I

In Casterbridge there stood a noble pile,

Wrought with pilaster, bay, and balustrade

In tactful times when shrewd Eliza swayed.—

      On burgher, squire, and clown

It smiled the long street down for near a mile

II

But evil days beset that domicile;

The stately beauties of its roof and wall

Passed into sordid hands.  Condemned to fall

      Were cornice, quoin, and cove,

And all that art had wove in antique style.

III

Among the hired dismantlers entered there

One 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!

IV

“Hunger is hard.  But since the terms be such—

No wage, or labour stained with the disgrace

Of wrecking what our age cannot replace

      To save its tasteless soul—

I’ll do without your dole.  Life is not much!”

V

Dismissed with sneers he backed his tools and went,

And wandered workless; for it seemed unwise

To close with one who dared to criticize

      And carp on points of taste:

To work where they were placed rude men were meant.

VI

Years whiled.  He aged, sank, sickened, and was not:

And it was said, “A man intractable

And curst is gone.”  None sighed to hear his knell,

      None sought his churchyard-place;

His name, his rugged face, were soon forgot.

VII

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 hold

      As truth what fancy saith:

“His protest lives where deathless things abide!”