Wessex Poems and Other Verses Part 14

He fainted in his heart, whereon He rose, and sought his plighted one, Resolved to loose her bond withal, Lest she should perish in his fall.

He met her with a careless air, As though he'd ceased to find her fair, And said: "True love is dust to me; I cannot kiss: I tire of thee!"

(That she might scorn him was he fain, To put her sooner out of pain; For incensed love breathes quick and dies, When famished love a-lingering lies.)

Once done, his soul was so betossed, It found no more the force it lost: Hope was his only drink and food, And hope extinct, decay ensued.

And, living long so closely penned, He had not kept a single friend; He dwindled thin as phantoms be, And drooped to death in poverty . . .

Meantime his schoolmate had gone out To join the fortune-finding rout; He liked the winnings of the mart, But wearied of the working part.

He turned to seek a privy lair, Neglecting note of garb and hair, And day by day reclined and thought How he might live by doing nought.

"I plan a valued scheme," he said To some. "But lend me of your bread, And when the vast result looms nigh, In profit you shall stand as I."

Yet they took counsel to restrain Their kindness till they saw the gain; And, since his substance now had run, He rose to do what might be done.

He went unto his Love by night, And said: "My Love, I faint in fight: Deserving as thou dost a crown, My cares shall never drag thee down."

(He had descried a maid whose line Would hand her on much corn and wine, And held her far in worth above One who could only pray and love.)

But this Fair read him; whence he failed To do the deed so blithely hailed; He saw his projects wholly marred, And gloom and want oppressed him hard;

Till, living to so mean an end, Whereby he'd lost his every friend, He perished in a pauper sty, His mate the dying pauper nigh.

And moralists, reflecting, said, As "dust to dust" in burial read Was echoed from each coffin-lid, "These men were like in all they did."

1866.

LINES

Spoken by Miss ADA REHAN at the Lyceum Theatre, July 23, 1890, at a performance on behalf of Lady Jeune's Holiday Fund for City Children.

Before we part to alien thoughts and aims, Permit the one brief word the occasion claims: - When mumming and grave projects are allied, Perhaps an Epilogue is justified.

Our under-purpose has, in truth, to-day Commanded most our musings; least the play: A purpose futile but for your good-will Swiftly responsive to the cry of ill: A purpose all too limited!--to aid Frail human flowerets, sicklied by the shade, In winning some short spell of upland breeze, Or strengthening sunlight on the level leas.

Who has not marked, where the full cheek should be, Incipient lines of lank flaccidity, Lymphatic pallor where the pink should glow, And where the throb of transport, pulses low? - Most tragical of shapes from Pole to Line, O wondering child, unwitting Time's design, Why should Art add to Nature's quandary, And worsen ill by thus immuring thee?

- That races do despite unto their own, That Might supernal do indeed condone Wrongs individual for the general ease, Instance the proof in victims such as these.

Launched into thoroughfares too thronged before, Mothered by those whose protest is "No more!"

Vitalized without option: who shall say That did Life hang on choosing--Yea or Nay - They had not scorned it with such penalty, And nothingness implored of Destiny?

And yet behind the horizon smile serene The down, the cornland, and the stretching green - s.p.a.ce--the child's heaven: scenes which at least ensure Some palliative for ill they cannot cure.

Dear friends--now moved by this poor show of ours To make your own long joy in buds and bowers For one brief while the joy of infant eyes, Changing their urban murk to paradise - You have our thanks!--may your reward include More than our thanks, far more: their grat.i.tude.

"I LOOK INTO MY GLa.s.s"

I look into my gla.s.s, And view my wasting skin, And say, "Would G.o.d it came to pa.s.s My heart had shrunk as thin!"

For then, I, undistrest By hearts grown cold to me, Could lonely wait my endless rest With equanimity.

But Time, to make me grieve; Part steals, lets part abide; And shakes this fragile frame at eve With throbbings of noontide.