The Obliterate Tomb by Thomas Hardy

“More than half my life longDid they weigh me falsely, to my bitter wrong,But they all have shrunk away into the silenceLike a lost song.

“And the day has dawned and comeFor forgiveness, when the past may hold it dumbOn the once reverberate words of hatred utteredHalf in delirium . . .

“With folded lips and handsThey lie and wait what next the Will commands,And doubtless think, if think they can: ‘Let discordSink with Life’s sands!’

“By these late years their names,Their virtues, their hereditary claims,May be as near defacement at their grave-placeAs are their fames.”

—Such thoughts bechanced to seizeA traveller’s mind⁠—a man of memories⁠—As he set foot within the western cityWhere had died these

Who in their lifetime deemedHim their chief enemy⁠—one whose brain had schemedTo get their dingy greatness deeplier dingiedAnd disesteemed.

So, sojourning in their town,He mused on them and on their once renown,And said, “I’ll seek their resting-place to-morrowEre I lie down,

“And end, lest I forget,Those ires of many years that I regret,Renew their names, that men may see some liegenessIs left them yet.”

Duly next day he wentAnd sought the church he had known them to frequent,And wandered in the precincts, set on eyeingWhere they lay pent,

Till by remembrance ledHe stood at length beside their slighted bed,Above which, truly, scarce a line or letterCould now be read.

“Thus years obliterateTheir graven worth, their chronicle, their date!At once I’ll garnish and revive the recordOf their past state,

“That still the sage may sayIn pensive progress here where they decay,‘This stone records a luminous line whose talentsTold in their day.’”

While speaking thus he turned,For a form shadowed where they lay inurned,And he beheld a stranger in foreign vesture,And tropic-burned.

“Sir, I am right pleased to viewThat ancestors of mine should interest you,For I have come of purpose here to trace them . . .They are time-worn, true,

“But that’s a fault, at most,Sculptors can cure. On the Pacific coastI have vowed for long that relics of my forbearsI’d trace ere lost,

“And hitherward I come,Before this same old Time shall strike me numb,To carry it out.”⁠—“Strange, this is!” said the other;“What mind shall plumb

“Coincident design!Though these my father’s enemies were and mine,I nourished a like purpose⁠—to restore themEach letter and line.”

“Such magnanimityIs now not needed, sir; for you will seeThat since I am here, a thing like this is, plainly,Best done by me.”

The other bowed, and left,Crestfallen in sentiment, as one bereftOf some fair object he had been moved to cherish,By hands more deft.

And as he slept that nightThe phantoms of the ensepulchred stood up-rightBefore him, trembling that he had set him seekingTheir charnel-site.

And, as unknowing his ruth,Asked as with terrors founded not on truthWhy he should want them. “Ha,” they hollowly hackered,“You come, forsooth,

“By stealth to obliterateOur graven worth, our chronicle, our date,That our descendant may not gild the recordOf our past state,

“And that no sage may sayIn pensive progress near where we decay:‘This stone records a luminous line whose talentsTold in their day.’”

Upon the morrow he wentAnd to that town and churchyard never bentHis ageing footsteps till, some twelvemonths onward,An accident

Once more detained him there;And, stirred by hauntings, he must needs repairTo where the tomb was. Lo, it stood still wastingIn no man’s care.

“The travelled man you metThe last time,” said the sexton, “has not yetAppeared again, though wealth he had in plenty.—Can he forget?

“The architect was hiredAnd came here on smart summons as desired,But never the descendant came to tell himWhat he required.”

And so the tomb remainedUntouched, untended, crumbling, weather-stained,And though the one-time foe was fain to right itHe still refrained.

“I’ll set about it whenI am sure he’ll come no more. Best wait till then.”But so it was that never the stranger enteredThat city again.

And the well-meaner diedWhile waiting tremulously unsatisfiedThat no return of the family’s foreign scionWould still betide.

And many years slid by,And active church-restorers cast their eyeUpon the ancient garth and hoary buildingThe tomb stood nigh.

And when they had scraped each wall,Pulled out the stately pews, and smartened all,“It will be well,” declared the spruce church-warden,“To overhaul

“And broaden this path where shown;Nothing prevents it but an old tombstonePertaining to a family forgotten,Of deeds unknown.

“Their names can scarce be read,Depend on’t, all who care for them are dead.”So went the tomb, whose shards were as path-pavingDistributed.

Over it and aboutMen’s footsteps beat, and wind and water-spout,Until the names, aforetime gnawed by weathers,Were quite worn out.

So that no sage can sayIn pensive progress near where they decay,“This stone records a luminous line whose talentsTold in their day.”