Part 24

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 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.

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.

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.

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!

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

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.

“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.”—

“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!”—

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!”

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!”—