style="font-size:15px;"> 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,” said she; “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’d piled her raiment rare
Within the garde-robes, and her household purse,
Her jewels, and 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 to 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.
Leipzig
(1813)
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 touse 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
Her city overcame.
“My father was one of the German Hussars,
My mother of Leipzig; but he,
Long 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,
Gloomed over his shrunken power;
And without the walls the hemming host
Waxed denser every hour.
“He had speech that night on the morrow’s
