Chapter 5

THERE have been times when I well might have passed and the ending have come— Points in my path when the dark might have stolen on me, artless, unrueing— Ere I had learnt that the world was a welter of futile doing: Such had been times when I well might have passed, and the ending have come!

Say, on the noon when the half-sunny hours told that April was nigh, And I upgathered and cast forth the snow from the crocus-border, Fashioned and furbished the soil into a summer-seeming order, Glowing in gladsome faith that I quickened the year thereby.

Or on that loneliest of eves when afar and benighted we stood, She who upheld me and I, in the midmost of Egdon together, Confident I in her watching and ward through the blackening heather, Deeming her matchless in might and with measureless scope endued.

Or on that winter-wild night when, reclined by the chimney-nook quoin, Slowly a drowse overgat me, the smallest and feeblest of folk there, Weak from my baptism of pain; when at times and anon I awoke there— Heard of a world wheeling on, with no listing or longing to join.

Even then! while unweeting that vision could vex or that knowledge could numb, That sweets to the mouth in the belly are bitter, and tart, and untoward, Then, on some dim-coloured scene should my briefly raised curtain have lowered, Then might the Voice that is law have said “Cease!” and the ending have come.

1896.

THE CHURCH-BUILDER

I

THE church flings forth a battled shade Over the moon-blanched sward; The church; my gift; whereto I paid My all in hand and hoard: Lavished my gains With stintless pains To glorify the Lord.

II

I squared the broad foundations in Of ashlared masonry; I moulded mullions thick and thin, Hewed fillet and ogee; I circleted Each sculptured head With nimb and canopy.

III

I called in many a craftsmaster To fix emblazoned glass, To figure Cross and Sepulchre On dossal, boss, and brass. My gold all spent, My jewels went To gem the cups of Mass.

IV

I borrowed deep to carve the screen And raise the ivoried Rood; I parted with my small demesne To make my owings good. Heir-looms unpriced I sacrificed, Until debt-free I stood.

V

So closed the task. “Deathless the Creed Here substanced!” said my soul: “I heard me bidden to this deed, And straight obeyed the call. Illume this fane, That not in vain I build it, Lord of all!”

VI

But, as it chanced me, then and there Did dire misfortunes burst; My home went waste for lack of care, My sons rebelled and curst; Till I confessed That aims the best Were looking like the worst.

VII

Enkindled by my votive work No burning faith I find; The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk, And give my toil no mind; From nod and wink I read they think That I am fool and blind.

VIII

My gift to God seems futile, quite; The world moves as erstwhile; And powerful wrong on feeble right Tramples in olden style. My faith burns down, I see no crown; But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile.

IX

So now, the remedy? Yea, this: I gently swing the door Here, of my fane—no soul to wis— And cross the patterned floor To the rood-screen That stands between The nave and inner chore.

X

The rich red windows dim the moon, But little light need I; I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn From woods of rarest dye; Then from below My garment, so, I draw this cord, and tie

XI

One end thereof around the beam Midway ’twixt Cross and truss: I noose the nethermost extreme, And in ten seconds thus I journey hence— To that land whence No rumour reaches us.

XII

Well: Here at morn they’ll light on one Dangling in mockery Of what he spent his substance on Blindly and uselessly! . . . “He might,” they’ll say, “Have built, some way. A cheaper gallows-tree!”

THE LOST PYX A MEDIÆVAL LEGEND {457}

SOME say the spot is banned; that the pillar Cross-and-Hand Attests to a deed of hell; But of else than of bale is the mystic tale That ancient Vale-folk tell.

Ere Cernel’s Abbey ceased hereabout there dwelt a priest, (In later life sub-prior Of the brotherhood there, whose bones are now bare In the field that was Cernel choir).

One night in his cell at the foot of yon dell The priest heard a frequent cry: “Go, father, in haste to the cot on the waste, And shrive a man waiting to die.”

Said the priest in a shout to the caller without, “The night howls, the tree-trunks bow; One may barely by day track so rugged a way, And can I then do so now?”

No further word from the dark was heard, And the priest moved never a limb; And he slept and dreamed; till a Visage seemed To frown from Heaven at him.

In a sweat he arose; and the storm shrieked shrill, And smote as in savage joy; While High-Stoy trees twanged to Bubb-Down Hill, And Bubb-Down to High-Stoy.

There seemed not a holy thing in hail, Nor shape of light or love, From the Abbey north of Blackmore Vale To the Abbey south thereof.

Yet he plodded thence through the dark immense, And with many a stumbling stride Through copse and briar climbed nigh and nigher To the cot and the sick man’s side.

When he would have unslung the Vessels uphung To his arm in the steep ascent, He made loud moan: the Pyx was gone Of the Blessed Sacrament.

Then in dolorous dread he beat his head: “No earthly prize or pelf Is the thing I’ve lost in tempest tossed, But the Body of Christ Himself!”

He thought of the Visage his dream revealed, And turned towards whence he came, Hands groping the ground along foot-track and field, And head in a heat of shame.

Till here on the hill, betwixt vill and vill, He noted a clear straight ray Stretching down from the sky to a spot hard by, Which shone with the light of day.

And gathered around the illumined ground Were common beasts and rare, All kneeling at gaze, and in pause profound Attent on an object there.

’Twas the Pyx, unharmed ’mid the circling rows Of Blackmore’s hairy throng, Whereof were oxen, sheep, and does, And hares from the brakes among;

And badgers grey, and conies keen, And squirrels of the tree, And many a member seldom seen Of Nature’s family.

The ireful winds that scoured and swept Through coppice, clump, and dell, Within that holy circle slept Calm as in hermit’s cell.

Then the priest bent likewise to the sod And thanked the Lord of Love, And Blessed Mary, Mother of God, And all the saints above.

And turning straight with his priceless freight, He reached the dying one, Whose passing sprite had been stayed for the rite Without which bliss hath none.

And when by grace the priest won place, And served the Abbey well, He reared this stone to mark where shone That midnight miracle.

TESS’S LAMENT

I

I WOULD that folk forgot me quite, Forgot me quite! I would that I could shrink from sight, And no more see the sun. Would it were time to say farewell, To claim my nook, to need my knell, Time for them all to stand and tell Of my day’s work as done.

II

Ah! dairy where I lived so long, I lived so long; Where I would rise up stanch and strong, And lie down hopefully. ’Twas there within the chimney-seat He watched me to the clock’s slow beat— Loved me, and learnt to call me sweet, And whispered words to me.

III

And now he’s gone; and now he’s gone; . . . And now he’s gone! The flowers we potted p’rhaps are thrown To rot upon the farm. And where we had our supper-fire May now grow nettle, dock, and briar, And all the place be mould and mire So cozy once and warm.

IV

And it was I who did it all, Who did it all; ’Twas I who made the blow to fall On him who thought no guile. Well, it is finished—past, and he Has left me to my misery, And I must take my Cross on me For wronging him awhile.

V

How gay we looked that day we wed, That day we wed! “May joy be with ye!” all o’m said A standing by the durn. I wonder what they say o’s now, And if they know my lot; and how She feels who milks my favourite cow, And takes my place at churn!

VI

It wears me out to think of it, To think of it; I cannot bear my fate as writ, I’d have my life unbe; Would turn my memory to a blot, Make every relic of me rot, My doings be as they were not, And what they’ve brought to me!

THE SUPPLANTER A TALE

I

HE bends his travel-tarnished feet To where she wastes in clay: From day-dawn until eve he fares Along the wintry way; From day-dawn until eve repairs Unto her mound to pray.

II

“Are these the gravestone shapes that meet My forward-straining view? Or forms that cross a window-blind In circle, knot, and queue: Gay forms, that cross and whirl and wind To music throbbing through?”—

III

“The Keeper of the Field of Tombs Dwells by its gateway-pier; He celebrates with feast and dance His daughter’s twentieth year: He celebrates with wine of France The birthday of his dear.”—

IV

“The gates are shut when evening glooms: Lay down your wreath, sad wight; To-morrow is a time more fit For placing flowers aright: The morning is the time for it; Come, wake with us to-night!”—

V

He grounds his wreath, and enters in, And sits, and shares their cheer.— “I fain would foot with you, young man, Before all others here; I fain would foot it for a span With such a cavalier!”

VI

She coaxes, clasps, nor fails to win His first-unwilling hand: The merry music strikes its staves, The dancers quickly band; And with the damsel of the graves He duly takes his stand.

VII

“You dance divinely, stranger swain, Such grace I’ve never known. O longer stay! Breathe not adieu And leave me here alone! O longer stay: to her be true Whose heart is all your own!”—

VIII

“I mark a phantom through the pane, That beckons in despair, Its mouth all drawn with heavy moan— Her to whom once I sware!”— “Nay; ’tis the lately carven stone Of some strange girl laid there!”—

IX

“I see white flowers upon the floor Betrodden to a clot; My wreath were they?”—“Nay; love me much, Swear you’ll forget me not! ’Twas but a wreath! Full many such Are brought here and forgot.”

* * * * * * *

X

The watches of the night grow hoar, He rises ere the sun; “Now could I kill thee here!” he says, “For winning me from one Who ever in her living days Was pure as cloistered nun!”

XI

She cowers, and he takes his track Afar for many a mile, For evermore to be apart From her who could beguile His senses by her burning heart, And win his love awhile.

XII

A year: and he is travelling back To her who wastes in clay; From day-dawn until eve he fares Along the wintry way, From day-dawn until eve repairs Unto her mound to pray.

XIII

And there he sets him to fulfil His frustrate first intent: And lay upon her bed, at last, The offering earlier meant: When, on his stooping figure, ghast And haggard eyes are bent.

XIV

“O surely for a little while You can be kind to me! For do you love her, do you hate, She knows not—cares not she: Only the living feel the weight Of loveless misery!

XV

“I own my sin; I’ve paid its cost, Being outcast, shamed, and bare: I give you daily my whole heart, Your babe my tender care, I pour you prayers; and aye to part Is more than I can bear!”

XVI

He turns—unpitying, passion-tossed; “I know you not!” he cries, “Nor know your child. I knew this maid, But she’s in Paradise!” And swiftly in the winter shade He breaks from her and flies.

IMITATIONS, ETC.

SAPPHIC FRAGMENT

“Thou shalt be—Nothing.”—OMAR KHAYYÁM.

“Tombless, with no remembrance.”—W. SHAKESPEARE.

DEAD shalt thou lie; and nought Be told of thee or thought, For thou hast plucked not of the Muses’ tree: And even in Hades’ halls Amidst thy fellow-thralls No friendly shade thy shade shall company!

CATULLUS: XXXI (After passing Sirmione, April 1887.)

SIRMIO, thou dearest dear of strands That Neptune strokes in lake and sea, With what high joy from stranger lands Doth thy old friend set foot on thee! Yea, barely seems it true to me That no Bithynia holds me now, But calmly and assuringly Around me stretchest homely Thou.

Is there a scene more sweet than when Our clinging cares are undercast, And, worn by alien moils and men, The long untrodden sill repassed, We press the pined for couch at last, And find a full repayment there? Then hail, sweet Sirmio; thou that wast, And art, mine own unrivalled Fair!

AFTER SCHILLER

KNIGHT, a true sister-love This heart retains; Ask me no other love, That way lie pains!

Calm must I view thee come, Calm see thee go; Tale-telling tears of thine I must not know!

SONG FROM HEINE

I SCANNED her picture dreaming, Till each dear line and hue Was imaged, to my seeming, As if it lived anew.

Her lips began to borrow Their former wondrous smile; Her fair eyes, faint with sorrow, Grew sparkling as erstwhile.

Such tears as often ran not Ran then, my love, for thee; And O, believe I cannot That thou are lost to me!

FROM VICTOR HUGO

CHILD, were I king, I’d yield my royal rule, My chariot, sceptre, vassal-service due, My crown, my porphyry-basined waters cool, My fleets, whereto the sea is but a pool, For a glance from you!

Love, were I God, the earth and its heaving airs, Angels, the demons abject under me, Vast chaos with its teeming womby lairs, Time, space, all would I give—aye, upper spheres, For a kiss from thee!

CARDINAL BEMBO’S EPITAPH ON RAPHAEL

HERE’S one in whom Nature feared—faint at such vying— Eclipse while he lived, and decease at his dying.

RETROSPECT

“I HAVE LIVED WITH SHADES”

I

I HAVE lived with shades so long, And talked to them so oft, Since forth from cot and croft I went mankind among, That sometimes they In their dim style Will pause awhile To hear my say;

II

And take me by the hand, And lead me through their rooms In the To-be, where Dooms Half-wove and shapeless stand: And show from there The dwindled dust And rot and rust Of things that were.

III

“Now turn,” spake they to me One day: “Look whence we came, And signify his name Who gazes thence at thee.”— —“Nor name nor race Know I, or can,” I said, “Of man So commonplace.

IV

“He moves me not at all; I note no ray or jot Of rareness in his lot, Or star exceptional. Into the dim Dead throngs around He’ll sink, nor sound Be left of him.”

V

“Yet,” said they, “his frail speech, Hath accents pitched like thine— Thy mould and his define A likeness each to each— But go! Deep pain Alas, would be His name to thee, And told in vain!”

_Feb._ 2, 1899.

MEMORY AND I

“O MEMORY, where is now my youth, Who used to say that life was truth?”

“I saw him in a crumbled cot Beneath a tottering tree; That he as phantom lingers there Is only known to me.”

“O Memory, where is now my joy, Who lived with me in sweet employ?”

“I saw him in gaunt gardens lone, Where laughter used to be; That he as phantom wanders there Is known to none but me.”

“O Memory, where is now my hope, Who charged with deeds my skill and scope?”

“I saw her in a tomb of tomes, Where dreams are wont to be; That she as spectre haunteth there Is only known to me.”

“O Memory, where is now my faith, One time a champion, now a wraith?”

“I saw her in a ravaged aisle, Bowed down on bended knee; That her poor ghost outflickers there Is known to none but me.”

“O Memory, where is now my love, That rayed me as a god above?”

“I saw him by an ageing shape Where beauty used to be; That his fond phantom lingers there Is only known to me.”

ἈΓΝΩΣΤΩι ΘΕΩι.

LONG have I framed weak phantasies of Thee, O Willer masked and dumb! Who makest Life become,— As though by labouring all-unknowingly, Like one whom reveries numb.

How much of consciousness informs Thy will Thy biddings, as if blind, Of death-inducing kind, Nought shows to us ephemeral ones who fill But moments in Thy mind.

Perhaps Thy ancient rote-restricted ways Thy ripening rule transcends; That listless effort tends To grow percipient with advance of days, And with percipience mends.

For, in unwonted purlieus, far and nigh, At whiles or short or long, May be discerned a wrong Dying as of self-slaughter; whereat I Would raise my voice in song.

FOOTNOTES

{253} The “Race” is the turbulent sea-area off the Bill of Portland, where contrary tides meet.

{290} Pronounce “Loddy.”

{457} On a lonely table-land above the Vale of Blackmore, between High-Stoy and Bubb-Down hills, and commanding in clear weather views that extend from the English to the Bristol Channel, stands a pillar, apparently mediæval, called Cross-and-Hand or Christ-in-Hand. Among other stories of its origin a local tradition preserves the one here given.