The Complete Poetical Works. Томас ХардиЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 be some volk whose judgment o’ en is mean;
But this I say—a 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!
1878–1897.
San Sebastian
(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 and 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 vlanker-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 battened 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 swayed 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.
“Down the stony steps of the house-fronts white
We rolled rich puncheons of Spanish grape,
Till at length, with the fire of the wine alight,
I saw at a doorway a fair fresh shape—
A woman, a sylph, or sprite.
“Afeard she fled, and with heated head
I pursued to the chamber she called her own;
—When might is right no qualms deter,
And having her helpless and alone
I wreaked my will on her.
“She raised her beseeching eyes to me,
And I heard the words of prayer she sent
In her own soft language . . . Seemingly
I copied those eyes for my punishment
In begetting the girl you see!
“So, to-day I stand with a God-set brand
Like Cain’s, when he wandered from kindred’s ken . . .
I served through the war that made Europe free;
I wived me in peace-year. But, hid from men,
I bear that mark on me.
“And I nightly stray on the Ivel Way
As though at home there were spectres rife;
I delight me not in my proud career;
And ’tis coals of fire that a gracious wife
Should have brought me a daughter dear!”
The Stranger’s Song
(As