The Complete Poetical Works. Томас Харди

Came Marshals, Princes, Kings;

       And the town was theirs . . . Ay, as simple maid,

       My mother saw these things!

      “And whenever those notes in the street begin,

       I recall her, and that far scene,

       And her acting of how the Allies marched in,

       And her touse of the tambourine!”

      The Peasant’s Confession

       Table of Contents

      “Si le maréchal Grouchy avait été rejoint par l’officier que Napoléon lui avait expédié la veille à dix heures du soir, toute question eût disparu. Mais cet officier n’était point parvenu à sa destination, ainsi que le maréchal n’a cessé de l’affirmer toute sa vie, et il faut l’en croire, car autrement il n’aurait eu aucune raison pour hésiter. Cet officier avait-il été pris? avait-il passé à l’ennemi? C’est ce qu’on a toujours ignoré.”

      —Thiers: Histoire de l’Empire. “Waterloo.”

      Good Father! . . . ’Twas an eve in middle June,

       And war was waged anew

       By great Napoleon, who for years had strewn

       Men’s bones all Europe through.

      Three nights ere this, with columned corps he’d crossed

       The Sambre at Charleroi,

       To move on Brussels, where the English host

       Dallied in Parc and Bois.

      The yestertide we’d heard the gloomy gun

       Growl through the long-sunned day

       From Quatre-Bras and Ligny; till the dun

       Twilight suppressed the fray;

      Albeit therein—as lated tongues bespoke—

       Brunswick’s high heart was drained,

       And Prussia’s Line and Landwehr, though unbroke,

       Stood cornered and constrained.

      And at next noon-time Grouchy slowly passed

       With thirty thousand men:

       We hoped thenceforth no army, small or vast,

       Would trouble us again.

      My hut lay deeply in a vale recessed,

       And never a soul seemed nigh

       When, reassured at length, we went to rest—

       My children, wife, and I.

      But what was this that broke our humble ease?

       What noise, above the rain,

       Above the dripping of the poplar trees

       That smote along the pane?

      —A call of mastery, bidding me arise,

       Compelled me to the door,

       At which a horseman stood in martial guise—

       Splashed—sweating from every pore.

      Had I seen Grouchy? Yes? Which track took he?

       Could I lead thither on?—

       Fulfilment would ensure gold pieces three,

       Perchance more gifts anon.

      “I bear the Emperor’s mandate,” then he said,

       “Charging the Marshal straight

       To strike between the double host ahead

       Ere they co-operate,

      “Engaging Blücher till the Emperor put

       Lord Wellington to flight,

       And next the Prussians. This to set afoot

       Is my emprise to-night.”

      I joined him in the mist; but, pausing, sought

       To estimate his say.

       Grouchy had made for Wavre; and yet, on thought,

       I did not lead that way.

      I mused: “If Grouchy thus instructed be,

       The clash comes sheer hereon;

       My farm is stript. While, as for pieces three,

       Money the French have none.

      “Grouchy unwarned, moreo’er, the English win,

       And mine is left to me—

       They buy, not borrow.”—Hence did I begin

       To lead him treacherously.

      By Joidoigne, near to east, as we ondrew,

       Dawn pierced the humid air;

       And eastward faced I with him, though I knew

       Never marched Grouchy there.

      Near Ottignies we passed, across the Dyle

       (Lim’lette left far aside),

       And thence direct toward Pervez and Noville

       Through green grain, till he cried:

      “I doubt thy conduct, man! no track is here—

       I doubt thy gagèd word!”

       Thereat he scowled on me, and pranced me near,

       And pricked me with his sword.

      “Nay, Captain, hold! We skirt, not trace the course

       Of Grouchy,” said I then:

       “As we go, yonder went he, with his force

       Of thirty thousand men.”

      —At length noon nighed; when west, from Saint-John’s-Mound,

       A hoarse artillery boomed,

       And from Saint-Lambert’s upland, chapel-crowned,

       The Prussian squadrons loomed.

      Then to the wayless wet gray ground he leapt;

       “My mission fails!” he cried;

       “Too late for Grouchy now to intercept,

       For, peasant, you have lied!”

      He turned to pistol me. I sprang, and drew

       The sabre from his flank,

       And ’twixt his nape and shoulder, ere he knew,

       I struck, and dead he sank.

      I hid him deep in nodding rye and oat—

       His shroud green stalks and loam;

       His requiem the corn-blade’s husky note—

       And then I hastened home, . . .

      —Two armies writhe in coils of red and blue,

       And brass and iron clang

       From Goumont, past the front of Waterloo,

       To Pap’lotte and Smohain.

      The Guard Imperial wavered on the height;

       The Emperor’s face grew glum;

       “I sent,” he said, “to Grouchy yesternight,

       And yet he does not come!”

      ’Twas then, Good Father, that the French espied,

       Streaking the summer