The Dance at the Phoenix

To Jenny came a gentle youth
&nbsp From inland leazes lone,
His love was fresh as apple-blooth
&nbsp By Parrett, Yeo, or Tone.
And duly he entreated her
To be his tender minister,
&nbsp And call him aye her own.
Fair Jenny's life had hardly been
&nbsp A life of modesty;
At Casterbridge experience keen
&nbsp Of many loves had she
From scarcely sixteen years above;
Among them sundry troopers of
&nbsp The King's-Own Cavalry.
But each with charger, sword, and gun,
&nbsp Had bluffed the Biscay wave;
And Jenny prized her gentle one
&nbsp For all the love he gave.
She vowed to be, if they were wed,
His honest wife in heart and head
&nbsp From bride-ale hour to grave.
Wedded they were. Her husband's trust
&nbsp In Jenny knew no bound,
And Jenny kept her pure and just,
&nbsp Till even malice found
No sin or sign of ill to be
In one who walked so decently
&nbsp The duteous helpmate's round.
Two sons were born, and bloomed to men,
&nbsp And roamed, and were as not:
Alone was Jenny left again
&nbsp As ere her mind had sought
A solace in domestic joys,
And ere the vanished pair of boys
&nbsp Were sent to sun her cot.
She numbered near on sixty years,
&nbsp And passed as elderly,
When, in the street, with flush of fears,
&nbsp One day discovered she,
From shine of swords and thump of drum.
Her early loves from war had come,
&nbsp The King's-Own Cavalry.
She turned aside, and bowed her head
&nbsp Anigh Saint Peter's door;
"Alas for chastened thoughts!" she said;
&nbsp "I'm faded now, and hoar,
And yet those notes—they thrill me through,
And those gay forms move me anew
&nbsp As in the years of yore!" . . .
'Twas Christmas, and the Phoenix Inn
&nbsp Was lit with tapers tall,
For thirty of the trooper men
&nbsp Had vowed to give a ball
As "Theirs" had done ('twas handed down)
When lying in the selfsame town
&nbsp Ere Buonaparte's fall.
That night the throbbing "Soldier's Joy,"
&nbsp The measured tread and sway
Of "Fancy-Lad" and "Maiden Coy,"
&nbsp Reached Jenny as she lay
Beside her spouse; till springtide blood
Seemed scouring through her like a flood
&nbsp That whisked the years away.
She rose, and rayed, and decked her head
&nbsp Where the bleached hairs ran thin;
Upon her cap two bows of red
&nbspShe fixed with hasty pin;
Unheard descending to the street,
She trod the flags with tune-led feet,
&nbsp And stood before the Inn.
Save for the dancers', not a sound
&nbsp Disturbed the icy air;
No watchman on his midnight round
&nbsp Or traveller was there;
But over All-Saints', high and bright,
Pulsed to the music Sirius white,
&nbsp The Wain by Bullstake Square.
She knocked, but found her further stride
&nbsp Checked by a sergeant tall:
"Gay Granny, whence come you?" he cried;
&nbsp "This is a private ball."
- "No one has more right here than me!
Ere you were born, man," answered she,
&nbsp "I knew the regiment all!"
"Take not the lady's visit ill!"
Upspoke the steward free;
"We lack sufficient partners still,
&nbsp So, prithee let her be!"
They seized and whirled her 'mid the maze,
And Jenny felt as in the days
&nbsp Of her immodesty.
Hour chased each hour, and night advanced;
&nbsp She sped as shod with wings;
Each time and every time she danced -
&nbsp Reels, jigs, poussettes, and flings:
They cheered her as she soared and swooped,
(She'd learnt ere art in dancing drooped
&nbsp From hops to slothful swings).
The favourite Quick-step "Speed the Plough" -
&nbsp (Cross hands, cast off, and wheel)—
"The Triumph," "Sylph," "The Row-dow-dow,"
&nbsp Famed "Major Malley's Reel,"
"The Duke of York's," "The Fairy Dance,"
"The Bridge of Lodi" (brought from France),
&nbsp She beat out, toe and heel.
The "Fall of Paris" clanged its close,
&nbsp And Peter's chime told four,
When Jenny, bosom-beating, rose
&nbsp To seek her silent door.
They tiptoed in escorting her,
Lest stroke of heel or clink of spur
&nbsp Should break her goodman's snore.
The fire that late had burnt fell slack
&nbsp When lone at last stood she;
Her nine-and-fifty years came back;
&nbsp She sank upon her knee
Beside the durn, and like a dart
A something arrowed through her heart
&nbsp In shoots of agony.
Their footsteps died as she leant there,
&nbsp Lit by the morning star
Hanging above the moorland, where
&nbsp The aged elm-rows are;
And, as o'ernight, from Pummery Ridge
To Maembury Ring and Standfast Bridge
&nbsp No life stirred, near or far.
Though inner mischief worked amain,
&nbsp She reached her husband's side;
Where, toil-weary, as he had lain
&nbsp Beneath the patchwork pied
When yestereve she'd forthward crept,
And as unwitting, still he slept
&nbsp Who did in her confide.
A tear sprang as she turned and viewed
&nbsp His features free from guile;
She kissed him long, as when, just wooed,
&nbsp She chose his domicile.
She felt she could have given her life
To be the single-hearted wife
&nbsp That she had been erstwhile.
Time wore to six. Her husband rose
&nbsp And struck the steel and stone;
He glanced at Jenny, whose repose
&nbsp Seemed deeper than his own.
With dumb dismay, on closer sight,
He gathered sense that in the night,
&nbsp Or morn, her soul had flown.
When told that some too mighty strain
&nbsp For one so many-yeared
Had burst her bosom's master-vein,
&nbsp His doubts remained unstirred.
His Jenny had not left his side
Betwixt the eve and morning-tide:
&nbsp —The King's said not a word.
Well! times are not as times were then,
&nbsp Nor fair ones half so free;
And truly they were martial men,
&nbsp The King's-Own Cavalry.
And when they went from Casterbridge
And vanished over Mellstock Ridge,
&nbsp 'Twas saddest morn to see.