The Poetical Works Of Thomas Hardy - Thomas Hardy - ebook

The Poetical Works Of Thomas Hardy ebook

Thomas Hardy



This is the annotated edition including a rare biographical essay on the life and works of the author. Thomas Hardy was not only one of England's best novelists but also a highly gifted poet. This edition is one of the most complete on the book market and contains every single poem, carefully arranged in the original order of the books in which they were published (therefore a small percentage of duplication possible ). Let yourself be inspired by Mr. Hardy's brilliant romanticism. This edition contains several hundred poems.

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The Poetical Works Of Thomas Hardy (Annotated Edition)

Thomas Hardy


Thomas Hardy – A Biographical Primer

Wessex Poems And Other Verses

The Temporary The All



“In Vision I Roamed”


A Confession To A Friend In Trouble

Neutral Tones

She At His Funeral

Her Initials

Her Dilemma (In --- Church)


She, To Him


The Sergeant's Song


San Sebastian

The Stranger's Song

The Burghers


The Peasant's Confession

The Alarm

Her Death And After

The Dance At The Phœnix

The Casterbridge Captains

A Sign-Seeker

My Cicely

Her Immortality

The Ivy-Wife

A Meeting With Despair


Friends Beyond

To Outer Nature

Thoughts Of Phena At News Of Her Death

Middle-Age Enthusiasms

In A Wood

To A Lady Offended By A Book Of The Writer's

To A Motherless Child

Nature's Questioning

The Impercipient (At A Cathedral Service)

At An Inn

The Slow Nature (An Incident Of Froom Valley)

In A Eweleaze Near Weatherbury

The Bride-Night Fire (A Wessex Tradition)

Heiress And Architect

The Two Men

“I Look Into My Glass”

Poems Of The Past And The Present

V. R. 1819–1901 - A Reverie

War Poems



The Colonel's Soliloquy

The Going Of The Battery

Wives' Lament

At The War Office, London

A Christmas Ghost-Story

Drummer Hodge

A Wife In London

The Souls Of The Slain

Song Of The Soldiers' Wives And Sweethearts

The Sick Battle-God

Poems Of Pilgrimage

Genoa And The Mediterranean

Shelley's Skylark

In The Old Theatre, Fiesole

Rome: On The Palatine

Rome: Building A New Street In The Ancient Quarter

Rome: The Vatican: Sala Delle Muse

Rome: At The Pyramid Of Cestius Near The Graves Of Shelley And Keats

Lausanne: In Gibbon's Old Garden: 11–12 P. M.

Zermatt To The Matterhorn

The Bridge Of Lodi

On An Invitation To The United States

Miscellaneous Poems

The Mother Mourns

“I Said To Love”

A Commonplace Day

At A Lunar Eclipse

The Lacking Sense

To Life

Doom And She

The Problem

The Subalterns

The Sleep-Worker

The Bullfinches


The Bedridden Peasant To An Unknowing God

By The Earth's Corpse

Mute Opinion

To An Unborn Pauper Child

To Flowers From Italy In Winter

On A Fine Morning

To Lizbie Browne

Song Of Hope

The Well-Beloved

Her Reproach

The Inconsistent

A Broken Appointment

“Between Us Now”

“How Great My Grief”

“I Need Not Go”

The Coquette, And After

A Spot

Long Plighted

The Widow Betrothed

At A Hasty Wedding

The Dream-Follower

His Immortality

The To-Be-Forgotten

Wives In The Sere

The Superseded

An August Midnight

The Caged Thrush Freed And Home Again (Villanelle)

Birds At Winter Nightfall

The Puzzled Game-Birds

Winter In Durnover Field

The Last Chrysanthemum

The Darkling Thrush

The Comet At Yell'ham

Mad Judy

A Wasted Illness

A Man (In Memory Of H. Of M.)

The Dame Of Athelhall

The Seasons Of Her Year

The Milkmaid

The Levelled Churchyard

The Ruined Maid

The Respectable Burgher On “The Higher Criticism”

Architectural Masks

The Tenant-For-Life

The King's Experiment

The Tree - An Old Man's Story

Her Late Husband (King's Hintock, 182*)

The Self-Unseeing

In Tenebris I

In Tenebris Ii

In Tenebris Iii

The Church-Builder

The Lost Pyx - A Mediæval Legend

Tess's Lament

The Supplanter - A Tale

Imitations, Etc.

Sapphic Fragment

Catullus: Xxxi

After Schiller

Song From Heine

From Victor Hugo

Cardinal Bembo's Epitaph On Raphael


“I Have Lived With Shades”

Memory And I

Time's Laughing Stocks And Other Verses.

Time's Laughingstocks

The Revisitation

A Trampwoman's Tragedy

The Two Rosalinds

A Sunday Morning Tragedy

The House Of Hospitalities


John And Jane

The Curate's Kindness - A Workhouse Irony

The Flirt's Tragedy

The Rejected Member's Wife

The Farm-Woman's Winter

Autumn In King's Hintock Park

Shut Out That Moon

Reminiscences Of A Dancing Man

The Dead Man Walking

More Love Lyrics


Her Definition

The Division

On The Departure Platform

In A Cathedral City

“I Say I'll Seek Her”

Her Father

At Waking

Four Footprints

In The Vaulted Way

In The Mind's Eye

The End Of The Episode

The Sigh

“In The Night She Came”

The Conformers

The Dawn After The Dance

The Sun On The Letter

The Night Of The Dance


The Voice Of The Thorn

From Her In The Country

Her Confession

To An Impersonator Of Rosalind

To An Actress

The Minute Before Meeting

He Abjures Love

A Set Of Country Songs

Let Me Enjoy

At Casterbridge Fair

The Dark-Eyed Gentleman

To Carrey Clavel

The Orphaned Old Maid

The Spring Call


News For Her Mother

The Fiddler

The Husband's View


The Homecoming

Pieces Occasional And Various

A Church Romance

The Rash Bride

The Dead Quire

The Christening

A Dream Question

By The Barrows

A Wife And Another

The Roman Road

The Vampirine Fair

The Reminder

The Rambler

Night In The Old Home

After The Last Breath

In Childbed

The Pine Planters

The Dear

One We Knew

She Hears The Storm

A Wet Night

Before Life And After

New Year's Eve

God's Education

To Sincerity


The Unborn

The Man He Killed

Geographical Knowledge

One Ralph Blossom Soliloquizes

The Noble Lady's Tale


Wagtail And Baby


George Meredith

Yell'ham-Wood's Story

A Young Man's Epigram On Existence

Moments Of Vision And Miscellaneous Verses

Moments Of Vision

The Voice Of Things

“Why Be At Pains?”

“We Sat At The Window”

Afternoon Service At Mellstock

At The Wicket-Gate

In A Museum

Apostrophe To An Old Psalm Tune

At The Word “Farewell”

First Sight Of Her And After

The Rival


“You Were The Sort That Men Forget”

She, I, And They

Near Lanivet, 1872

Joys Of Memory

To The Moon

Copying Architecture In An Old Minster

To Shakespeare After Three Hundred Years

Quid Hic Agis?

On A Midsummer Eve

Timing Her

Before Knowledge

The Blinded Bird

“The Wind Blew Words”

The Faded Face

The Riddle

The Duel

At Mayfair Lodgings

To My Father's Violin

The Statue Of Liberty

The Background And The Figure

The Change

Sitting On The Bridge

The Young Churchwarden

“I Travel As A Phantom Now”

Lines To A Movement In Mozart's E-Flat Symphony

“In The Seventies”

The Pedigree

His Heart - A Woman's Dream

Where They Lived

The Occultation

Life Laughs Onward

The Peace-Offering

“Something Tapped”

The Wound

A Merrymaking In Question

“I Said And Sang Her Excellence”

A January Night

A Kiss

The Announcement

The Oxen

The Tresses

The Photograph

On A Heath

An Anniversary

“By The Runic Stone”

The Pink Frock


In Her Precincts

The Last Signal

The House Of Silence

Great Things

The Chimes

The Figure In The Scene

“Why Did I Sketch”


The Blow

Love The Monopolist

At Middle-Field Gate In February

The Youth Who Carried A Light

The Head Above The Fog

Overlooking The River Stour

The Musical Box

On Sturminster Foot-Bridge

Royal Sponsors

Old Furniture

A Thought In Two Moods

The Last Performance

“You On The Tower”

The Interloper

Logs On The Hearth

The Sunshade

The Ageing House

The Caged Goldfinch

At Madame Tussaud's In Victorian Years

The Ballet

The Five Students

The Wind's Prophecy

During Wind And Rain

He Prefers Her Earthly

The Dolls

Molly Gone

A Backward Spring

Looking Across

At A Seaside Town In 1869

The Glimpse

The Pedestrian - An Incident Of 1883

“Who's In The Next Room?”

At A Country Fair

The Memorial Brass: 186*

Her Love-Birds

Paying Calls

The Upper Birch-Leaves

“It Never Looks Like Summer”

Everything Comes

The Man With A Past

He Fears His Good Fortune

He Wonders About Himself


He Revisits His First School

“I Thought, My Heart”


[At Last I Entered A Long Dark Gallery]

Midnight On The Great Western

Honeymoon Time At An Inn

The Robin

“I Rose And Went To Rou'tor Town”

The Nettles

In A Waiting-Room

The Clock-Winder

Old Excursions

The Masked Face

In A Whispering Gallery

The Something That Saved Him

The Enemy's Portrait


On The Doorstep

Signs And Tokens

Paths Of Former Time

The Clock Of The Years

At The Piano

The Shadow On The Stone

In The Garden

The Tree And The Lady

An Upbraiding

The Young Glass-Stainer

Looking At A Picture On An Anniversary

The Choirmaster's Burial

The Man Who Forgot

While Drawing In A Churchyard

“For Life I Had Never Cared Greatly”

Poems Of War And Patriotism

“Men Who March Away”

His Country

England To Germany In 1914

On The Belgian Expatriation

An Appeal To America On Behalf Of The Belgian Destitute

The Pity Of It

In Time Of Wars And Tumults

In Time Of “The Breaking Of Nations”

Cry Of The Homeless - After The Prussian Invasion Of Belgium

Before Marching And After

“Often When Warring”

Then And Now

A Call To National Service

The Dead And The Living One

A New Year's Eve In War Time

“I Met A Man”

“I Looked Up From My Writing”

Finale - The Coming Of The End


Late Lyrics And Earlier


The Maid Of Keinton Mandeville (A Tribute To Sir H. Bishop)

Summer Schemes


Faintheart In A Railway Train

At Moonrise And Onwards

The Garden Seat

Barthélémon At Vauxhall

“I Sometimes Think”

Jezreel - On Its Seizure By The English Under Allenby, September 1918

A Jog-Trot Pair

“The Curtains Now Are Drawn”

“According To The Mighty Working”

“I Was Not He”

The West-Of-Wessex Girl

Welcome Home

Going And Staying

Read By Moonlight

At A House In Hampstead - Sometime The Dwelling Of John Keats

A Woman's Fancy

Her Song

A Wet August

The Dissemblers

To A Lady Playing And Singing In The Morning

“A Man Was Drawing Near To Me”

The Strange House

“As 'Twere To-Night”

The Contretemps

A Gentleman's Epitaph On Himself And A Lady, Who Were Buried Together

The Old Gown

A Night In November

“Where Three Roads Joined”

“And There Was A Great Calm”

Haunting Fingers - A Phantasy In A Museum Of Musical Instruments

The Woman I Met

“If It's Ever Spring Again”

The Two Houses

On Stinsford Hill At Midnight

The Fallow Deer At The Lonely House

The Selfsame Song

The Wanderer

A Wife Comes Back

A Young Man's Exhortation

At Lulworth Cove A Century Back

A Bygone Occasion

Two Serenades

The Wedding Morning

End Of The Year 1912

The Chimes Play “Life's A Bumper!”

“I Worked No Wile To Meet You”

At The Railway Station, Upway

Side By Side

Dream Of The City Shopwoman

A Maiden's Pledge

The Child And The Sage


An Autumn Rain-Scene

Meditations On A Holiday

An Experience

The Beauty

The Collector Cleans His Picture

The Wood Fire

Saying Good-Bye

On The Tune Called The Old-Hundred And-Fourth

The Opportunity

Evelyn G. Of Christminster

The Rift

Voices From Things Growing In A Churchyard

On The Way

“She Did Not Turn”

Growth In May

The Children And Sir Nameless

At The Royal Academy

Her Temple

A Two-Years' Idyll

By Henstridge Cross At The Year's End


“I Look In Her Face”

After The War

“If You Had Known”

The Chapel-Organist

Fetching Her

“Could I But Will”

She Revisits Alone The Church Of Her Marriage

At The Entering Of The New Year

I (Old Style)

Ii (New Style)

They Would Not Come

After A Romantic Day

The Two Wives

“I Knew A Lady”

A House With A History

A Procession Of Dead Days

He Follows Himself

The Singing Woman

Without, Not Within Her

“O I Won't Lead A Homely Life”

In The Small Hours

The Little Old Table

Vagg Hollow

The Dream Is—Which?

The Country Wedding

First Or Last

Lonely Days

“What Did It Mean?”

At The Dinner-Table

The Marble Tablet

The Master And The Leaves

Last Words To A Dumb Friend

A Drizzling Easter Morning

On One Who Lived And Died Where He Was Born

The Second Night

She Who Saw Not

The Old Workman

The Sailor's Mother

Outside The Casement - (A Reminiscence Of The War)

The Passer-By

“I Was The Midmost”

A Sound In The Night

On A Discovered Curl Of Hair

An Old Likeness

Her Apotheosis

“Sacred To The Memory”

To A Well-Named Dwelling

The Whipper-In

A Military Appointment

The Milestone By The Rabbit-Burrow

The Lament Of The Looking-Glass


The Old Neighbour And The New

The Chosen

The Inscription

The Marble-Streeted Town

A Woman Driving

A Woman's Trust

Best Times

The Casual Acquaintance

Intra Sepulchrum

The Whitewashed Wall

Just The Same

The Last Time

The Seven Times

The Sun's Last Look On The Country Girl

In A London Flat

Drawing Details In An Old Church

Rake-Hell Muses

The Colour

Murmurs In The Gloom


An Ancient To Ancients

After Reading Psalms Xxxix., Xl., Etc.


Satires Of Circumstance, Lyrics And Reveries

Lyrics And Reveries In Front Of The Landscape

Channel Firing

The Convergence Of The Twain

The Ghost Of The Past

After The Visit

To Meet, Or Otherwise

The Difference

The Sun On The Bookcase

“When I Set Out For Lyonnesse”

A Thunderstorm In Town

The Torn Letter

Beyond The Last Lamp

The Face At The Casement

Lost Love

“My Spirit Will Not Haunt The Mound”

Wessex Heights

In Death Divided

The Place On The Map

The Schreckhorn

A Singer Asleep

A Plaint To Man

God's Funeral

Spectres That Grieve

“Ah, Are You Digging On My Grave?”


The Discovery


Before And After Summer

At Day-Close In November

The Year's Awakening

Under The Waterfall

The Going

Your Last Drive

The Walk

Rain On A Grave

“I Found Her Out There”

Without Ceremony


The Haunter

The Voice

His Visitor

A Circular

A Dream Or No

After A Journey

A Death-Day Recalled

Beeny Cliff

At Castle Boterel


The Phantom Horsewoman

The Spell Of The Rose

St. Launce's Revisited

Where The Picnic Was

The Wistful Lady

The Woman In The Rye

The Cheval-Glass

The Re-Enactment

Her Secret

“She Charged Me”

The Newcomer's Wife

A Conversation At Dawn

A King's Soliloquy On The Night Of His Funeral

The Coronation

Aquae Sulis

Seventy-Four And Twenty

The Elopement

“I Rose Up As My Custom Is”

A Week

Had You Wept

Bereft, She Thinks She Dreams

In The British Museum

In The Servants' Quarters

The Obliterate Tomb

“Regret Not Me”

The Recalcitrants

Starlings On The Roof

The Moon Looks In

The Sweet Hussy

The Telegram

The Moth-Signal

Seen By The Waits

The Two Soldiers

The Death Of Regret

In The Days Of Crinoline

The Roman Gravemounds

The Workbox

The Sacrilege (A Ballad-Tragedy)

The Abbey Mason

The Jubilee Of A Magazine

The Satin Shoes

Exeunt Omnes

A Poet

Satires Of Circumstance In Fifteen Glimpses

I At Tea

Ii In Church

Iii By Her Aunt's Grave

Iv In The Room Of The Bride-Elect

V At A Watering-Place

Vi In The Cemetery

Vii Outside The Window

Viii In The Study

Ix At The Altar-Rail

X In The Nuptial Chamber

Xi In The Restaurant

Xii At The Draper's

Xiii On The Death-Bed

Xiv Over The Coffin

Xv In The Moonlight

Human Shows,  Far Phantasies, Songs, And Trifles

Waiting Both

A Bird-Scene At A Rural Dwelling

“Any Little Old Song”

In A Former Resort After Many Years

A Cathedral Façade At Midnight

The Turnip-Hoer

The Carrier

Lover To Mistress

The Monument-Maker

Circus-Rider To Ringmaster

Last Week In October

Come Not; Yet Come!

The Later Autumn

“Let Me Believe”

At A Fashionable Dinner

Green Slates

An East-End Curate

At Rushy-Pond

Four In The Morning

On The Esplanade

In St. Paul's A While Ago

Coming Up Oxford Street: Evening

A Last Journey

Singing Lovers

The Month's Calendar

A Spellbound Palace

When Dead

Sine Prole

Ten Years Since

Every Artemisia

The Best She Could

The Graveyard Of Dead Creeds

“There Seemed A Strangeness”

A Night Of Questionings

Xenophanes, The Monist Of Colophon

Life And Death At Sunrise

Night-Time In Mid-Fall

A Sheep Fair


Snow In The Suburbs

A Light Snow-Fall After Frost

Winter Night In Woodland

Ice On The Highway

Music In A Snowy Street

The Frozen Greenhouse

Two Lips

No Buyers

One Who Married Above Him

The New Toy

Queen Caroline To Her Guests

Plena Timoris

The Weary Walker

Last Love-Word

Nobody Comes

In The Street

The Last Leaf

At Wynyard's Gap

At Shag's Heath

A Second Attempt

“Freed The Fret Of Thinking”

The Absolute Explains

“So, Time”

An Inquiry

The Faithful Swallow

In Sherborne Abbey

The Pair He Saw Pass

The Mock Wife

The Fight On Durnover Moor

Last Look Round St. Martin's Fair

The Caricature

A Leader Of Fashion

Midnight On Beechen, 187*

The Aërolite

The Prospect

Genitrix Laesa

The Fading Rose

When Oats Were Reaped


“She Opened The Door”

“What's There To Tell?”

The Harbour Bridge

Vagrant's Song

Farmer Dunman's Funeral

The Sexton At Longpuddle

The Harvest-Supper

At A Pause In A Country Dance

On The Portrait Of A Woman About To Be Hanged

The Church And The Wedding

The Shiver

“Not Only I”

She Saw Him, She Said

Once At Swanage

The Flower's Tragedy

At The Aquatic Sports

A Watcher's Regret

Horses Aboard

The History Of An Hour

The Missed Train

Under High-Stoy Hill

At The Mill

Alike And Unlike

The Thing Unplanned

The Sheep-Boy

Retty's Phases

A Poor Man And A Lady

An Expostulation

To A Sea-Cliff

The Echo-Elf Answers

Cynic's Epitaph

A Beauty's Soliloquy During Her Honeymoon


He Inadvertently Cures His Love-Pains

The Peace Peal

Lady Vi

A Popular Personage At Home

Inscriptions For A Peal Of Eight Bells

A Refusal

Epitaph On A Pessimist

The Protean Maiden

A Watering-Place Lady Inventoried

The Sea Fight


The Rover Come Home

“Known Had I”

The Pat Of Butter

Bags Of Meat

The Sundial On A Wet Day

Her Haunting-Ground

A Parting-Scene

Shortening Days At The Homestead

Days To Recollect

To C. F. H.

The High-School Lawn

The Forbidden Banns

The Paphian Ball

On Martock Moor

That Moment


This Summer And Last

“Nothing Matters Much”

In The Evening

The Six Boards

Before My Friend Arrived


“Why She Moved House”

Tragedian To Tragedienne

The Lady Of Forebodings

The Bird-Catcher's Boy

A Hurried Meeting


A Leaving

Song To An Old Burden

“Why Do I?”

Winter Words In Various Moods And Metres

The New Dawn's Business

Proud Songsters

Thoughts At Midnight

“I Am The One”

The Prophetess

A Wish For Unconsciousness

The Bad Example

To Louisa In The Lane

Love Watches A Window

The Love-Letters

An Unkindly May

Unkept Good Fridays

The Mound

Liddell And Scott


Reluctant Confession

Expectation And Experience

Aristodemus The Messenian

Evening Shadows

The Three Tall Men

The Lodging-House Fuchsias

The Whaler's Wife

Throwing A Tree

The War-Wife Of Catknoll

Concerning His Old Home

Her Second Husband Hears Her Story

Yuletide In A Younger World

After The Death Of A Friend

The Son's Portrait

Lying Awake

The Lady In The Furs

Childhood Among The Ferns

A Countenance

A Poet's Thought


“I Watched A Blackbird”

A Nightmare, And The Next Thing

To A Tree In London

The Felled Elm And She

He Did Not Know Me

So Various

A Self-Glamourer

The Dead Bastard

The Clasped Skeletons

In The Marquee

After The Burial

The Mongrel

Concerning Agnes

Henley Regatta

An Evening In Galilee

The Brother

We Field-Women

A Practical Woman

Squire Hooper

“A Gentleman's Second-Hand Suit”

“We Say We Shall Not Meet”

Seeing The Moon Rise

Song To Aurore

He Never Expected Much

Standing By The Mantelpiece

Boys Then And Now

That Kiss In The Dark

A Necessitarian's Epitaph

Burning The Holly


The Second Visit

Our Old Friend Dualism

Faithful Wilson

Gallant's Song

A Philosophical Fantasy

A Question Of Marriage

The Letter's Triumph

A Forgotten Miniature

Whispered At The Church-Opening

In Weatherbury Stocks

A Placid Man's Epitaph

The New Boots

The Musing Maiden

Lorna The Second

A Daughter Returns

The Third Kissing-Gate

Drinking Song

The Tarrying Bridegroom

The Destined Pair

A Musical Incident

June Leaves And Autumn

No Bell-Ringing

“I Looked Back”

The Aged Newspaper Soliloquizes

Christmas: 1924

The Single Witness

How She Went To Ireland

Dead “Wessex” The Dog To The Household

The Woman Who Went East

Not Known

The Boy's Dream

The Gap In The White

Family Portraits

The Catching Ballet Of The Wedding Clothes

A Winsome Woman

The Ballad Of Love's Skeleton

A Private Man On Public Men

Christmas In The Elgin Room

“We Are Getting To The End”

He Resolves To Say No More

The Poetical Works Of Thomas Hardy (Annotated  Edition)

Jazzybee Verlag Jürgen Beck

86450 Altenmünster, Loschberg 9


ISBN: 9783849640453

[email protected]

Thomas Hardy – A Biographical Primer

English novelist, was born in Dorsetshire on the 2nd of June 1840. His family was one of the branches of the Dorset Hardys, formerly of influence in and near the valley of the Frome, claiming descent of John Le Hardy of Jersey (son of Clement Le Hardy, lieutenant-governor of that island in 1488), who settled in the west of England. His maternal ancestors were the Swetman, Childs or Child, and kindred families, who before and after 1635 were small landed proprietors in Melbury Osmond, Dorset, and adjoining parishes. He was educated at local schools, 1848–1854, and afterwards privately, and in 1856 was articled to Mr. John Hicks, an ecclesiastical architect of Dorchester. In 1859 he began writing verse and essays, but in 1861 was compelled to apply himself more strictly to architecture, sketching and measuring many old Dorset churches with a view to their restoration. In 1862 he went to London (which he had first visited at the age of nine) and became assistant to the late Sir Arthur Blomfield, R.A. In 1863 he won the medal of the Royal Institute of British Architects for an essay on Coloured Brick and Terra-cotta Architecture, and in the same year won the prize of the Architectural Association for design. In March 1965 his first short story was published in Chamber’s Journal, and during the next two or three years he wrote a great deal of verse, being somewhat uncertain whether to take to architecture or to literature as a profession. In 1867 he left London for Weymouth, and during that and the following year wrote a “purpose” story, which in 1869 was accepted by Messrs Chapman and Hall. The manuscript had been read by Mr. George Meredith, who asked the writer to call on him, and advised him not to print it, but to try another, with more plot. The manuscript was withdrawn and re-written, but never published. In 1870 Mr. Hardy took Mr. Meredith’s advice too literally, and constructed a novel that was all plot, which was published under the title Desperate Remedies. In 1872 appeared Under the Greenwood Tree, “a rural painting of the Dutch school,” in which Mr. Hardy had already “found himself,” and which he has never surpassed in happy and delicate perfection of art. A Pair of Blue Eyes, in which tragedy and irony come into his work together, was published in 1873. In 1874 Mr. Hardy married Emma Lavinia, daughter of the late T. Attersoll Gifford of Plymouth. His first popular success was made by Far from the Madding Crowd (1874), which, on its appearance anonymously in the Cornhill Magazine, was attributed by many to George Eliot. Then came The Hand of Ethelberta (1876), described, not inaptly, as “a comedy in chapters”; The Return of the Native (1878), the most sombre and, in some ways, the most powerful and characteristic of Mr. Hardy’s novels; The Trumpet-Major (1880); A Laodicean (1881); Two on a Tower (1882), a long excursion in constructive irony; The Mayor of Casterbridge (1886); The Woodlanders (1887); Wessex Tales (1888); A Group of Noble Dames (1891); Tess of the D’ Urbervilles (1891), Mr. Hardy’s most famous novel; Life’s Little Ironies (1894); Jude the Obscure (1895), his most thoughtful and least popular book; The Well-Beloved, a reprint, with some revision, of a story originally published in the Illustrated London News in 1892 (1897); Wessex Poems, written during the previous thirty years, with illustrations by the author; and The Dynasts (2 parts, 1904–1906). In 1909 appeared Time’s Laughing-stocks and other Verses. In all his works Mr. Hardy is concerned with one thing, seen under two aspects; not civilizations, nor manners, but the principle of life itself, invisibly realized in humanity as sex, seen visibly in the world as what we call nature. He is a fatalist, perhaps rather a determinist, and he studies the workings of fate or law (ruling through inexorable moods or humours), in the chief vivifying and disturbing influence in life, women. His view of women is more French than English; it is subtle, a little cruel, not as tolerant as it seems, thoroughly a man’s point of view, and not, as with Mr. Meredith, man’s and woman’s at once. He sees all that is irresponsible for good and evil in a woman’s character, all that is untrustworthy in her brain and will, all that is alluring in her variability. He is her apologist, but always with a reserve of private judgment. No one has created more attractive women of a certain class, women whom a man would have been more likely to love or regret loving. In his earlier books he is somewhat careful over the reputation of his heroines; gradually, he allows them more liberty, with a franker treatment of instinct and its consequence. Jude the Obscure is perhaps the most unbiased consideration in English fiction of the more complicated question of sex. There is almost no passion in his work, neither the author nor his characters ever seeming to pass beyond the state of curiosity, the most intellectually interesting of limitations, under the influence of any emotion. In his feeling for nature, curiosity sometimes seems to broaden into a more intimate communion. The heath, the village with its peasants, the change of every hour among the fields and on the roads of that English countryside which he made his own—the Dorsetshire and Wiltshire “Wessex”—mean more to him, in a sense, than even the spectacle of man and woman in their blind and painful and absorbing struggle for existence. His knowledge of woman confirms him in a suspension of judgment; his knowledge of nature brings him nearer to the unchanging and consoling element in the world. All the entertainment which he gets out of life comes to him from his contemplation of the peasant, as himself a rooted part of the earth, translating the dumbness of the fields into humour. His peasants have been compared with Shakespeare’s; he has the Shakesperean sense of their placid vegetation by the side of hurrying animal life, to which they act the part of chorus, with an unconscious wisdom in their close, narrow and undistracted view of things. The order of merit was conferred upon Mr. Hardy in July 1910.




Change and chancefulness in my flowering youthtime, Set me sun by sun near to one unchosen; Wrought us fellowlike, and despite divergence, Fused us in friendship.

“Cherish him can I while the true one forthcome— Come the rich fulfiller of my prevision; Life is roomy yet, and the odds unbounded.” So self-communed I.

'Thwart my wistful way did a damsel saunter, Fair, albeit unformed to be all-eclipsing; “Maiden meet,” held I, “till arise my forefelt Wonder of women.”

Long a visioned hermitage deep desiring, Tenements uncouth I was fain to house in: “Let such lodging be for a breath-while,” thought I, “Soon a more seemly.

“Then high handiwork will I make my life-deed, Truth and Light outshow; but the ripe time pending, Intermissive aim at the thing sufficeth.” Thus I. . . . But lo, me!

Mistress, friend, place, aims to be bettered straightway, Bettered not has Fate or my hand's achievement; Sole the showance those of my onward earth-track— Never transcended!


I marked her ruined hues, Her custom-straitened views, And asked, “Can there indwell My Amabel?”

I looked upon her gown, Once rose, now earthen brown; The change was like the knell Of Amabel.

Her step's mechanic ways Had lost the life of May's; Her laugh, once sweet in swell, Spoilt Amabel.

I mused: “Who sings the strain I sang ere warmth did wane? Who thinks its numbers spell His Amabel?”—

Knowing that, though Love cease, Love's race shows no decrease; All find in dorp or dell An Amabel.

—I felt that I could creep To some housetop, and weep That Time the tyrant fell Ruled Amabel!

I said (the while I sighed That love like ours had died), “Fond things I'll no more tell To Amabel,

“But leave her to her fate, And fling across the gate, ‘Till the Last Trump, farewell, O Amabel!’”



If but some vengeful god would call to me From up the sky, and laugh: “Thou suffering thing, Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy, That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!”

Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die, Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited; Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.

But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain, And why unblooms the best hope ever sown? —Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain, And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . . . These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.



TO ---

In vision I roamed the flashing Firmament, So fierce in blazon that the Night waxed wan, As though with awe at orbs of such ostént; And as I thought my spirit ranged on and on

In footless traverse through ghast heights of sky, To the last chambers of the monstrous Dome, Where stars the brightest here are lost to the eye: Then, any spot on our own Earth seemed Home!

And the sick grief that you were far away Grew pleasant thankfulness that you were near, Who might have been, set on some foreign Sphere, Less than a Want to me, as day by day I lived unware, uncaring all that lay Locked in that Universe taciturn and drear.



When you paced forth, to await maternity, A dream of other offspring held my mind, Compounded of us twain as Love designed; Rare forms, that corporate now will never be!

Should I, too, wed as slave to Mode's decree, And each thus found apart, of false desire, A stolid line, whom no high aims will fire As had fired ours could ever have mingled we;

And, grieved that lives so matched should miscompose, Each mourn the double waste; and question dare To the Great Dame whence incarnation flows, Why those high-purposed children never were: What will she answer? That she does not care If the race all such sovereign types unknows.



Snow-bound in woodland, a mournful word, Dropt now and then from the bill of a bird, Reached me on wind-wafts; and thus I heard, Wearily waiting:—

“I planned her a nest in a leafless tree, But the passers eyed and twitted me, And said: ‘How reckless a bird is he, Cheerily mating!’

“Fear-filled, I stayed me till summer-tide, In lewth of leaves to throne her bride; But alas! her love for me waned and died. Wearily waiting.

“Ah, had I been like some I see, Born to an evergreen nesting-tree, None had eyed and twitted me, Cheerily mating!”



Your troubles shrink not, though I feel them less Here, far away, than when I tarried near; I even smile old smiles—with listlessness— Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere.

A thought too strange to house within my brain Haunting its outer precincts I discern:—That I will not show zeal again to learnYour griefs, and, sharing them, renew my pain. . . .

It goes, like murky bird or buccaneer That shapes its lawless figure on the main, And staunchness tends to banish utterly The unseemly instinct that had lodgment here; Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge be Than that, though banned, such instinct was in me!



We stood by a pond that winter day, And the sun was white, as though chidden of God, And a few leaves lay on the starving sod; —They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove Over tedious riddles of years ago; And some words played between us to and fro On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing Alive enough to have strength to die; And a grin of bitterness swept thereby Like an ominous bird a-wing. . . .

Since then, keen lessons that love deceives, And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree, And a pond edged with grayish leaves.



They bear him to his resting-place— In slow procession sweeping by; I follow at a stranger's space; His kindred they, his sweetheart I. Unchanged my gown of garish dye, Though sable-sad is their attire; But they stand round with griefless eye, Whilst my regret consumes like fire!



Upon a poet's page I wrote Of old two letters of her name; Part seemed she of the effulgent thought Whence that high singer's rapture came. —When now I turn the leaf the same Immortal light illumes the lay, But from the letters of her name The radiance has waned away!



The two were silent in a sunless church, Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving-stones, And wasted carvings passed antique research; And nothing broke the clock's dull monotones.

Leaning against a wormy poppy-head, So wan and worn that he could scarcely stand, —For he was soon to die,—he softly said, “Tell me you love me!”—holding long her hand.

She would have given a world to breathe “yes” truly, So much his life seemed hanging on her mind, And hence she lied, her heart persuaded throughly 'Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind.

But the sad need thereof, his nearing death, So mocked humanity that she shamed to prize A world conditioned thus, or care for breath Where Nature such dilemmas could devise.



Though I waste watches framing words to fetter Some unknown spirit to mine in clasp and kiss, Out of the night there looms a sense 'twere better To fail obtaining whom one fails to miss.

For winning love we win the risk of losing, And losing love is as one's life were riven; It cuts like contumely and keen ill-using To cede what was superfluously given.

Let me then never feel the fateful thrilling That devastates the love-worn wooer's frame, The hot ado of fevered hopes, the chilling That agonizes disappointed aim! So may I live no junctive law fulfilling, And my heart's table bear no woman's name.




When you shall see me in the toils of Time, My lauded beauties carried off from me, My eyes no longer stars as in their prime, My name forgot of Maiden Fair and Free;

When, in your being, heart concedes to mind, And judgment, though you scarce its process know, Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined, And you are irked that they have withered so:

Remembering mine the loss is, not the blame, That Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill, Knowing me in my soul the very same— One who would die to spare you touch of ill!— Will you not grant to old affection's claim The hand of friendship down Life's sunless hill?



Perhaps, long hence, when I have passed away, Some other's feature, accent, thought like mine, Will carry you back to what I used to say, And bring some memory of your love's decline.

Then you may pause awhile and think, “Poor jade!” And yield a sigh to me—as ample due, Not as the tittle of a debt unpaid To one who could resign her all to you—

And thus reflecting, you will never see That your thin thought, in two small words conveyed, Was no such fleeting phantom-thought to me, But the Whole Life wherein my part was played; And you amid its fitful masquerade A Thought—as I in your life seem to be!



I will be faithful to thee; aye, I will! And Death shall choose me with a wondering eye That he did not discern and domicile One his by right ever since that last Good-bye!

I have no care for friends, or kin, or prime Of manhood who deal gently with me here; Amid the happy people of my time Who work their love's fulfilment, I appear

Numb as a vane that cankers on its point, True to the wind that kissed ere canker came: Despised by souls of Now, who would disjoint The mind from memory, making Life all aim,

My old dexterities in witchery gone, And nothing left for Love to look upon.



This love puts all humanity from me; I can but maledict her, pray her dead, For giving love and getting love of thee— Feeding a heart that else mine own had fed!

How much I love I know not, life not known, Save as one unit I would add love by; But this I know, my being is but thine own— Fused from its separateness by ecstasy.

And thus I grasp thy amplitudes, of her Ungrasped, though helped by nigh-regarding eyes; Canst thou then hate me as an envier Who see unrecked what I so dearly prize? Believe me, Lost One, Love is lovelier The more it shapes its moan in selfish-wise.



(E. L. G.)

Beneath a knap where flown Nestlings play, Within walls of weathered stone, Far away From the files of formal houses, By the bough the firstling browses, Lives a Sweet: no merchants meet, No man barters, no man sells Where she dwells.

Upon that fabric fair “Here is she!” Seems written everywhere Unto me. But to friends and nodding neighbours, Fellow-wights in lot and labours, Who descry the times as I, No such lucid legend tells Where she dwells.

Should I lapse to what I was Ere we met; (Such will not be, but because Some forget Let me feign it)—none would notice That where she I know by rote is Spread a strange and withering change. Like a drying of the wells Where she dwells.

To feel I might have kissed— Loved as true— Otherwhere, nor Mine have missed My life through, Had I never wandered near her, Is a smart severe—severer In the thought that she is nought, Even as I, beyond the dells Where she dwells.

And Devotion droops her glance To recall What bond-servants of Chance We are all. I but found her in that, going On my errant path unknowing, I did not out-skirt the spot That no spot on earth excels, —Where she dwells!




When Lawyers strive to heal a breach, And Parsons practise what they preach; Then Boney he'll come pouncing down, And march his men on London town! Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lorum, Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay!

When Justices hold equal scales, And Rogues are only found in jails; Then Boney he'll come pouncing down, And march his men on London town! Rollicum-rorum, &c.

When Rich Men find their wealth a curse, And fill therewith the Poor Man's purse; Then Boney he'll come pouncing down, And march his men on London town! Rollicum-rorum, &c.

When Husbands with their Wives agree, And Maids won't wed from modesty; Then Boney he'll come pouncing down, And march his men on London town! Rollicum-rorum, tol-tol-lorum, Rollicum-rorum, tol-lol-lay!


Published in “The Trumpet-Major” 1880.



By Corp'l Tullidge, in “The Trumpet Major.”

In Memory of S. C. (Pensioner). Died 184*

We trenched, we trumpeted and drummed, And from our mortars tons of iron hummed Ath'art the ditch, the month we bombed The Town o' Valencieën.

'Twas in the June o' Ninety-dree (The Duke o' Yark our then Commander been) The German Legion, Guards, and we Laid siege to Valencieën.

This was the first time in the war That French and English spilled each other's gore; —Few dreamt how far would roll the roar Begun at Valencieën!

'Twas said that we'd no business there A-topperèn the French for disagreën; However, that's not my affair— We were at Valencieën.

Such snocks and slats, since war began Never knew raw recruit or veteràn: Stone-deaf therence went many a man Who served at Valencieën.

Into the streets, ath'art the sky, A hundred thousand balls and bombs were fleën; And harmless townsfolk fell to die Each hour at Valencieën!

And, sweatèn wi' the bombardiers, A shell was slent to shards anighst my ears: —'Twas nigh the end of hopes and fears For me at Valencieën!

They bore my wownded frame to camp, And shut my gapèn skull, and washed en cleän, And jined en wi' a zilver clamp Thik night at Valencieën.

“We've fetched en back to quick from dead But never more on earth while rose is red Will drum rouse Corpel!” Doctor said O' me at Valencieën.

'Twer true. No voice o' friend or foe Can reach me now, or any livèn beën; And little have I power to know Since then at Valencieën!

I never hear the zummer hums O' bees; and don' know when the cuckoo comes; But night and day I hear the bombs We threw at Valencieën. . . .

As for the Duke o' Yark in war, There may be volk whose judgment o' en is meän; But this I say—he was not far From great at Valencieën.

O' wild wet nights, when all seems sad, My wownds come back, as though new wownds I'd had; But yet—at times I'm sort o' glad I fout at Valencieën.

Well: Heaven wi' its jasper halls Is now the on'y Town I care to be in. . . . Good Lord, if Nick should bomb the walls As we did Valencieën!



(August 1813)

With Thoughts of Sergeant M--- (Pensioner), who died 185*

“Why, Sergeant, stray on the Ivel Way, As though at home there were spectres rife? From first to last 'twas a proud career! And your sunny years with a gracious wife Have brought you a daughter dear.

“I watched her to-day; a more comely maid, As she danced in her muslin bowed with blue, Round a Hintock maypole never gayed.” —“Aye, aye; I watched her this day, too, As it happens,” the Sergeant said.

“My daughter is now,” he again began, “Of just such an age as one I knew When we of the Line, the Forlorn-hope van, On an August morning—a chosen few— Stormed San Sebastian.

“She's a score less three; so about was she— The maiden I wronged in Peninsular days. . . . You may prate of your prowess in lusty times, But as years gnaw inward you blink your bays, And see too well your crimes!

“We'd stormed it at night, by the flapping light Of burning towers, and the mortar's boom: We'd topped the breach; but had failed to stay, For our files were misled by the baffling gloom; And we said we'd storm by day.

“So, out of the trenches, with features set, On that hot, still morning, in measured pace, Our column climbed; climbed higher yet, Past the fauss'bray, scarp, up the curtain-face, And along the parapet.

“From the batteried hornwork the cannoneers Hove crashing balls of iron fire; On the shaking gap mount the volunteers In files, and as they mount expire Amid curses, groans, and cheers.

“Five hours did we storm, five hours re-form, As Death cooled those hot blood pricked on; Till our cause was helped by a woe within: They were blown from the summit we'd leapt upon, And madly we entered in.

“On end for plunder, 'mid rain and thunder That burst with the lull of our cannonade, We vamped the streets in the stifling air— Our hunger unsoothed, our thirst unstayed— And ransacked the buildings there.

“From the shady vaults of their walls of white We rolled rich puncheons of Spanish grape,


(As sung by Mr. Charles Charrington in the play of “The Three Wayfarers”)

O my trade it is the rarest one, Simple shepherds all— My trade is a sight to see; For my customers I tie, and take 'em up on high, And waft 'em to a far countree!

My tools are but common ones, Simple shepherds all— My tools are no sight to see: A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing. Are implements enough for me!

To-morrow is my working day, Simple shepherds all— To-morrow is a working day for me: For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta'en, And on his soul may God ha' mer-cy!

Printed in “The Three Strangers,” 1883.



The sun had wheeled from Grey's to Dammer's Crest, And still I mused on that Thing imminent: At length I sought the High-street to the West.

The level flare raked pane and pediment And my wrecked face, and shaped my nearing friend Like one of those the Furnace held unshent.

“I've news concerning her,” he said. “Attend. They fly to-night at the late moon's first gleam: Watch with thy steel: two righteous thrusts will end

Her shameless visions and his passioned dream. I'll watch with thee, to testify thy wrong— To aid, maybe.—Law consecrates the scheme.”

I started, and we paced the flags along Till I replied: “Since it has come to this I'll do it! But alone. I can be strong.”

Three hours past Curfew, when the Froom's mild hiss Reigned sole, undulled by whirr of merchandize, From Pummery-Tout to where the Gibbet is,

I crossed my pleasaunce hard by Glyd'path Rise, And stood beneath the wall. Eleven strokes went, And to the door they came, contrariwise,

And met in clasp so close I had but bent My lifted blade on either to have let Their two souls loose upon the firmament.

But something held my arm. “A moment yet As pray-time ere you wantons die!” I said; And then they saw me. Swift her gaze was set

With eye and cry of love illimited Upon her Heart-king. Never upon me Had she thrown look of love so thoroughsped! . . .

At once she flung her faint form shieldingly On his, against the vengeance of my vows; The which o'erruling, her shape shielded he.

Blanked by such love, I stood as in a drowse, And the slow moon edged from the upland nigh, My sad thoughts moving thuswise: “I may house

And I may husband her, yet what am I But licensed tyrant to this bonded pair? Says Charity, Do as ye would be done by.” . . .

Hurling my iron to the bushes there, I bade them stay. And, as if brain and breast Were passive, they walked with me to the stair.

Inside the house none watched; and on we prest Before a mirror, in whose gleam I read Her beauty, his,—and mine own mien unblest;

Till at her room I turned. “Madam,” I said, “Have you the wherewithal for this? Pray speak. Love fills no cupboard. You'll need daily bread.”

“We've nothing, sire,” she lipped; “and nothing seek. 'Twere base in me to rob my lord unware; Our hands will earn a pittance week by week.”

And next I saw she had piled her raiment rare Within the garde-robes, and her household purse, Her jewels, her least lace of personal wear;

And stood in homespun. Now grown wholly hers, I handed her the gold, her jewels all, And him the choicest of her robes diverse.

“I'll take you to the doorway in the wall, And then adieu,” I told them. “Friends, withdraw.” They did so; and she went—beyond recall.

And as I paused beneath the arch I saw Their moonlit figures—slow, as in surprise— Descend the slope, and vanish on the haw.

“‘Fool,’ some will say,” I thought.—“But who is wise, Save God alone, to weigh my reasons why?” —“Hast thou struck home?” came with the boughs' night-sighs.

It was my friend. “I have struck well. They fly, But carry wounds that none can cicatrize.” —“Not mortal?” said he. “Lingering—worse,” said I.



Scene.—The Master-tradesmen's Parlour at the Old Ship Inn, Casterbridge. Evening.

“Old Norbert with the flat blue cap— A German said to be— Why let your pipe die on your lap, Your eyes blink absently?”

—“Ah! . . . Well, I had thought till my cheek was wet Of my mother—her voice and mien When she used to sing and pirouette, And tap the tambourine

“To the march that yon street-fiddler plies: She told me 'twas the same She'd heard from the trumpets, when the Allies Burst on her home like flame.

“My father was one of the German Hussars, My mother of Leipzig; but he, Being quartered here, fetched her at close of the wars, And a Wessex lad reared me.

“And as I grew up, again and again She'd tell, after trilling that air, Of her youth, and the battles on Leipzig plain And of all that was suffered there! . . .

“—'Twas a time of alarms. Three Chiefs-at-arms Combined them to crush One, And by numbers' might, for in equal fight He stood the matched of none.

“Carl Schwarzenberg was of the plot, And Blücher, prompt and prow, And Jean the Crown-Prince Bernadotte: Buonaparte was the foe.

“City and plain had felt his reign From the North to the Middle Sea, And he'd now sat down in the noble town Of the King of Saxony.

“October's deep dew its wet gossamer threw Upon Leipzig's lawns, leaf-strewn, Where lately each fair avenue Wrought shade for summer noon.

“To westward two dull rivers crept Through miles of marsh and slough, Whereover a streak of whiteness swept— The Bridge of Lindenau.

“Hard by, in the City, the One, care-tossed, Sat pondering his shrunken power; And without the walls the hemming host Waxed denser every hour.

“He had speech that night on the morrow's designs With his chiefs by the bivouac fire, While the belt of flames from the enemy's lines Flared nigher him yet and nigher.

“Three rockets then from the girdling trine Told, ‘Ready!’ As they rose Their flashes seemed his Judgment-Sign For bleeding Europe's woes.

“'Twas seen how the French watch-fires that night Glowed still and steadily; And the Three rejoiced, for they read in the sight That the One disdained to flee. . . .

“—Five hundred guns began the affray On next day morn at nine; Such mad and mangling cannon-play Had never torn human line.

“Around the town three battles beat, Contracting like a gin; As nearer marched the million feet Of columns closing in.

“The first battle nighed on the low Southern side; The second by the Western way; The nearing of the third on the North was heard; —The French held all at bay.

“Against the first band did the Emperor stand; Against the second stood Ney; Marmont against the third gave the order-word: —Thus raged it throughout the day.

“Fifty thousand sturdy souls on those trampled plains and knolls, Who met the dawn hopefully, And were lotted their shares in a quarrel not theirs, Dropt then in their agony.

“‘O,’ the old folks said, ‘ye Preachers stern! O so-called Christian time! When will men's swords to ploughshares turn? When come the promised prime?’ . . .

“—The clash of horse and man which that day began, Closed not as evening wore; And the morrow's armies, rear and van, Still mustered more and more.

“From the City towers the Confederate Powers Were eyed in glittering lines, And up from the vast a murmuring passed As from a wood of pines.

“‘'Tis well to cover a feeble skill By numbers' might!’ scoffed He; ‘But give me a third of their strength, I'd fill Half Hell with their soldiery!’

“All that day raged the war they waged, And again dumb night held reign, Save that ever upspread from the dank deathbed A miles-wide pant of pain.

“Hard had striven brave Ney, the true Bertrand, Victor, and Augereau, Bold Poniatowski, and Lauriston, To stay their overthrow;

“But, as in the dream of one sick to death There comes a narrowing room That pens him, body and limbs and breath, To wait a hideous doom,

“So to Napoleon, in the hush That held the town and towers Through these dire nights, a creeping crush Seemed borne in with the hours.

“One road to the rearward, and but one, Did fitful Chance allow; 'Twas where the Pleiss' and Elster run— The Bridge of Lindenau.

“The nineteenth dawned. Down street and Platz The wasted French sank back, Stretching long lines across the Flats And on the bridgeway track:

“When there surged on the sky an earthen wave, And stones, and men, as though Some rebel churchyard crew updrave Their sepulchres from below.

“To Heaven is blown Bridge Lindenau; Wrecked regiments reel therefrom; And rank and file in masses plough The sullen Elster-Strom.

“A gulf was Lindenau; and dead Were fifties, hundreds, tens; And every current rippled red With Marshal's blood and men's.

“The smart Macdonald swam therein, And barely won the verge; Bold Poniatowski plunged him in Never to re-emerge.

“Then stayed the strife. The remnants wound Their Rhineward way pell-mell; And thus did Leipzig City sound An Empire's passing bell;

“While in cavalcade, with band and blade, Came Marshals, Princes, Kings; And the town was theirs. . . . Ay, as simple maid, My mother saw these things!

“And whenever those notes in the street begin, I recall her, and that far scene, And her acting of how the Allies marched in, And her tap of the tambourine!”


“Si le maréchal Grouchy avait été rejoint par l'officier que Napoléon lui avait expédié la veille à dix heures du soir, toute question eût disparu. Mais cet officier n'était point parvenu à sa destination, ainsi que le maréchal n'a cessé de l'affirmer toute sa vie, et il faut l'en croire, car autrement il n'aurait eu aucune raison pour hésiter. Cet officier avait-il été pris? avait-il passé à l'ennemi? C'est ce qu'on a toujours ignoré.” —Thiers, Histoire de l' Empire.“Waterloo.”

Good Father! . . . It was eve in middle June, And war was waged anew By great Napoleon, who for years had strewn Men's bones all Europe through.

Three nights ere this, with columned corps he'd cross'd The Sambre at Charleroi, To move on Brussels, where the English host Dallied in Parc and Bois.

The yestertide we'd heard the gloomy gun Growl through the long-sunned day From Quatre-Bras and Ligny; till the dun Twilight suppressed the fray;

Albeit therein—as lated tongues bespoke— Brunswick's high heart was drained, And Prussia's Line and Landwehr, though unbroke, Stood cornered and constrained.

And at next noon-time Grouchy slowly passed With thirty thousand men: We hoped thenceforth no army, small or vast, Would trouble us again.

My hut lay deeply in a vale recessed, And never a soul seemed nigh When, reassured at length, we went to rest— My children, wife, and I.

But what was this that broke our humble ease? What noise, above the rain, Above the dripping of the poplar trees That smote along the pane?

—A call of mastery, bidding me arise, Compelled me to the door, At which a horseman stood in martial guise— Splashed—sweating from every pore.

Had I seen Grouchy! Yes? What track took he? Could I lead thither on?— Fulfilment would ensure much gold for me, Perhaps more gifts anon.

“I bear the Emperor's mandate,” then he said, “Charging the Marshal straight To strike between the double host ahead Ere they co-operate,

“Engaging Blücher till the Emperor put Lord Wellington to flight, And next the Prussians. This to set afoot Is my emprise to-night.”

I joined him in the mist; but, pausing, sought To estimate his say. Grouchy had made for Wavre; and yet, on thought, I did not lead that way.

I mused: “If Grouchy thus and thus be told, The clash comes sheer hereon; My farm is stript. While, as for gifts of gold, Money the French have none.

“Grouchy unwarned, moreo'er, the English win, And mine is left to me— They buy, not borrow.”—Hence did I begin To lead him treacherously.

And as we edged Joidoigne with cautious view Dawn pierced the humid air; And still I easted with him, though I knew Never marched Grouchy there.

Near Ottignies we passed, across the Dyle (Lim'lette left far aside), And thence direct toward Pervez and Noville Through green grain, till he cried:

“I doubt thy conduct, man! no track is here— I doubt thy gagèd word!” Thereat he scowled on me, and prancing near, He pricked me with his sword.

“Nay, Captain, hold! We skirt, not trace the course Of Grouchy,” said I then: “As we go, yonder went he, with his force Of thirty thousand men.”

—At length noon nighed; when west, from Saint-John's-Mound, A hoarse artillery boomed, And from Saint-Lambert's upland, chapel-crowned, The Prussian squadrons loomed.

Then leaping to the wet wild path we had kept, “My mission fails!” he cried; “Too late for Grouchy now to intercept, For, peasant, you have lied!”

He turned to pistol me. I sprang, and drew The sabre from his flank, And 'twixt his nape and shoulder, ere he knew, I struck, and dead he sank.