Thomas Hardy — The Souls Of The Slain

I       The thick lids of Night closed upon me         Alone at the Bill         Of the Isle by the Race {1} -        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! then it seems that our glory         Weighs less in their thought         Than our old homely acts,        And the long-ago commonplace facts Of our lives—held by us as scarce part of our story,         And rated as nought!" XIII       Then bitterly some: "Was it wise now         To raise the tomb-door         For such knowledge? Away!"       But the rest: "Fame we prized till to-day; Yet that hearts keep us green for old kindness we prize now         A thousand times more!" XIV       Thus speaking, the trooped apparitions         Began to disband         And resolve them in two:       Those whose record was lovely and true Bore to northward for home: those of bitter traditions         Again left the land, XV       And, towering to seaward in legions,         They paused at a spot         Overbending the Race -       That engulphing, ghast, sinister place - Whither headlong they plunged, to the fathomless regions         Of myriads forgot. XVI       And the spirits of those who were homing         Passed on, rushingly,         Like the Pentecost Wind;       And the whirr of their wayfaring thinned And surceased on the sky, and but left in the gloaming         Sea-mutterings and me. December 1899.