The Alarm

In Memory of one of the Writer's Family who was a Volunteer during the War
  with Napoleon

  In a ferny byway
  Near the great South-Wessex Highway,
  A homestead raised its breakfast-smoke aloft;
  The dew-damps still lay steamless, for the sun had made no sky-way,
  And twilight cloaked the croft.

  'Twas hard to realize on
  This snug side the mute horizon
  That beyond it hostile armaments might steer,
  Save from seeing in the porchway a fair woman weep with eyes on
  A harnessed Volunteer.

  In haste he'd flown there
  To his comely wife alone there,
  While marching south hard by, to still her fears,
  For she soon would be a mother, and few messengers were known there
  In these campaigning years.

  'Twas time to be Good-bying,
  Since the assembly-hour was nighing
  In royal George's town at six that morn;
  And betwixt its wharves and this retreat were ten good miles of hieing
  Ere ring of bugle-horn.

  "I've laid in food, Dear,
  And broached the spiced and brewed, Dear;
  And if our July hope should antedate,
  Let the char-wench mount and gallop by the halterpath and wood, Dear,
  And fetch assistance straight.

  "As for Buonaparte, forget him;
  He's not like to land! But let him,
  Those strike with aim who strike for wives and sons!
  And the war-boats built to float him; 'twere but wanted to upset him
  A slat from Nelson's guns!

  "But, to assure thee,
  And of creeping fears to cure thee,
  If he should be rumored anchoring in the Road,
  Drive with the nurse to Kingsbere; and let nothing thence allure thee
  Till we've him safe-bestowed.

  "Now, to turn to marching matters:--
  I've my knapsack, firelock, spatters,
  Crossbelts, priming-horn, stock, bay'net, blackball, clay,
  Pouch, magazine, flints, flint-box that at every quick-step clatters;
  ...My heart, Dear; that must stay!"

  --With breathings broken
  Farewell was kissed unspoken,
  And they parted there as morning stroked the panes;
  And the Volunteer went on, and turned, and twirled his glove for
  And took the coastward lanes.

  When above He'th Hills he found him,
  He saw, on gazing round him,
  The Barrow-Beacon burning--burning low,
  As if, perhaps, uplighted ever since he'd homeward bound him;
  And it meant: Expect the Foe!

  Leaving the byway,
  And following swift the highway,
  Car and chariot met he, faring fast inland;
  "He's anchored, Soldier!" shouted some:
  "God save thee, marching thy way,
  Th'lt front him on the strand!"

  He slowed; he stopped; he paltered
  Awhile with self, and faltered,
  "Why courting misadventure shoreward roam?
  To Molly, surely! Seek the woods with her till times have altered;
  Charity favors home.

  "Else, my denying
  He would come she'll read as lying--
  Think the Barrow-Beacon must have met my eyes--
  That my words were not unwareness, but deceit of her, while trying
  My life to jeopardize.

  "At home is stocked provision,
  And to-night, without suspicion,
  We might bear it with us to a covert near;
  Such sin, to save a childing wife, would earn it Christ's remission,
  Though none forgive it here!"

  While thus he, thinking,
  A little bird, quick drinking
  Among the crowfoot tufts the river bore,
  Was tangled in their stringy arms, and fluttered, well-nigh sinking,
  Near him, upon the moor.

  He stepped in, reached, and seized it,
  And, preening, had released it
  But that a thought of Holy Writ occurred,
  And Signs Divine ere battle, till it seemed him Heaven had pleased it
  As guide to send the bird.

  "O Lord, direct me!...
  Doth Duty now expect me
  To march a-coast, or guard my weak ones near?
  Give this bird a flight according, that I thence know to elect me
  The southward or the rear."

  He loosed his clasp; when, rising,
  The bird--as if surmising--
  Bore due to southward, crossing by the Froom,
  And Durnover Great-
Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)

Thomas Hardy

Thomas Hardy, was a Scottish Minister, Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland and Professor of Eccesiastical History at Edinburgh University. more…

All Thomas Hardy poems | Thomas Hardy Books

FAVORITE (0 fans)


Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

Select another language:

  • - Select -
  • 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
  • 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
  • Español (Spanish)
  • Esperanto (Esperanto)
  • 日本語 (Japanese)
  • Português (Portuguese)
  • Deutsch (German)
  • العربية (Arabic)
  • Français (French)
  • Русский (Russian)
  • ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
  • 한국어 (Korean)
  • עברית (Hebrew)
  • Український (Ukrainian)
  • اردو (Urdu)
  • Magyar (Hungarian)
  • मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
  • Indonesia (Indonesian)
  • Italiano (Italian)
  • தமிழ் (Tamil)
  • Türkçe (Turkish)
  • తెలుగు (Telugu)
  • ภาษาไทย (Thai)
  • Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
  • Čeština (Czech)
  • Polski (Polish)
  • Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
  • Românește (Romanian)
  • Nederlands (Dutch)
  • Ελληνικά (Greek)
  • Latinum (Latin)
  • Svenska (Swedish)
  • Dansk (Danish)
  • Suomi (Finnish)
  • فارسی (Persian)
  • ייִדיש (Yiddish)
  • հայերեն (Armenian)
  • Norsk (Norwegian)
  • English (English)

Discuss this Thomas Hardy poem with the community:


Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:


"The Alarm" STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 27 Jan. 2020. <>.

We need you!

Help us build the largest poetry community and poems collection on the web!

Our favorite collection of

Famous Poets


Thanks for your vote! We truly appreciate your support.