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’ernight, from Pummery Ridge To Maembury Ring and Standfast Bridge No life stirred, near or far. Though inner mischief worked amain, She reached her husband’s side; Where, toil-weary, as he had lain Beneath the patchwork pied When yestereve 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-yeared 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 King’s 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 Mellstock Ridge, ’Twas saddest morn to see. [Picture: Two lines of military men on horses] * * * * * [Picture: Sketch of wooden panel] THE CASTERBRIDGE CAPTAINS (KHYBER PASS, 1842) A TRADITION OF J. B. L—, T. G. B—, AND J. L—. THREE captains went to Indian wars, And only one returned: Their mate of yore, he singly wore The laurels all had earned. At home he sought the ancient aisle Wherein, untrumped of fame, The three had sat in pupilage, And each had carved his name. The names, rough-hewn, of equal size, Stood on the panel still; Unequal since.—“’Twas theirs to aim, Mine was it to fulfil!” —“Who saves his life shall lose it, friends!” Outspake the preacher then, Unweeting he his listener, who Looked at the names again. That he had come and they’d been stayed, ’Twas but the chance of war: Another chance, and they’d sat here, And he had lain afar. Yet saw he something in the lives Of those who’d ceased to live That sphered them with a majesty Which living failed to give. Transcendent triumph in return No longer lit his brain; Transcendence rayed the distant urn Where slept the fallen twain. [Picture: Sketch of comet] A SIGN-SEEKER