David Douard – Mady & Dummy

Exposition du 28.12.13 au 18.01.14
On view : 28th December to 18th January 2014







Curfew tolls the knell of parting day

the lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea
the ploughman homeward plods his weary way
and leaves the world to darkness and to me
fades the glimmering landscape on the sight
all the a stillness holds5ave where the beetle wheels his droning flight
drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
moping owl does to the moon complain owl owl
suck wandering near her secret bower
Molest her ancient solitary reign
Beneath those rugged elms that yew-tree’s shade
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid
The rude Forefathers of the bastards’sleep
ASS call o obscene-DUMMY
swallow twittering from the straw-built shed
cock’s shrill clarion-or the echoing horn
more^mADY shall rouse them from their lowly bed
Fordick no morlazing hearth shall burn
busy housewife ply her evening care
No children run to lisp their innocent-soul-return
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke
How jocund did they drive their team afield
bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil
homely joys and destiny obscure
hear with a disdainful smile
short and simple annals of the Poor
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of po-
short and simple annals of the Poor -wer
And all that beauty all that wealth e’er gave
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour:-
paths of glory lead but to the grave
storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen

Some mute inglorious here may rest
Some lowfie guiltless of his counry’s blood
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife

Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture dick’d,
And many a holy text around she strews
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey
This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,

For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, –
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;
“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wa
Or crazed with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.
“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
“The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the ghetto borne,-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
new kids wa born. wildly
the bastards creatures. wild shadows underneath.
children lost. Street did.
they are here.


David Douard (1983, France) lives and works in Paris.