows thatgrow.
And louder at Tom's first person: acute and in thunder the 'I'Invaded the ear with a whinny of triumph, that seem'd to defyThe hosts of the world. All heated, what wonder he little couldbrookTo catch the sight of Mary's demure puritanical look?And still as he led the onslaught, his treacherous side-shots hesentAt her who was fighting a battle as fierce, and who sat thereunbent.
'"We stood in line, and like hedgehogs the Russians rolled under usthick.They frightened me there."—He's no coward; for when, Miss, theycame at the quick,The sight, he swears, was a breakfast.—"My stomach felt tight: ina glimpseI saw you snoring at home with the dear cuddled-up little imps.And then like the winter brickfields at midnight, hot firelengthened out.Our fellows were just leashed bloodhounds: no heart of the lotfaced about.
'"And only that grumbler, Bob Harris, remarked that we stood one toten:'Ye fool,' says Mick Grady, 'just tell 'em they know to complimentmen!'And I sang out your old words: 'If the opposite side isn't God's,Heigh! after you've counted a dozen, the pluckiest lads have theodds.'Ping-ping flew the enemies' pepper: the Colonel roared, Forward,and weWent at them. 'Twas first like a blanket: and then a long plungein the sea.
'"Well, now about me and the Frenchman: it happened I can't tellyou how:And, Grandfather, hear, if you love me, and put aside prejudicenow":He never says "Grandfather"—Tom don't—save it's a serious thing."Well, there were some pits for the rifles, just dug on our French-leaning wing:And backwards, and forwards, and backwards we went, and at last Iwas vexed,And swore I would never surrender a foot when the Russians chargednext.
'"I know that life's worth keeping."—Ay, so it is, lad; so it is! -"But my life belongs to a woman."—Does that mean Her Majesty, Miss?-"These Russians came lumping and grinning: they're fierce at it,though they are blocks.Our fellows were pretty well pumped, and looked sharp for the littleFrench cocks.Lord, didn't we pray for their crowing! when over us, on the hill-top,Behold the first line of them skipping, like kangaroos seen on thehop.
'"That sent me into a passion, to think of them spying our flight!"Heigh, Tom! you've Bridgeman blood, boy! And, "'Face them!' Ishouted: 'All right;Sure, Serjeant, we'll take their shot dacent, like gentlemen,' Gradyreplied.A ball in his mouth, and the noble old Irishman dropped by my side.Then there was just an instant to save myself, when a short wheezeOf bloody lungs under the smoke, and a red-coat crawled up on hisknees.
'"'Twas Ensign Baynes of our parish."—Ah, ah, Miss Charlworth, theoneOur Tom fought for a young lady? Come, now we've got into the fun!-"I shouldered him: he primed his pistol, and I trailed my musket,prepared."Why, that's a fine pick-a-back for ye, to make twenty Russians lookscared!"They came—never mind how many: we couldn't have run very well,We fought back to back: 'face to face, our last time!' he said,smiling, and fell.
'"Then I strove wild for his body: the beggars saw glitteringrings,Which I vowed to send to his mother. I got some hard knocks andsharp stings,But felt them no more than angel, or devil, except in the wind.I know that I swore at a Russian for showing his teeth, and hegrinnedThe harder: quick, as from heaven, a man on a horse rode between,And fired, and swung his bright sabre: I can't write you more ofthe scene.
'"But half in his arms, and half at his stirrup, he bore me rightforth,And pitched me among my old comrades: before I could tell southfrom north,He caught my hand up, and kissed it! Don't ever let any man speakA word against Frenchmen, I near him! I can't find his name, tho' Iseek.But French, and a General, surely he was, and, God bless him! thro'himI've learnt to love a whole nation."' The ancient man paused,winking dim.
A curious look, half woeful, was seen on his face as he turnedHis eyes upon each of his children, like one who but faintlydiscernedHis old self in an old mirror. Then gathering sense in his fist,He sounded it hard on his knee-cap. 'Your hand, Tom, the Frenchfellow kissed!He kissed my boy's old pounder! I say he's a gentleman!' StraightThe letter he tossed to one daughter; bade her the remainder relate.
Tom properly stated his praises in facts, but the lady preferredTo deck the narration with brackets, and drop her additional word.What nobler Christian natures these women could boast, who, 'twasknown,Once spat at the name of their nephew, and now made his praisestheir own!The letter at last was finished, the hearers breathed freely, andsignWas given, 'Tom's health!'—Quoth the farmer: 'Eh, Miss? are youweak in the spine?'
For Mary had sunk, and her body was shaking, as if in a fit.Tom's letter she held, and her thumb-nail the month when the letterwas writFast-dinted, while she hung sobbing: 'O, see, Sir, the letter isold!O, do not be too happy!'—'If I understand you, I'm bowled!'Said Grandfather Bridgeman, 'and down go my wickets!—not happy!when here,Here's Tom like to marry his General's daughter—or widow—I'llswear!
'I wager he knows how to strut, too! It's all on the cards that theQueenWill ask him to Buckingham Palace, to say what he's done and he'sseen.Victoria's fond of her soldiers: and she's got a nose for a fight.If Tom tells a cleverish story—there is such a thing as a knight!And don't he look roguish and handsome!—To see a girl snivellingthere -By George, Miss, it's clear that you're jealous'—'I love him!' sheanswered his stare.
'Yes! now!' breathed the voice of a woman.—'Ah! now!' quiver'd lowthe reply.'And "now"'s just a bit too late, so it's no use your piping youreye,'The farmer added bluffly: 'Old Lawyer Charlworth was rich;You followed his instructions in kicking Tom into the ditch.If you're such a dutiful daughter, that doesn't prove Tom is a fool.Forgive and forget's my motto! and here's my grog growing cool!'
'But, Sir,' Mary faintly repeated: 'for four long weeks I havefailedTo come and cast on you my burden; such grief for you alwaysprevailed!My heart has so bled for you!' The old man burst on her speech:'You've chosen a likely time, Miss! a pretty occasion to preach!'And was it not outrageous, that now, of all times, one should comeWith incomprehensible pity! Far better had Mary been dumb.
But when again she stammered in this bewildering way,The farmer no longer could bear it, and begged her to go, or tostay,But not to be whimpering nonsense at such a time. Pricked by agoad,'Twas you who sent him to glory:- you've come here to reap what yousowed.Is that it?' he asked; and the silence the elders preserved plainlysaid,On Mary's heaving bosom this begging-petition was read.
And that it was scarcely a bargain that she who had driven him wildShould share now the fruits of his valour, the women expressed, asthey smiled.The family pride of the Bridgemans was comforted; still, withcontempt,They looked on a monied damsel of modesty quite so exempt.'O give me force to tell them!' cried Mary, and even as she spoke,A shout and a hush of the children: a vision on all of them broke.
Wheeled, pale, in a chair, and shattered, the wreck of their herowas seen;The ghost of Tom drawn slow o'er the orchard's shadowy green.Could this be the martial darling they joyed in a moment ago?'He knows it?' to Mary Tom murmured, and closed his weak lids at her'No.''Beloved!' she said, falling by him, 'I have been a coward: IthoughtYou lay in the foreign country, and some strange good might bewrought.
'Each day I have come to tell him, and failed, with my hand on thegate.I bore the dreadful knowledge, and crushed my heart with its weight.The letter brought by your comrade—he has but just read it aloud!It only reached him this morning!' Her head on his shoulder shebowed.Then Tom with pity's tenderest lordliness patted her arm,And eyed the old white-head fondly, with something of doubt andalarm.
O, take to your fancy a sculptor whose fresh marble offspringappearsBefore him, shiningly perfect, the laurel-crown'd issue of years:Is heaven offended? for lightning behold from its bosom escape,And those are mocking fragments that made the harmonious shape!He cannot love the ruins, till, feeling that ruins aloneAre left, he loves them threefold. So passed the old grandfather'smoan.
John's text for a sermon on Slaughter he heard, and he did notprotest.All rigid as April snowdrifts, he stood, hard and feeble; his chestJust showing the swell of the fire as it melted him. Smiting a rib,'Heigh! what have we been about, Tom! Was this all a terrible fib?'He cried, and the letter forth-trembled. Tom told what the cannonhad done.Few present but ached to see falling those aged tears on his heart'sson!
Up lanes of the quiet village, and where the mill-waters rush redThro' browning summer meadows to catch the sun's crimsoning head,You meet an old man and a maiden who has the soft ways of a wifeWith one whom they wheel, alternate; whose delicate flush of newlifeIs prized like the early primrose. Then shake his right hand, inthe chair -The old man fails never to tell you: 'You've got the FrenchGeneral's there!'
How low when angels fall their black descent,Our primal thunder tells: known is the painOf music, that nigh throning wisdom went,And one false note cast wailful to the insane.Now seems the language heard of Love as rainTo make a mire where fruitfulness was meant.The golden harp gives out a jangled strain,Too like revolt from heaven's Omnipotent.But listen in the thought; so may there comeConception of a newly-added chord,Commanding space beyond where ear has home.In labour of the trouble at its fount,Leads Life to an intelligible LordThe rebel discords up the sacred mount.
By this he knew she wept with waking eyes:That, at his hand's light quiver by her head,The strange low sobs that shook their common bedWere called into her with a sharp surprise,And strangled mute, like little gaping snakes,Dreadfully venomous to him. She layStone-still, and the long darkness flowed awayWith muffled pulses. Then, as midnight makesHer giant heart of Memory and TearsDrink the pale drug of silence, and so beatSleep's heavy measure, they from head to feetWere moveless, looking through their dead black years,By vain regret scrawled over the blank wall.Like sculptured effigies they might be seenUpon their marriage-tomb, the sword between;Each wishing for the sword that severs all.
It ended, and the morrow brought the task.Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him inBy shutting all too zealous for their sin:Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask.But, oh, the bitter taste her beauty had!He sickened as at breath of poison-flowers:A languid humour stole among the hours,And if their smiles encountered, he went mad,And raged deep inward, till the light was brownBefore his vision, and the world, forgot,Looked wicked as some old dull murder-spot.A star with lurid beams, she seemed to crownThe pit of infamy: and then againHe fainted on his vengefulness, and stroveTo ape the magnanimity of love,And smote himself, a shuddering heap of pain.
This was the woman; what now of the man?But pass him. If he comes beneath a heel,He shall be crushed until he cannot feel,Or, being callous, haply till he can.But he is nothing:- nothing? Only markThe rich light striking out from her on him!Ha! what a sense it is when her eyes swimAcross the man she singles, leaving darkAll else! Lord God, who mad'st the thing so fair,See that I am drawn to her even now!It cannot be such harm on her cool browTo put a kiss? Yet if I meet him there!But she is mine! Ah, no! I know too wellI claim a star whose light is overcast:I claim a phantom-woman in the Past.The hour has struck, though I heard not the bell!
All other joys of life he strove to warm,And magnify, and catch them to his lip:But they had suffered shipwreck with the ship,And gazed upon him sallow from the storm.Or if Delusion came, 'twas but to showThe coming minute mock the one that went.Cold as a mountain in its star-pitched tent,Stood high Philosophy, less friend than foe:Whom self-caged Passion, from its prison-bars,Is always watching with a wondering hate.Not till the fire is dying in the grate,Look we for any kinship with the stars.Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold,And the great price we pay for it full worth:We have it only when we are half earth.Little avails that coinage to the old!
A message from her set his brain aflame.A world of household matters filled her mind,Wherein he saw hypocrisy designed:She treated him as something that is tame,And but at other provocation bites.Familiar was her shoulder in the glass,Through that dark rain: yet it may come to passThat a changed eye finds such familiar sightsMore keenly tempting than new loveliness.The 'What has been' a moment seemed his own:The splendours, mysteries, dearer because known,Nor less divine: Love's inmost sacrednessCalled to him, 'Come!'—In his restraining start,Eyes nurtured to be looked at scarce could seeA wave of the great waves of DestinyConvulsed at a checked impulse of the heart.
It chanced his lips did meet her forehead cool.She had no blush, but slanted down her eye.Shamed nature, then, confesses love can die:And most she punishes the tender foolWho will believe what honours her the most!Dead! is it dead? She has a pulse, and flowOf tears, the price of blood-drops, as I know,For whom the midnight sobs around Love's ghost,Since then I heard her, and so will sob on.The love is here; it has but changed its aim.O bitter barren woman! what's the name?The name, the name, the new name thou hast won?Behold me striking the world's coward stroke!That will I not do, though the sting is dire.- Beneath the surface this, while by the fireThey sat, she laughing at a quiet joke.
She issues radiant from her dressing-room,Like one prepared to scale an upper sphere:- By stirring up a lower, much I fear!How deftly that oiled barber lays his bloom!That long-shanked dapper Cupid with frisked curlsCan make known women torturingly fair;The gold-eyed serpent dwelling in rich hairAwakes beneath his magic whisks and twirls.His art can take the eyes from out my head,Until I see with eyes of other men;While deeper knowledge crouches in its den,And sends a spark up:- is it true we are wed?Yea! filthiness of body is most vile,But faithlessness of heart I do hold worse.The former, it were not so great a curseTo read on the steel-mirror of her smile.