“‘And when, outside, I handedTo her chair(As courtesy demandedOf me there)The leading lady, you peeped from the stair.
“Straight pleaded I: ‘Forsooth, Love,Had I gone,I must have been in truth, Love,Mad to donSuch well-known raiment.’ But he still went on
“That he was not mistakenNor misled.—I felt like one forsaken,Wished me dead,That he could think thus of the wife he had wed!
“His going seemed to waste himLike a curse,To wreck what once had graced him;And, averseTo my approach, he mused, and moped, and worse.
“Till, what no words effectedThought achieved:It was my wraith—projected,He conceived,Thither, by my tense brain at home aggrieved.
“Thereon his credence centredTill he died;And, no more tempted, enteredSanctified,The little vault with room for one beside.”
III
Thus far the lady’s story.—Now she, too,Reclines within that hoaryLast dark mewIn Mellstock Quire with him she loved so true.
A yellowing marble, placed thereTablet-wise,And two joined hearts enchased thereMeet the eyes;And reading their twin names we moralize:
Did she, we wonder, followJealously?And were those protests hollow?—Or saw heSome semblant dame? Or can wraiths really be?
Were it she went, her honour,All may hold,Pressed truth at last upon herTill she told—(Him only—others as these lines unfold.)
Riddle death-sealed for ever,Let it rest! . . .One’s heart could blame her neverIf one guessedThat go she did. She knew her actor best.
Downcomes the winter rain—Spoils my hat and bow—Runs into the poll of me;But mother won’t know.
We’ve been out and caught a cold,Knee-deep in snow;Such a lucky thing it isThat mother won’t know!
Rosy lost herself last night—Couldn’t tell where to go.Yes—it rather frightened her,But mother didn’t know.
Somebody made Willy drunkAt the Christmas show:O ’twas fun! It’s well for himThat mother won’t know!
Howsoever wild we are,Late at school or slow,Mother won’t be cross with us,Mother won’t know.
How we cried the day she died!Neighbours whispering low . . .But we now do what we will—Mother won’t know.
Ababywatched a ford, wheretoA wagtail came for drinking;A blaring bull went wading through,The wagtail showed no shrinking.
A stallion splashed his way across,The birdie nearly sinking;He gave his plumes a twitch and toss,And held his own unblinking.
Next saw the baby round the spotA mongrel slowly slinking;The wagtail gazed, but faltered notIn dip and sip and prinking.
A perfect gentleman then neared;The wagtail, in a winking,With terror rose and disappeared;The baby fell a-thinking.
“And wisdom and knowledge shall be the stability of thy times.”—Isaiah xxxiii. 6.
“And wisdom and knowledge shall be the stability of thy times.”—Isaiah xxxiii. 6.
Ilookedand thought, “All is too gray and coldTo wake my place-enthusiasms of old!”Till a voice passed: “Behind that granite mienLurks the imposing beauty of a Queen.”I looked anew; and saw the radiant formOf Her who soothes in stress, who steers in storm,On the grave influence of whose eyes sublimeMen count for the stability of the time.
Fortyyears back, when much had placeThat since has perished out of mind,I heard that voice and saw that face.
He spoke as one afoot will windA morning horn ere men awake;His note was trenchant, turning kind.
He was of those whose wit can shakeAnd riddle to the very coreThe counterfeits that Time will break . . .
Of late, when we two met once more,The luminous countenance and rareShone just as forty years before.
So that, when now all tongues declareHis shape unseen by his green hill,I scarce believe he sits not there.
No matter. Further and further stillThrough the world’s vaporous vitiate airHis words wing on—as live words will.
May1909.
Coomb-Firtreessay that Life is a moan,And Clyffe-hill Clump says “Yea!”But Yell’ham says a thing of its own:It’s not “Gray, grayIs Life alway!”That Yell’ham says,Nor that Life is for ends unknown.
It says that Life would signifyA thwarted purposing:That we come to live, and are called to die,Yes, that’s the thingIn fall, in spring,That Yell’ham says:—“Life offers—to deny!”
1902.
A senseless school, where we must giveOur lives that we may learn to live!A dolt is he who memorizesLessons that leave no time for prizes.
16 W. P. V., 1866.
Printed in Great Britain byR. & R.Clark,Limited,Edinburgh