Part 11

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 know 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 wist by Whom.

Then on he panted By grim Mai-Don, and slanted Up the steep Ridge-way, hearkening betwixt 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, roused by the hued 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

’TWAS a death-bed summons, and forth I went By the way of the Western Wall, so drear On that winter night, and sought a gate— The home, by Fate, Of one I had long 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 chamber up 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.

“’Twas 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 . . . I will speak no blame, But—the child is lame; O, I pray she may reach his ruth!

“Forgive past days—I can say no more— Maybe if we’d wedded you’d now repine! . . . But I treated you ill. I was punished. Farewell! —Truth shall I tell? Would the child were yours and mine!

“As a wife I was true. But, such my unease That, could I insert a deed back in Time, I’d make her yours, to secure your care; And the scandal bear, And the penalty for the crime!”

—When I had left, and the swinging trees Rang above me, as lauding her candid say, Another was I. Her words were enough: Came smooth, came rough, I felt I could live my day.

Next night she died; and her obsequies In the Field of Tombs, by the Via renowned, Had her husband’s heed. His tendance spent, I often went And pondered by her mound.

All that year and the next year whiled, And I still went thitherward in the gloam; But the Town forgot her and her nook, And her husband took Another Love to his home.

And the rumour flew that the lame lone child Whom she wished for its safety child of mine, Was treated ill when offspring came Of the new-made dame, And marked a more vigorous line.

A smarter grief within me wrought Than even at loss of her so dear; Dead the being whose soul my soul suffused, Her child ill-used, I helpless to interfere!

One eve as I stood at my spot of thought In the white-stoned Garth, brooding thus her wrong, Her husband neared; and to shun his view By her hallowed mew I went from the tombs among

To the Cirque of the Gladiators which faced— That haggard mark of Imperial Rome, Whose Pagan echoes mock the chime Of our Christian time: It was void, and I inward clomb.

Scarce night the sun’s gold touch displaced From the vast Rotund and the neighbouring dead When her husband followed; bowed; half-passed, With lip upcast; Then, halting, sullenly said:

“It is noised that you visit my first wife’s tomb. Now, I gave her an honoured name to bear While living, when dead. So I’ve claim to ask By what right you task My patience by vigiling there?

“There’s decency even in death, I assume; Preserve it, sir, and keep away; For the mother of my first-born you Show mind undue! —Sir, I’ve nothing more to say.”