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The Complete Poetical Works. Томас ХардиЧитать онлайн книгу.

The Complete Poetical Works - Томас Харди


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there will be better than t’other.

       For peace is assured.

       The men in one wing and their wives in another Is strictly the rule of the Board.”

      V

      Just then one young Pa’son arriving

       Steps up out of breath

       To the side o’ the waggon wherein we were driving

       To Union; and calls out and saith:

      VI

      “Old folks, that harsh order is altered,

       Be not sick of heart!

       The Guardians they poohed and they pished and they paltered

       When urged not to keep you apart.

      VII

      “‘It is wrong,’ I maintained, ‘to divide them,

       Near forty years wed.’

       ‘Very well, sir. We promise, then, they shall abide them

       In one wing together,’ they said.”

      VIII

      Then I sank—knew ’twas quite a foredone thing

       That misery should be

       To the end! . . . To get freed of her there was the one thing

       Had made the change welcome to me.

      IX

      To go there was ending but badly;

       ’Twas shame and ’twas pain;

       “But anyhow,” thought I, “thereby I shall gladly

       Get free of this forty years’ chain.”

      X

      I thought they’d be strangers aroun’ me,

       But she’s to be there!

       Let me jump out o’ waggon and go back and drown me

       At Pummery or Ten-Hatches Weir.

      The Flirt’s Tragedy

       Table of Contents

      (17–)

      Here alone by the logs in my chamber,

       Deserted, decrepit—

       Spent flames limning ghosts on the wainscot

       Of friends I once knew—

      My drama and hers begins weirdly

       Its dumb re-enactment,

       Each scene, sigh, and circumstance passing

       In spectral review.

      —Wealth was mine beyond wish when I met her—

       The pride of the lowland—

       Embowered in Tintinhull Valley

       By laurel and yew;

      And love lit my soul, notwithstanding

       My features’ ill favour,

       Too obvious beside her perfections

       Of line and of hue.

      But it pleased her to play on my passion,

       And whet me to pleadings

       That won from her mirthful negations

       And scornings undue.

      Then I fled her disdains and derisions

       To cities of pleasure,

       And made me the crony of idlers

       In every purlieu.

      Of those who lent ear to my story,

       A needy Adonis

       Gave hint how to grizzle her garden

       From roses to rue,

      Could his price but be paid for so purging

       My scorner of scornings:

       Thus tempted, the lust to avenge me

       Germed inly and grew.

      I clothed him in sumptuous apparel,

       Consigned to him coursers,

       Meet equipage, liveried attendants

       In full retinue.

      So dowered, with letters of credit

       He wayfared to England,

       And spied out the manor she goddessed,

       And handy thereto,

      Set to hire him a tenantless mansion

       As coign-stone of vantage

       For testing what gross adulation

       Of beauty could do.

      He laboured through mornings and evens,

       On new moons and sabbaths,

       By wiles to enmesh her attention

       In park, path, and pew;

      And having afar played upon her,

       Advanced his lines nearer,

       And boldly outleaping conventions,

       Bent briskly to woo.

      His gay godlike face, his rare seeming

       Anon worked to win her,

       And later, at noontides and night-tides

       They held rendezvous.

      His tarriance full spent, he departed

       And met me in Venice,

       And lines from her told that my jilter

       Was stooping to sue.

      Not long could be further concealment,

       She pled to him humbly:

       “By our love and our sin, O protect me;

       I fly unto you!”

      A mighty remorse overgat me,

       I heard her low anguish,

       And there in the gloom of the calle My steel ran him through.

      A swift push engulphed his hot carrion

       Within the canal there—

       That still street of waters dividing

       The city in two.

      —I wandered awhile all unable

       To smother my torment,

       My brain racked by yells as from Tophet

       Of Satan’s whole crew.

      A month of unrest brought me hovering

       At home in her precincts,

       To whose hiding-hole local story

       Afforded a clue.

      Exposed, and expelled by her people,

       Afar off in London

       I found her alone, in a sombre

       And soul-stifling mew.

      Still burning to make reparation

       I pleaded to wive her,

       And father her child, and thus faintly

       My mischief undo.

      She yielded, and spells of calm weather

       Succeeded the tempest;

       And one sprung of him stood as scion

       Of my bone and thew . . .

      But


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