The Complete Poetical Works. Томас Харди

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      The Souls of the Slain

       Table of Contents

      I

      The thick lids of Night closed upon me

       Alone at the Bill

Of the Isle by the Race1— Many-caverned, bald, wrinkled of face— And with darkness and silence the spirit was on me To brood and be still.

      II

      No wind fanned the flats of the ocean,

       Or promontory sides,

       Or the ooze by the strand,

       Or the bent-bearded slope of the land,

       Whose base took its rest amid everlong motion

       Of criss-crossing tides.

      III

      Soon from out of the Southward seemed nearing

       A whirr, as of wings

       Waved by mighty-vanned flies,

       Or by night-moths of measureless size,

       And in softness and smoothness well-nigh beyond hearing

       Of corporal things.

      IV

      And they bore to the bluff, and alighted—

       A dim-discerned train

       Of sprites without mould,

       Frameless souls none might touch or might hold—

       On the ledge by the turreted lantern, farsighted

       By men of the main.

      V

      And I heard them say “Home!” and I knew them

       For souls of the felled

       On the earth’s nether bord

       Under Capricorn, whither they’d warred,

       And I neared in my awe, and gave heedfulness to them

       With breathings inheld.

      VI

      Then, it seemed, there approached from the northward

       A senior soul-flame

       Of the like filmy hue:

       And he met them and spake: “Is it you,

       O my men?” Said they, “Aye! We bear homeward and hearthward

       To list to our fame!”

      VII

      “I’ve flown there before you,” he said then:

       “Your households are well;

       But—your kin linger less

       On your glory arid war-mightiness

       Than on dearer things.”—“Dearer?” cried these from the dead then,

       “Of what do they tell?”

      VIII

      “Some mothers muse sadly, and murmur

       Your doings as boys—

       Recall the quaint ways

       Of your babyhood’s innocent days.

       Some pray that, ere dying, your faith had grown firmer,

       And higher your joys.

      IX

      “A father broods: ‘Would I had set him

       To some humble trade,

       And so slacked his high fire,

       And his passionate martial desire;

       Had told him no stories to woo him and whet him

       To this due crusade!”

      X

      “And, General, how hold out our sweethearts,

       Sworn loyal as doves?”

       —“Many mourn; many think

       It is not unattractive to prink

       Them in sables for heroes. Some fickle and fleet hearts

       Have found them new loves.”

      XI

      “And our wives?” quoth another resignedly,

       “Dwell they on our deeds?”

       —“Deeds of home; that live yet

       Fresh as new—deeds of fondness or fret;

       Ancient words that were kindly expressed or unkindly,

       These, these have their heeds.”

      XII

      —“Alas! СКАЧАТЬ