The Poetical Works Of Robert Bridges Part 36

20

THE world still goeth about to shew and hide, Befool'd of all opinion, fond of fame: But he that can do well taketh no pride, And see'th his error, undisturb'd by shame: So poor's the best that longest life can do, The most so little, diligently done; So mighty is the beauty that doth woo, So vast the joy that love from love hath won.

G.o.d's love to win is easy, for He loveth Desire's fair att.i.tude, nor strictly weighs The broken thing, but all alike approveth Which love hath aim'd at Him: that is heaven's praise: And if we look for any praise on earth, 'Tis in man's love: all else is nothing worth.

21

O FLESH and blood, comrade to tragic pain And clownish merriment; whose sense could wake Sermons in stones, and count death but an ache, All things as vanity, yet nothing vain: The world, set in thy heart, thy pa.s.sionate strain Reveal'd anew; but thou for man didst make Nature twice natural, only to shake Her kingdom with the creatures of thy brain.

Lo, Shakespeare, since thy time nature is loth To yield to art her fair supremacy; In conquering one thou hast so enriched both.

What shall I say? for G.o.d--whose wise decree Confirmeth all He did by all He doth-- Doubled His whole creation making thee.

22

I would be a bird, and straight on wings I arise, And carry purpose up to the ends of the air: In calm and storm my sails I feather, and where By freezing cliffs the unransom'd wreckage lies: Or, strutting on hot meridian banks, surprise The silence: over plains in the moonlight bare I chase my shadow, and perch where no bird dare In treetops torn by fiercest winds of the skies.

Poor simple birds, foolish birds! then I cry, Ye pretty pictures of delight, unstir'd By the only joy of knowing that ye fly; Ye are not what ye are, but rather, sum'd in a word, The alphabet of a G.o.d's idea, and I Who master it, I am the only bird.

23

O weary pilgrims, chanting of your woe, That turn your eyes to all the peaks that shine, Hailing in each the citadel divine The which ye thought to have enter'd long ago; Until at length your feeble steps and slow Falter upon the threshold of the shrine, And your hearts overburden'd doubt in fine Whether it be Jerusalem or no:

Dishearten'd pilgrims, I am one of you; For, having worshipp'd many a barren face, I scarce now greet the goal I journey'd to: I stand a pagan in the holy place; Beneath the lamp of truth I am found untrue, And question with the G.o.d that I embrace.

24

Spring hath her own bright days of calm and peace; Her melting air, at every breath we draw, Floods heart with love to praise G.o.d's gracious law: But suddenly--so short is pleasure's lease-- The cold returns, the buds from growing cease, And nature's conquer'd face is full of awe; As now the trait'rous north with icy flaw Freezes the dew upon the sick lamb's fleece,

And 'neath the mock sun searching everywhere Rattles the crisped leaves with shivering din: So that the birds are silent with despair Within the thickets; nor their armour thin Will gaudy flies adventure in the air, Nor any lizard sun his spotted skin.

25

Nothing is joy without thee: I can find No rapture in the first relays of spring, In songs of birds, in young buds opening, Nothing inspiriting and nothing kind; For lack of thee, who once wert throned behind All beauty, like a strength where graces cling,-- The jewel and heart of light, which everything Wrestled in rivalry to hold enshrined.

Ah! since thou'rt fled, and I in each fair sight The sweet occasion of my joy deplore, Where shall I seek thee best, or whom invite Within thy sacred temples and adore?

Who shall fill thought and truth with old delight, And lead my soul in life as heretofore?

26

The work is done, and from the fingers fall The bloodwarm tools that brought the labour thro': The tasking eye that overrunneth all Rests, and affirms there is no more to do.

Now the third joy of making, the sweet flower Of blessed work, bloometh in G.o.dlike spirit; Which whoso plucketh holdeth for an hour The shrivelling vanity of mortal merit.

And thou, my perfect work, thou'rt of to-day; To-morrow a poor and alien thing wilt be, True only should the swift life stand at stay: Therefore farewell, nor look to bide with me.

Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee: Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee.

27

The fabled sea-snake, old Leviathan, Or else what grisly beast of scaly chine That champ'd the ocean-wrack and swash'd the brine, Before the new and milder days of man, Had never rib nor bray nor swindging fan Like his iron swimmer of the Clyde or Tyne, Late-born of golden seed to breed a line Of offspring swifter and more huge of plan.

Straight is her going, for upon the sun When once she hath look'd, her path and place are plain; With tireless speed she smiteth one by one The shuddering seas and foams along the main; And her eased breath, when her wild race is run, Roars thro' her nostrils like a hurricane.

28

A thousand times hath in my heart's behoof My tongue been set his pa.s.sion to impart; A thousand times hath my too coward heart My mouth reclosed and fix'd it to the roof; Then with such cunning hath it held aloof, A thousand times kept silence with such art That words coud do no more: yet on thy part Hath silence given a thousand times reproof.

I should be bolder, seeing I commend Love, that my dilatory purpose primes, But fear lest with my fears my hope should end: Nay, I would truth deny and burn my rhymes, Renew my sorrows rather than offend, A thousand times, and yet a thousand times.

29

I travel to thee with the sun's first rays, That lift the dark west and unwrap the night; I dwell beside thee when he walks the height, And fondly toward thee at his setting gaze.

I wait upon thy coming, but always-- Dancing to meet my thoughts if they invite-- Thou hast outrun their longing with delight, And in my solitude dost mock my praise.

Now doth my drop of time transcend the whole: I see no fame in Khufu's pyramid, No history where loveless Nile doth roll.

--This is eternal life, which doth forbid Mortal detraction to the exalted soul, And from her inward eye all fate hath hid.

30

My lady pleases me and I please her; This know we both, and I besides know well Wherefore I love her, and I love to tell My love, as all my loving songs aver.

But what on her part could the pa.s.sion stir, Tho' 'tis more difficult for love to spell, Yet can I dare divine how this befel, Nor will her lips deny it if I err.

She loves me first because I love her, then Loves me for knowing why she should be loved.

And that I love to praise her, loves again.

So from her beauty both our loves are moved, And by her beauty are sustain'd; nor when The earth falls from the sun is this disproved.

31

In all things beautiful, I cannot see Her sit or stand, but love is stir'd anew: 'Tis joy to watch the folds fall as they do, And all that comes is past expectancy.

If she be silent, silence let it be; He who would bid her speak might sit and sue The deep-brow'd Phidian Jove to be untrue To his two thousand years' solemnity.

Ah, but her launched pa.s.sion, when she sings, Wins on the hearing like a shapen prow Borne by the mastery of its urgent wings: Or if she deign her wisdom, she doth show She hath the intelligence of heavenly things, Unsullied by man's mortal overthrow.

32

Thus to be humbled: 'tis that ranging pride No refuge hath; that in his castle strong Brave reason sits beleaguer'd, who so long Kept field, but now must starve where he doth hide; That industry, who once the foe defied, Lies slaughter'd in the trenches; that the throng Of idle fancies pipe their foolish song, Where late the puissant captains fought and died.

Thus to be humbled: 'tis to be undone; A forest fell'd; a city razed to ground; A cloak unsewn, unwoven and unspun Till not a thread remains that can be wound.

And yet, O lover, thee, the ruin'd one, Love who hath humbled thus hath also crown'd.