A Man
In Casterbridge there stood a noble pile,Wrought with pilaster, bay, and balustradeIn tactful times when shrewd Eliza swayed.—On burgher, squire, and clownIt smiled the long street down for near a mile
But evil days beset that domicile;The stately beauties of its roof and wallPassed into sordid hands. Condemned to fallWere cornice, quoin, and cove,And all that art had wove in antique style.
Among the hired dismantlers entered thereOne till the moment of his task untold.When charged therewith he gazed, and answered bold:“Be needy I or no,I will not help lay low a house so fair!
“Hunger is hard. But since the terms be such—No wage, or labour stained with the disgraceOf wrecking what our age cannot replaceTo save its tasteless soul—I’ll do without your dole. Life is not much!”
Dismissed with sneers he backed his tools and went,And wandered workless; for it seemed unwiseTo close with one who dared to criticizeAnd carp on points of taste:To work where they were placed rude men were meant.
Years whiled. He aged, sank, sickened, and was not:And it was said, “A man intractableAnd curst is gone.” None sighed to hear his knell,None sought his churchyard-place;His name, his rugged face, were soon forgot.
The stones of that fair hall lie far and wide,And but a few recall its ancient mould;Yet when I pass the spot I long to holdAs truth what fancy saith:“His protest lives where deathless things abide!”
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