The Life of Thomas Hardy
atmosphere more delightful than any of the older poet's efforts could call forth; yet the mood is a Barnes-mood, and rather free from the usual sting of the Hardy train of thought. The last stanza contains the essence of whatever pure meditation there is in the entire piece:
And Devotion droops her glance
To recall
What bond-servants of Chance
We are all.
But I found her in that, going
On my errant path, unknowing,
I did not outskirt the spot
That no spot on earth excels,
—Where she dwells!
To recall
What bond-servants of Chance
We are all.
But I found her in that, going
On my errant path, unknowing,
I did not outskirt the spot
That no spot on earth excels,
—Where she dwells!
It is a poem that does not suffer by comparison with the best of Wordsworth's "Lucy" poems, (She Dwelt among Untrodden Ways) though the touch of pathos is lacking.
She, at his Funeral (187—) is a striking little dramatic monologue, which illuminates a single moment in a tragedy with great vividness:
They hear 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!
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!
At Waking (Weymouth, 1869) is likewise a dramatic monologue, cast into a rather curious stanza-form. The
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