Wessex Poems by Thomas Hardy - 24/48. The Dance at the Phoenix (read by Libby Gohn)

XXIV. THE DANCE AT THE PHOENIX To Jenny came a gentle youth From inland Lise's lone. His love was fresh as apple-bluth By parrot, yow, or tone, And duly he entreated her To be his tender minister, And call him I her own. Fair Jenny's life Had hardly been a life of modesty. At Castlebridge experience keen Of many loves had she, From scarcely sixteen years above, Among them sundry troopers Of the king's own cavalry. But each with charger, sword, and gun Had bluffed the Biscay wave, And Jenny prized her gentle one For all the love he gave. She vowed to be, if they were wed, His honest wife in heart and head From bridal hour to grave. Wedded they were. Her husband's trust In Jenny knew no bound, And Jenny kept her pure and just, Till even malice found No sin or sign of ill to be In one who walked so decently The dutiest helpmate round. Two sons were born And bloomed to men, And roamed and were as naught. Alone was Jenny left again, As e'er her mind had sought A solace in domestic joys, And e'er the vanished pair of boys Were sent to sun her cot. She numbered near on sixty years, And passed as elderly, When in the street, with flush of fears, One day discovered she, From shine of swords and thump of drum, Her early loves from war had come, The king's own cavalry. She turned aside and bowed her head, An eye St. Peter's door. Alas, for chastened thoughts, she said, I'm faded now and whore, And yet those notes they thrill me through, And those gay forms move me anew, As in the years of yore. T'was Christmas, and the Phoenix Inn Was lit with tapers tall, For thirty of the trooper men Had vowed to give a ball, As theirs had done, t'was handed down, When lying in the self-same town Ere Bonaparte's fall. That night the throbbing soldier's joy, The measured tread and sway, A fancy lad and maiden coy, Reached Jenny as she lay, Beside her spouse, till spring-tide blood Seemed scouring through her Like a flood that whisked the years away. She rose and rayed and decked her head, For the bleached hairs ran thin, Upon her cap two bows of red She fixed with hasty pin. Unheard descending to the street, She trod the flags with tune-led feet, And stood before the inn. Save for the dancers, not a sound Disturbed the icy air, No watchman on his midnight round Or traveller was there. But over all saints, high and bright, Pulsed to the music serious white, To wane by Bullstake Square. She knocked, but found her further stride Checked by a sergeant tall. "'Gay granny, whence come you?' he cried. "'This is a private ball.' "'No one has more right here than me, Ere you were born, man,' answered she, "'I knew the regiment all.' "'Take not the ladies' visit ill,' Upspoke the steward free, "'We lack sufficient partners still, So prithee, let her be.' They seized and whirled her mid the maze, And Jenny felt as in the days of her immodesty. Hour chased hour, and night advanced, She sped as shod with wings. Each time, and every time she danced, Reels, jigs, possets, and flings, They cheered her as she soared and swooped, She learnt air art and dancing drooped, From hops to slothful swings. The favourite quick-step, speed the plough, Cross-hand, cast-off, and wheel, The triumph, sylph, the rowdowdow, Famed Major Malley's reel, The Duke of York's, the fairy-dance, The bridge of Lodi, brought from France, She beat out toe and heel. The fall of Paris clanged its clothes, And Peter's chime told four, When Jenny, bosom-beating, rose To seek her silent door. They tiptoed in escorting her, Lest stroke of heel or clink of spur Should break her goodman's snore. The fire that late had burned fell slack, When lone at last stood she. Her nine-and-fifty years came back, She sank upon her knee, beside the dern, And like a dart a something arrowed Through her heart in shoots of agony. Their footsteps died as she leant there, Lit by the morning star, Hanging above the moorland Where the aged elm-rows are. And as o'er night, from Pummery Ridge To Mainbury Ring and Standfast Bridge, No life stirred, near or far. Though inner mischief worked domain, She reached her husband's side, Where toil-weary, as he had lain, Beneath the patchwork pied, When yester-eve she'd forthward crept, And as unwitting, still he slept, Who did in her confide. A tear sprang as she turned and viewed His features free from guile. She kissed him long, as when, just wooed, She chose his domicile. She felt she could have given her life To be the single-hearted wife That she had been erstwhile. Time wore to six, her husband rose And struck the steel and stone. He glanced at Jenny, whose repose Seemed deeper than his own. With dumb dismay, on closer sight, He gathered sense that in the night, Or morn, her soul had flown. When told that some too mighty strain For one so many year'd Had burst her bosom's master vein, His doubts remained unstirred. His Jenny had not left his side Betwixt the eve and morning-tide. The kings said not a word. Well, times are not as times were then, Nor fair ones half so free. And truly they were martial men, The king's own cavalry. And when they went from Casterbridge, And vanished over Melstock Ridge, T'was saddest morn to see.